I turned sixty this summer.
I’ve been sitting with that short sentence for a while now, not quite sure what to do with it. It doesn’t feel like a milestone so much as a nudge. A tap on the shoulder. Someone leaning over and saying, quietly, you know you don’t have forever, don’t you?
I did know. I’ve known it for years in the same way you know your car’s going to need an annual check-up. But there’s a difference between knowing something and having it sit down beside you at the breakfast table.
A few weeks ago I did something I’d never done before. I sat down and asked AI to write my obituary. Not out of morbidity, though. I’ve recently been working through a few ideas for a new ‘Little Book’ about mortality and impermanence, and the idea surfaced. Rather than wait until it’s too late to read it, why not actually try it? You know, draft an obituary and see what comes out.
So I did. FrontlineSMS was in there, of course. Nigeria, 2007. The Reluctant Innovator, Desmond Tutu, the National Geographic years. All the things you’d expect if you’ve followed any of this for a while now.
While I worked on it I kept coming back to a quote I picked up as a teenager and never quite let go of. In fact, I carried it around with me for years on a little piece of printed plastic card, a reminder of a time to come, casually tucked in the back of my wallet. Those words read:

I’ve quoted it so many times it’s practically worn smooth. But working on that obituary was the first time in a long time that I actually felt the second half of it. Not the passing through bit – the not again part. There’s a Japanese phrase, ‘mono no aware’, a gentle sadness at the transience of things and the strange gratitude that transience makes possible. I’d been exploring that idea for the mortality book, and I realised I’d spent years imagining sixty as ‘somewhere else in the distance’. I feel like I’ve suddenly woken up and found myself there.
I don’t say any of this to be gloomy. If anything it’s had the opposite effect. Writing my obituary made me ask a different question than the ones I’ve spent most of my career asking. Not what have I built, but what have I paid attention to. Not what did I achieve, but who did I make feel useful, or seen, or less alone. FrontlineSMS will get a paragraph, maybe two, in whatever gets written when the time actually comes, but nobody (not even AI) writes an obituary line for the hundreds of ordinary days in between. You know, the ones where nothing happened except a good conversation, or a walk with the kids, or twenty quiet minutes doing nothing in particular. And yet I suspect those days are what it actually felt like to be alive, far more than any of the headline moments were.
I don’t think I’m having a crisis for what it’s worth. If anything it feels closer to relief. There’s a kind of freedom in admitting, at sixty, that you’re not the centre of the story, that the tree you’re sitting under was there before you and will be there after, and that your job was never to own it, only to look after it for a while and then hand it over in the best shape you can.
Time is borrowed. All of it. So are the things we claim to own. I’d rather spend what’s left of mine paying attention and doing what I can to be the best kind of fellow human – a good ancestor, if you will. It’s all I’ve ever tried to do. Wish me luck.


The universe delivered and I published it yesterday. 

