Introduction
Approaching 61, I find myself facing a question that cuts deeper than finances or career: is it too late? What began as a personal doubt has opened into a broader reflection on where we stand as a society.
Essay
The past few days have been among the hardest I can recall. I’ve lived through earlier periods without work or financial stability, but this moment feels different. It isn’t just the absence of income or projects; it is the weight of age, the sense of time pressing in, and the question of whether meaning still has room to grow.
That question, however, is not mine alone. It emerges against a wider backdrop of decline. There is growing evidence that societies across the globe are suffering from a kind of cognitive erosion. Researchers warn of a frightening new reality: cognitive function is being altered on a mass scale. Populations display a profound loss of willpower, a dimming of innate intelligence, and an inability to mobilize or drive meaningful change.
This loss of capacity explains much of what we see today: institutions locked in paralysis, public debate stripped of nuance, communities unable to respond even to urgent crises. The individual struggle — to remain relevant, to feel that one still matters — reflects a collective struggle as well. It is not only a personal crisis of meaning; it is the symptom of a civilizational drift.
And yet, the story does not end in decline. Over the past four years, my wife Jorien and I have chosen a different path: letting go of the weight of possessions, resisting the false promise of status, learning to live more lightly. These choices were not easy. They stripped away many of the markers of success the world still clings to. But they opened another space: one less dependent on ego, and more anchored in clarity.
I find that space most clearly when walking with Rhea, our dog, or during long rides on my bike. In those moments I feel both present and not of this world — as if I belong to something larger that the current social order cannot touch. That sense grows stronger, and it speaks not of exhaustion but of return: a longing for what might be called home.
When I close my eyes, the image is simple yet complete. Colors, vivid and alive. The quiet presence of all the dogs that once shared our lives. My wife, my son, my father, my grandfather. Everything that truly mattered gathered in one place, outside of time. In that vision, the noise of decline falls away. What remains is not fear, but wholeness.
And at the center of it, a single truth: being myself.
Perhaps that is what our moment demands. In a time when collective intelligence dims, when willpower falters, the task is not to cling to fading structures or to replicate hollow rituals of success. It is to hold onto what is most elemental: integrity, clarity, and the capacity to simply be.
Closing note
This is not an answer, nor an escape. It is a recognition that personal resilience and societal decline are intertwined — and that both point us back to the same foundation. Being oneself is not withdrawal. It may be the most necessary act of resistance left to us.
I'm not a believer of hope and my outlook on the world is bleak, yet when I sit down, do absolutely nothing, perhaps while being at the cabin overlooking the clouds in the valley in front of me and being surrounded by the buzzard chirps in the background, the emptiness that remains is the closest feeling of just being there, knowing it all will be just fine, with nothing left to lose. You could call that hope.
Fantastic! Maybe this has an enormous impact because I crossed that bridge from 61 to what remains. Maybe it will have more impact for everyone hoping to celebrate a 61st birthday. May I cross-post this and find out? The recurring theme and conversation in my community is exactly this: "That sense grows stronger, and it speaks not of exhaustion but of return: a longing for what might be called home."