Field Notes from the Borderlands: Age 55

The anthropologist in me observes with detached fascination. The entrepreneur plots the next move. At 55, I stand at the threshold of a chapter that wasn’t in the original table of contents.

My body has become its own research subject.

Each new symptom is a data point, and each doctor’s visit is fieldwork.

I document the betrayals of flesh and the slow reclamation of wellness with clinical precision, even as I live them with messy immediacy.

The irony doesn’t escape me—studying human systems was supposed to be my expertise, not navigating the healthcare one.

For two decades, I’ve maintained artificial peace in toxic terrain.

Smile. Nod. Swallow the disrespect. Document it mentally, but never react.

The anthropologist calls it “participant observation in hostile environments.”

The parent calls it “keeping the waters calm for my youngest.”

The human in me calls it exhaustion and rages, rages with an internal hell fire.

My son’s absence creates negative space around which everything else organizes itself. Grief doesn’t diminish; it transforms.

Sometimes it’s archaeological—digging through memories to preserve artefacts of him.

Sometimes it’s architectural—building new structures to house what remains.

Meanwhile, my eldest daughter launches incursions across carefully constructed boundaries. Each interaction requires diplomatic negotiations worthy of complex geopolitical conflicts. I analyze power dynamics while nursing fresh wounds.

Every morning, I turn to words. They’ve never betrayed me. My fingers move across keys, weaving memoir with media critique and personal history with political analysis, Pop culture references become shorthand for more profound truths. Cold War metaphors illuminate family dynamics. Writing doesn’t just document survival; it enables it.

Tähti – star in Finnish – a celestial anchor when all else shifts.

While reading about the Star of Africa game, I contemplate this word, night sounds filtering through my window as Arabs celebrate their crescent moon’s appearance.

Humans readily embrace cosmic mythologies crafted by strangers long dead yet struggle to believe our inner truth.

When my son left, I scanned night skies wondering if he shone there – not so different from those who organize feasts around lunar phases.

These inherited patterns of meaning-making thread through our existence, butterfly effects we rarely acknowledge. Yet I’ve witnessed true magic only when I’ve trusted my own navigation system – when, despite everything, my belief in myself burned brighter than collective narratives. My guardian angels appeared (read, very busy saving my ass) most vividly when my longing for freedom was fueled by courage.

This next chapter demands not new skills but deeper faith in my own celestial coordinates when maps drawn by others no longer illuminate my path.

At 55, I’m not starting over. I’m continuing with hard-earned wisdom. The next expedition has begun—into unfamiliar territory with familiar tools, seeking not just survival but prosperity on my own unapologetic terms.

The field notes continue.

May Harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra

P.S. One day baby, we’ll be old

Oh baby, we’ll be old

And think of all the stories that we could have told