Messy Middle: 24 Years

There comes a moment in life when you realize you are standing exactly in the middle of your story.

In a few months, I will reach that moment.

48 years old.
24 years spent in Türkiye.
24 years spent in the United States.

Half and half.

And somehow, that symmetry feels bigger than a number. It feels like the completion of a cycle. Like standing between two shores, looking back at everything that shaped me while trying to see where life is pulling me next.

My children are leaving for college. The house is becoming quieter. My responsibilities are changing shape. I am starting a new career while watching my parents grow older. I miss my hometown in a way that aches deeper every year. I keep asking myself questions I never used to ask:

Where do I belong now?
What matters most?
Who am I becoming in this next chapter?

It is a strange season of life.

You feel stronger, yet older.
Wiser, yet more tired.
More accepting of yourself, yet carrying the weight of your entire life story.

And sometimes, you stop and look at yourself, wondering:

Is this the person I thought I would become?

The best way I can describe this phase of life is through something I deeply understand: swimming an open-water marathon race from a shore to an island.

Before the race begins, everything feels exciting.

The beach is alive with energy. Music is playing. Spectators cheer from the shore. Hundreds of swimmers stand shoulder to shoulder, nervous and excited. You stretch your arms, adjust your goggles, and tell yourself:

You are ready.

The ocean looks calm at the start. The sun reflects beautifully on the water. The island in the distance feels reachable. Possible. Then the race begins.

You dive into the water and start swimming. Your body feels strong, and the rhythm feels natural. You move alongside others, feeding off their energy. Stroke after stroke, confidence grows.

You think: I’ve got this.

And then… You reach the middle. The currents change.

The water becomes rougher. Your body grows tired. Your arms feel heavier with every pull, and your legs strain to keep kicking. The island ahead still looks impossibly far away, but when you turn around, the shore you left behind has disappeared, too.

For the first time, you realize something unsettling: You are completely alone in the middle of the ocean. There is no standing up. No touching the ground. No quick way back. And no shortcut forward.

It is too late to quit. But you stop fighting for a moment.

You roll onto your back, open your arms, and just float. You stare up at the sky and hear the thoughts challenging you.

What am I doing here?
Am I strong enough for what comes next?
Can I really keep going?

This messy middle of the ocean feels exactly the way life feels when you are in the middle.

The place where your fears become louder than the crowd ever was.
The place where your inner voice whispers: Maybe you are too tired to move forward. Maybe the best parts of your story are already behind you.

But something important happens in that silence. You make a choice. You decide whether to resist the ocean… or move with it. And that changes everything.

Because the moment you stop focusing on how far you still have to go, you begin noticing something else instead:

Your breath. Your existence. Your resilience.
How far you have already come.
How much life you have survived.
How strong you had to become to even reach this point.

You realize that floating in the middle of the ocean is part of the process. It is the transformation.

Little by little, your mindset shifts.

Instead of fighting the waves, you begin moving with their rhythm.
Instead of fearing uncertainty, you become curious about it.
Instead of carrying every fear and limitation, you slowly release them.

And somewhere in that process, something beautiful happens: You become part of the ocean itself; you become the life.

You adapt, trust, and flow.

Life stops being something you try to control; instead, it becomes something you learn to experience fully with all its twists, uncertainty, heartbreak, and unexpected possibilities.

I believe this is the gift hidden inside the middle.

Not certainty or comfort. But growth.

Because by the time you finally reach the shore, you are not the same person who started the race.

You arrive exhausted, yes.
But also expanded.
Stronger.
Wiser.

A new version of yourself emerges from the water you cannot control. And maybe that is what this stage of life is really about.

One stroke at a time.

Live like water.