Blossoming in Our Own Time

A few years ago, I stumbled upon a book by Rich Karlgaard called Late Bloomers, The Power of Patience In A World Obsessed With Early Achievement. The title struck a chord with me, like an unexpected harmony that makes you pause and listen. I consider myself a late bloomer—a term Merriam-Webster describes as “someone who becomes successful, attractive, etc., at a later time in life than other people.” Apparently, I’m not alone; many people share this sentiment.

In his book, Karlgaard sheds light on the immense pressure placed on children to succeed early in life. The focus is on external achievements: good grades, preferred extracurricular activities, high standardized test scores, and admission to top colleges. This pressure cooker environment, fueled by family, friends, peers, and society, tells us to succeed early or never at all.

But why do we glorify rigid timelines for performance when so many factors affect individual development—socio-economic structures, physical and neurological growth, learning styles, and childhood experiences? Karlgaard argues that we should look beyond these narrow definitions of success and embrace the idea that blooming can happen at any age, and more than once in a lifetime. He suggests using strengths like curiosity, compassion, and resilience to carve a unique path.

As I read Karlgaard's words, I remembered another context in which I had encountered the term late bloomer. It was on the British Museum’s page about Mary Delany, a botanical paper collage artist who began her life's work at the age of 72. I had discovered Delany while browsing books and was captivated by the title of a book about her, The Paper Garden, An Artist Begins her life’s work at 72 by Molly Peacock. Although I never read the book, the cover and title stayed with me, sparking a sense of optimism.

The idea that one can begin something significant much later in life is both bold and reassuring. It challenges the notion of starting from scratch. What if, like a connect-the-dots puzzle, there are areas of our lives we can only reach after traveling through others? What if we are always right on time for that new project, habit, job, or mindset?

This thought brings me to an encounter with an old friend, Sameer, on a Sunday afternoon. The clocks had fallen back, and the fall sky was already dark. We sat across from each other in my dining room, transformed into a cozy space with a faded red rug and three comfortable armchairs. A tray with a teapot and two now-empty cups sat on the coffee table between us. We talked about life lessons, the conversation warmed by the lingering heat of our tea and the glow of a guttering candle.

“What is the one life lesson you’ve learned?” I asked Sameer, curious about his journey.

“There are so many…” he began, his voice trailing off in thought. “But if I had to choose one, it would be about the power of patience and resilience.”

Sameer shared his story of late blooming. He had always been a slow starter, often lagging behind his peers in school and sports. This constant comparison bred a sense of inadequacy that followed him into adulthood. It wasn’t until his mid-40s that Sameer discovered his true passion—woodworking. He described the joy of creating something tangible, the satisfaction of seeing a piece of raw wood transformed into a beautiful piece of furniture.

“It took years of trial and error, but I finally found something that felt right,” Sameer said, his eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. “And it wasn’t just about finding a hobby. It was about learning to be patient with myself, to trust that I was on my own unique path.”

Sameer's story resonated deeply with me. It underscored the idea that success is not a race but a personal journey. His woodworking wasn't just a late-found hobby; it was a testament to the patience and resilience that had defined his life.

“Even if we are starting over much later in life, we don’t start from scratch,” I mused, echoing my earlier thoughts. “Each experience, each challenge, builds upon the last, bringing us closer to our true selves.”

Sameer nodded in agreement. “It’s like connecting the dots. Each step is necessary, even if it doesn’t make sense at the moment. In retrospect, the meandering path reveals a clear pattern.”

We sat in comfortable silence, the weight of his words settling into the warm air. The lessons of patience, resilience, and the beauty of late blooming wrapped around us like the familiar embrace of an old friend. Our conversation, like the tea we had shared, was a blend of warmth, reflection, and the promise of continued growth.

As we parted ways that evening, I felt a renewed sense of optimism. Life, much like our conversation, was yet unfolding. And no matter where we were on our respective journeys, we were right on time to bloom.