At some point in our thirties, the need for change tries to enter our awareness. I don’t know if it’s due to further frontal lobe development or the attention stairs bring to a crunchy knee. As we walk into midlife, the clickety-clack of joints and tendons forewarns us. We sense something isn’t quite right but can’t quantify the dull pain at the back of our brains.

This unawareness is a thing of beauty, like that rug you bought at a Melbourne Market but hardly notice any more. Till you snag your foot on it and see your life flashing as your head accelerates towards the coffee table. You miss the sharp corner by the width of a tired parent’s patience. There is a slight comfort at the thought of dying in an impeccably decorated space. Slightly shaken, you update your will and search “men’s pilates group near me” to improve your balance.

We maintain our ignorance and keep going about our lives, trying not to notice the questions piling up in the folds of our minds. Then, at forty, the strangest thing happens to us men. Biologically ill-equipped and psychologically underprepared as ever, we give birth. Paralysed by shock, we stare at the fruit of our loins, the reincarnation of our browser history, the child of our choices. Behold, The Undoing.

It is a beastly creature that devours the carefully constructed self and gifts us with the wonders of an existential crisis. For some of us, this is a wake-up call to look at our lives and choices. For other men, it is a call to denial and rebellion. A few of us develop a sort of pseudo-postpartum depression with associated self-pitying psychosis. With the strength of a paper cut, it critically claws at us when we look in the mirror, lie awake at night, are out with friends, or are alone with our thoughts in the shower. It asks a simple question: Are you?

Are you happy, accepting that you are midway to death, content with your life? Are you filled with regret, shame, guilt, or joy? Are you making enough money, pursuing meaningful goals, and giving back to yourself and others? Are you okay with being who you are where you are?

We can systematically answer the question and still feel the nagging. Facts do not satiate The Undoing. Judgement doesn’t happen when we are dead. It happens when you turn forty. We all must be undone before being knitted back together. We must face the loss of our younger selves and his judgment, our regrets, our choices, the shadow and the light, and finally, our acceptance of ourselves and our limitations in the new life stage of being a middle-aged man.

If we are lucky, we realise we can change. We recognise that we need community, love, and care. That we need to practice compassion for ourselves and those we encounter, and that kindness isn’t an illness. We discover how to say sorry to ourselves and learn to create shade in the heat of our harshest days.

There are those among us who rebel against The Undoing. They regress to unrecognisable versions of the past and become feverishly obsessed with freezing themselves in time, like fossils trapped in amber. They cling to a younger part of themselves or create a version of themselves that is so out of character it would make onions cry. They light the slow-burning candle of self-destruction. The ones closest to them do not know what to do, so they leave.

Ironically, the purpose of The Undoing isn’t to harm us. It’s there to tell us that we cannot move forward in the adventure by holding onto parts of ourselves that are no longer needed or functional. It calls us to look at ourselves and offers us the opportunity to grieve, learn, celebrate, and grow. In the end, all roads will lead you to Rome. We can choose to accept midlife and flourish or rebel against it and suffer.

Whichever path you choose when The Undoing knocks, I hope you are okay.