How Midlife Choices Influence the Rest of Life
Why integrity becomes more important as we age
Posted November 10, 2021 | Reviewed by Hara Estroff Marano
- The choices we make in midlife determine how we fare in older age.
- Erikson's theory of life-stage development offers a choice between integrity and despair.
- Integrity is a sense of wholeness and authenticity.
- Integrity holds us together even when it feels like we're falling apart .
After nearly two years of life in a pandemic, feelings of despair are particularly acute for the elderly. As a social psychologist in that vulnerable demographic, when I reflect on what a post-pandemic world will be like, whether I’ll be here to see it and how my descendants will live in it, I sometimes feel despair wash over me like a tsunami after an earthquake.
Despair doesn't have the same resonance or presence in the lives of younger adults: They might be restless and feel unrooted, but despair is not their natural state. In midlife too, people might be outraged and angry, not just about COVID-19 but also other social problems from racism to environmental degradation. But most are still hopeful that a better future awaits, and it’s hope that’s both the remedy for and the antithesis of despair.
The pandemic’s rhythm has played havoc with our sense of the passage of time. In the last decades of life, when despair overtakes us, it’s because we’ve lost the hope that things will get better in a time frame that’s relevant.
F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote that, in the real dark night of the soul, it is always three o’clock in the morning. For many people my age, it sometimes seems that way, no matter what time it is. One woman who’s been widowed for decades described her current mental state this way, "It’s like just after my husband died. I’d reach over thinking, oh, he just got up to pee, but for those few seconds before I realized it was me who had to go, everything was the way it used to be. By the time I got back to bed, I knew it wasn’t, and I was glad he wasn’t here, because he’d just tell me to look on the bright side. But the fact is there isn’t one, and even if there was, I won’t live long enough to see it."
Despair is sometimes difficult to distinguish from all those other sad words that begin with D—depression, despondency, and desolation. Despair is all of these and none of these, omnipresent in this doubly difficult time when the physical, mental and emotional health of our institutions as well as our individual selves has been stressed to its limits.
I’ve painted a bleak picture, but the groundbreaking work of psychoanalyst Erik Erikson suggests that even the last stage of life still offers an opportunity for positive growth and development, one in which integrity can diminish if not erase despair.
Erikson theorized that successfully managing the challenges of each stage of adult life leads to the emergence of the next one.
When the isolation of single adulthood yields to the achievement of intimacy, middle adulthood presents many opportunities for generativity; not just parenting children, but also mentoring, teaching, passing on skills and knowledge that will benefit future generations. Without that wider perspective, stagnation narrows our focus from outside to inside, from productive engagement that contributes to the betterment of others to detachment from self and others. A failure to find a positive resolution of the crisis of generativity vs stagnation before confronting Erikson’s last stage makes it more likely that despair, rather than integrity, will color our final years.
Despair is a condition in which sadness, bitterness, and regret dominate our personal and social existence. We all know people in whose presence those feelings seem to emanate like a dark cloud; we sense it, that aura of helplessness in the face of the forces arrayed against them, like a friend who’s certain that if she’d only married a different man she would have been happy, successful in her career, and not the estranged mother of two adult children, or the one who never married at all and complains that if she had, she wouldn’t be living on her meager savings, isolated from others even before the pandemic, wondering who will find her body when she dies, and who will care.
And I also remember another old acquaintance who perfectly captured the experience of late-life despair shaped by unfulfilled earlier life stages. This gruff, imposing man lived across the street when I was raising my children and yelled at them for even minor infractions, such as a ball in his yard or a cat in his tree (and whose house, unsurprisingly, was routinely egged on Halloween). I recall him saying that the only good thing about never having had children was having no descendants to inherit what he views as a dismal future.
"Mr Wilson." as my kids called him after Dennis the Menace’s grouchy neighbor, never nurtured or created anything that would outlast him; never contributed meaningfully to positive changes that would benefit society or future generations. Almost wholly self-centered, he made no efforts to learn, improve, or enrich his life, or anyone else’s. With little to give his life meaning, he was ill-equipped to meet the final psychological confrontation between despair and integrity.
Integrity by definition is wholeness, soundness, completeness. In Erikson’s lexicon, integrity means fully accepting yourself and coming to terms with death. Accepting is taking responsibility for your life, knowing you cannot undo the past despite your wishes or even fantasies, and feeling essentially satisfied with who you are.
The central question in this last life stage is: Have I led an authentic, meaningful life? It requires us to ask whether we’ve lived according to our core values, followed our moral compass, and acted consistently in the direction it points. When we bend toward integrity, we come away from this deep reflection with a sense of fulfillment. That promotes not only satisfaction with a life well lived, with few regrets, but also a feeling of contentment and the wisdom to face death with a sense of equanimity and completion.
In contrast to those who are mired in despair, there are many others whose integrity not only serves them well as they age but often serves others, too. Kate is a retired lawyer in her late 70s who devotes much of her time, energy, and financial resources to environmental causes, knowing that, while her efforts might not make a foreseeable difference in her own life, there is a chance that they might benefit future generations. And there’s Eric, an 80-year-old writer and landscaper, who takes great satisfaction in sharing his knowledge of the natural world—along with his collection of its artifacts, such as fossils, insects, minerals, shells, and plants—with children from a community youth program, as well as the kids of friends and neighbors.
We can’t change the past, but we do have some control over our interpretation of it and in the way we tell the story (to ourselves as much as to others). There’s a lesson here too for younger readers:Tthe choices you make today will shape the dynamic between integrity and despair that plays out in your later life.
For many people, integrity is achieved by reflecting on a life in which they did the best they could, as Tom, another man of advanced years, put it. He said, "I met my obligations; I kept my promises. I was honest in my dealings. I never made a fortune, but it was enough to support my wife and children, educate the kids, and help out my mother at the end of her life. We live pretty well and stay as active as we can. We go to church. We’re both still healthy, and we’ve made provisions for when we’re not. It hasn’t been a bed of roses, but it’s had its high spots. All in all, it’s been OK."
Integrity, like despair, is not a steady state but a dynamic one. Sometimes events and emotions combine to overwhelm us, tip us overboard from the raft held together by our sense of coherence that points steadily toward the horizon. Overwhelmed by occasional feelings of despair, we can seek remedies in art, literature, beauty, music, nature, or more familiar solaces, from chocolate to alcohol, to fill the emptiness left in despair’s wake. We can look back on our lives and, rather than focus on what we lost or missed, instead make a deliberate effort to celebrate what we enjoyed, achieved, and contributed, no matter how modest or fleeting.
When I wake up in that dark night of the soul and can’t fall back asleep, I go outside and sink my bare toes in the dew-kissed grass to ground me, take a deep breath, and reach for the sky. Then I get back into bed, put on YouTube and watch a rebroadcast of the Black Lives Matter protests of the summer of 2020. The sight of hundreds, thousands, even millions of marchers of all ages and all colors, demonstrating their faith in a better future, gives me hope for what’s left of my own and my children’s. As the images light up the screen, they lighten my soul, and, for long enough to fall back to sleep, they banish my despair.