Here Before
On Old Souls, Bambi Legs, and Finally Finding Your Footing
Over the weekend, I was scrolling through old photos when I came across a picture of my youngest son in third grade, dressed as the Dalai Lama and preparing to give a presentation on Buddhism to his class. There is such a sweet softness to his face in that photo, and if I close my eyes, I can still feel his smooth little boy cheek against mine. But that wasn’t the only memory the picture stirred.
Around that same time, we had taken a trip to New York City to visit my brother. One afternoon, while wandering through the West Village, my son noticed a small shop selling Buddhist prayer beads and asked if we could go in. Inside, the walls were lined with strands of beads in every color and texture imaginable. He moved slowly along the display, turning them over carefully in his hands, examining each one with the quiet focus of someone much older than eight.
After a few minutes, a monk who was working in the shop came over and began chatting with him. They talked for a bit while I browsed nearby, and then the monk turned to me, placed his hand gently on mine, and said, “Your son has been here before.”
I smiled and explained that we were just visiting the city and had happened upon the shop by chance while walking by.
But he shook his head.
“No,” he said softly. “He has been here before.”
This time, I knew exactly what he meant.
I had always thought of my son as an old soul. Even as a baby there was something about him that felt steady and knowing, as if he had arrived here already carrying a wisdom well beyond his years. Well beyond mine. Watching him stand in that shop, carefully turning the prayer beads in his hands, the monk’s words rang true. It felt entirely possible that this was not, in fact, his first rodeo.
Some people move through life that way. As if they’ve done this before. With a depth of vision that feels both wise and a little weary, as though they’ve already seen enough to know what matters and what doesn’t. As if they already understand the terrain.
And then there are the rest of us. The ones who arrive in the world more like Bambi on wobbly newborn legs, blinking into the bright light and wondering how on earth everyone else seems to know what they’re doing.
For most of my life, I have been firmly in that second category.
I questioned everything. Doubted myself constantly. Wondered if I was doing it right, saying the right thing, choosing the right path. While others appeared to stride confidently forward, I often felt like I was learning the rules of the game while already in the middle of playing it.
But something interesting has begun to happen in midlife.
After more than fifty years of wobbling through the forest, I finally feel a little steadier on my feet. Not because I suddenly have all the answers, but perhaps because I’ve stopped expecting that I should.
A different kind of confidence begins to take shape in this season of life. It isn’t the performative confidence of youth, the kind that comes from believing you’re supposed to have everything figured out. It’s something more grounded. A sense that maybe the goal was never to master the terrain at all, but simply to keep walking. And after five decades of trial and error, heartbreak and joy, missteps and course corrections, the ground beneath my feet no longer feels quite so uncertain.
Don’t get me wrong. I still have plenty of questions. In fact, I often joke that the older I get, the less I know. But there is less fear in that uncertainty now, and more curiosity. More openness to the mystery of it all.
Which leads me back to the idea of old souls.
Maybe some people truly have been here before. I’m not entirely sure what I believe about that, but I do know that I have borne witness to people with a certain inexplicable knowing, including, I think, my own son. I may never be one of them, at least not in this lifetime, but I do think that I am finally getting the hang of these Bambi legs.
And who knows, maybe by the time I’m finished with this particular walk through the forest, I’ll have learned enough to land on steadier ground in the next one. But until then, I am going to continue to embrace the rough terrain and enjoy the figuring out of it all.
If you enjoyed this piece, here are a few others on a similar theme:
This is such a beautiful reflection, @Laurie Flynn. I loved the contrast between the old soul and the Bambi legs, because it captures something so real about moving through life and especially midlife. That shift from needing certainty to becoming more at ease with the mystery felt deeply resonant. There’s something very tender and wise in the way you’ve written about finally finding your footing, not because life is suddenly clear, but because you’ve learnt how to keep walking anyway. Gorgeous piece xx
Laurie, I loved this story about your son. The image of him turning the prayer beads in his hands felt especially precious.
I’ve often felt something similar about my granddaughter. Even when she was very small, there was a depth about her that felt older than her years, as if she arrived already carrying a kind of knowing.
I also loved your reflection about finally finding your footing in midlife. Perhaps some of us spend the first half of life learning to walk through the forest, and only later realize that the wobbling was part of the path all along.