Reflections at 56: On Love, Legacy, and the Quiet Rituals of a Life Well-Lived

There’s something about a birthday that makes a man pause. Not in the way of regret, nor even in the way of nostalgia, but in that quiet reckoning that comes with the marking of time. I wake early, as I always have, before the world shakes itself awake. Before the hum of traffic and the obligations of the day set in. At this hour, the world belongs to those who listen.

So, as I do, I drive down Broad Lane to Virgin Gym, park my car, and step into the cold air. There is a stillness in the early morning, the kind that wraps itself around you, asks no questions, just walks beside you. Today, my plan was to run six miles. A run, a workout, then the sauna. But these things are more than routine. They are ritual. A way of placing myself within the day, within my body, within the story I am telling about my own life.

And then, after all that, I sat with my bredrin. Richard, Ezra, Omar, Abid, Ali, Paul, Jerome. There are more of them—Rob, Wayne and others—men I have built my inner circle with, men who know the rhythm of my laughter, the weight of my silences. We drink warm beverages, we talk about life, we centre each other in ways that the world often forgets to do. There is something sacred in that. Something necessary.

Today, in the sauna, I spoke to my friend Gary. A retired professor, a man of letters, a man who knows the architecture of ideas. We spoke about my book—the one I have begun, the one I must write. That’s the thing about living a life rich in observation, in experience, in trial and triumph—there is never a shortage of stories to tell. The real work is in choosing.

It is not a memoir I am writing, at least not in the way people expect. No single story can hold all the pieces of a life, all the shifting truths, all the revisions of self. And yet, here I am, saying aloud that I will write this book. That I must. And to hold myself accountable, I have made a promise—I will not cut my hair until it is done.

Now, let me tell you something. My hair does not grow in any way that can be called respectable. It will be unruly. It will be unkempt. It will make me look like a man with unfinished business, which I will be. But when you see me, when you see the wild edges of my beard, the uneven coils of my hair, know that I am deep in the work. And remind me of the promise I have made because a man should be held to his word.

Later, I sit in the chair at Fades Barbershop. Andrew, my cousin, my barber, my philosopher, is trimming me for what will be the last time for a while. Andrew tells me a story about honesty, about how people often avoid the truth until it is too late. He once told a man he was gaining weight, and the man, wounded by the truth, stayed away for months. But when he returned, he admitted that Andrew had been the only one who had loved him enough to say it.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? We wait too long to say the things that matter. To tell the truth. To tell each other that we are seen, that we are valued, that we are loved. We pour out our tributes when a person is gone when the words can no longer reach them. I refuse to live like that.

So, here is what I have learnt in 56 years:

Tell your brethren you love them. Tell your sisters you love them. Tell your children you love them. Let them never have to wonder.

Check on people. Not just in passing, not just when you need something, but in the deep, intentional way that says, (ngiyakubona) I see you. I care.

Celebrate your people. Make a big deal out of their wins, even the small ones. Because life, this world, can be unkind, and sometimes all a person needs is someone to say, I see you. You are doing well.

Have real conversations. The kind that stretch you, challenges you, makes you reconsider your edges. Talk with people you agree with, and just as importantly, talk with those you don’t. There is growth in the tension. There is wisdom in the dialogue.

Love. Without measure, without reservation. Love deeply, love loudly, love while you still have breath to do it.

And take care of yourself. Date yourself. Treat yourself to a good meal, a long walk, a quiet morning in a café. Do things that remind you that you are worth the time, the care, the tenderness you so freely give to others.

Today, on my 56th birthday, I am learning to love myself. To enjoy my own company. To give to myself what I have so often given to others.

And so, I will walk. I will run. I will sit in saunas and talk to wise men. I will keep my hair growing wild until my book is finished. I will tell my people I love them, again and again, until the words are as natural as breath.

And if you take nothing else from this, take this: Tell the people you love that you love them. Tell them now. Not tomorrow, not at their funeral. Now. Because love, when spoken, has the power to change everything.

And if you happen to find a good chai latte, or a warm cookie, or a bit of joy somewhere in this day—take it. Take it, and do not apologise.

Because life is still happening. And we are still here.