We Only Have 80 Summers
A short reminder for anyone waiting to write
I recently read a Substack note from Tim Denning that said our lives are just “80 summers.”
When I heard it put like that, it winded me. Eighty. That’s it.
We like to think we have plenty of time (especially when we’re young). Years piled on years, decades to spare.
But measuring your life in summers makes it real. Summer is when we notice time.
The bright days, the short nights, the sense that every moment outside counts for something.
I’m 51. Which means, if I’m lucky, I’ve got 29 summers left.
That’s not pessimistic; that’s reality. There’s no point dressing it up as anything else.
If I want to build something that matters — write something worth leaving behind — I can’t wait for a tap on the shoulder.
I see it in other writers too.
Waiting.
Waiting for the right mood, schedule or idea.
The right permission.
But Who’s Going to Give You Permission?
Who do you think is coming to say: Now’s your time. Now you’re ready.
Nobody’s coming.
Nobody’s standing at the door with a ticket to your writing life. It’s you. It’s only ever been you.
You’ve got your 80 summers — maybe more, maybe less.
You’ve already spent a good number of them watching other people do the thing you keep saying you’ll do one day.
One day is today.
The best time to start was last summer. The next best time is this one.
You want to write? Write. You want to build? Build.
The sun is slowly setting on all of us.
So don’t spend your remaining summers waiting for permission.
Give it to yourself, then start writing.
⏳ Ready to Stop Waiting?
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