Self-doubt turns to self-confidence in a year of parents having cancer and personal growth

I was sobbing uncontrollably and finally calmed enough to make a phone call to my brother. In between the sniffs, shivering voice, and clangs of the glass hitting the ice dashed with bourbon, I aired my regrets.

“I’m almost 40, and Dad may die without me giving him any grandkids. What do I have to show to make him proud?”

That phone call was over a year ago, and this call happened right after my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I was 38 years old, and I look at what my father had accomplished by that time he was my age. He was married with three kids, a great job that kept him for almost 50 years, and a homeowner. I was a full-time artist, a part-time worker in a record shop, and an underpaid freelance writer, and I struggled.

I felt like a failure, and having a sick parent didn’t help. Three months after my father’s cancer diagnosis, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and those feelings of failure would erupt again.

Much has changed in the past year. On Tuesday, I turn 39 years old. Both of my parents are cancer free, and in fact, I see them every Sunday night for an Uno tournament. It’s filled with Sunday foods, trash talk, and a bond I’ve never felt with my family before. The first Sunday before my father’s first radiation treatment was the first time they had even played the game. We haven’t missed a Sunday since.

Now, I have a new job (or, as my father says, “a real job” because it ain’t real until you have insurance). Three months ago, I thought I would move out of my apartment due to sudden rent increases, but now I’m hopeful for home ownership next year.

As I reflect on my birthday, I tend to have guides to see how I’m doing. I look at the Black heroes I grew up with as a child from Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., and Medgar Evers. All three were gone before their 40th birthday (and we know why). I look at all the things they accomplished in such a small amount of time, and that self-reflection turns into self-doubt. Am I doing enough? Am I making the people around me proud? If I die tomorrow, would the city cry for me?

Funny enough, none of these thoughts came to me when turning 29, but then again, I thought turning 30 was the end of the world. Now, I can’t wait to get into my 40s with a salt and pepper beard, good credit, and a good job to buy the Jordans I had to put on layaway in my 20s.

Growing up in a southern Black home, being an artist can be hard to swallow. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that comparing yourself to your parents’ generation can be a helpful guide, but things have changed. My folks grew up in the South during the 60s. I grew up thinking they didn’t support my endeavors. Now, I know they just wanted me to be secure. The threat of losing both of my folks last year magnified their fears.

Now a year away from 40, I’ve embraced my status. Younger Black folks call me, “Unc” now, a term of respect. I get excited about going to Target and Marshalls to find candles, I would rather read a book than go clubbing, and if you ask me about my air fryer, I hope you have 30 minutes to kill. Mostly, I wish I could make a phone call to the sobbing version of myself last year and give him some grace. Sometimes growing up as an artist, I wanted to leave the city for greener pastures. Finally, in my life, living in Columbia feels like exactly where I want to be. It only took 39 years to figure it out.

This story was originally published August 22, 2022 at 5:00 AM.