I know this for sure

I will probably never reach enlightenment or a place where my inner critic can’t reach me.

She will always, at the very least, be able to leap up and hang onto the cliff’s edge by one finger. And I’m not sure I’d have the heart to stomp on her bent digit, for fear I’d hurt her. This makes me laugh. The fact that I fret over hurting her. I worry a bit that if she were never to visit me again, I may not fully recognize danger when it arrives. She was with me for a reason, even if that reason no longer serves me.

I think with age comes a form of enlightenment, even if it is not fully developed. Though I may never sit with the likes of Buddha, at least with age I’ve relaxed some, and take my inner critic’s advice with a grain of salt. If she were to vanish completely, I wonder if I’d feel a loss – a tiny pang in my belly – a longing for something I can’t quite name.

My inner critic is aging too. Her voice isn’t as robust as it once was, she coughs a lot, and I can tell she’s tired. When she bangs on my door, it lacks the power it once had. She isn’t quite as quick as she used to be and her balance – like mine – is not to be trusted. Through all our years together, I’ve never known what she looks like. I’ve only caught glimpses of a shape – a shadow passing by my window – but I’d be willing to bet she’s got glasses, warts, and a walking stick.