You know what I did on Tuesday evening?

I went to a spin class. Which would be perfectly normal, except my consultant told me to stick to light exercise until I’ve had my operation and been given the all-clear.

In my defence, I was told this at the beginning of July. I’ve had antibiotics since then, I’d been feeling pretty good, and it was someone’s last class. I really like their classes. So I told myself I’d just go this once. How much harm could one spin class do?

Well. Quite a lot, as it turns out. I felt horrendous afterwards. When I got home, I was really hot; later I was cold and shivery. I barely slept, and the next day I had to leave the office and go home. Apparently, when my consultant said “light exercise”, she didn’t mean “light exercise, unless it’s a spin class you really want to go to”. I could have learned that by listening to her. But sometimes, however much I think I understand something, I don’t really get it until I’ve lived it.

During that strange, restless night, I kept thinking about The Alchemist. Have you read it? I’d never even heard of it until a few weeks ago, although apparently everyone else has. It’s about a shepherd called Santiago who dreams of finding treasure near the Egyptian pyramids and sets off to look for it. He’s robbed, he works in a crystal shop, he crosses the desert and he falls in love. More than once, he has the chance to stop and build a good life where he is. But something keeps pulling him onwards.

Eventually, he discovers that the treasure is buried back where his journey began. It was there all along. At first I thought, Couldn’t someone have just told him? He could have saved himself so much trouble. But then I wondered if he would have believed them. And even if he had, would he have understood what he’d found? He would have had the treasure, but he wouldn’t have been the same person.

Lying awake, I kept thinking about how much that feels like life. People can tell you to trust yourself, appreciate what you have or stop worrying so much about what everyone else thinks. You can listen and agree with every word. But then you live a bit more. You fail at something and try again. You love someone and have your heart broken. Someone you love becomes ill, or you lose them, and suddenly you’re much more aware that none of us has forever. Perhaps you have children, and the things you thought mattered most begin to change.

I know some things are incredibly painful. When you’re in the middle of them, you’re just trying to get through the day. It’s only later, when you've a bit of space to look back, that you realise how much they’ve changed the way you see things.

I’m much more aware of my own mortality now. And I’ve seen my children struggle, which is horrendous as a parent. You want to take it away from them, and you can’t. Going through that has helped me see what makes them feel happy and at ease, and how much my own words, choices and reactions shape the environment they grow up in. And I just understand that so much more deeply now.

In the last few years, so many things I heard when I was younger have finally clicked, as though I’m hearing them properly for the first time. I’m grateful to the people who tried to guide me. I just had to live a bit more before I could really understand.

Love is one of those things I’ve understood differently with time. Santiago falls in love with Fatima at the oasis, and he could stay there with her. But she doesn’t ask him to give up his journey to prove that he loves her. I’m not sure my younger self would have understood that. I might have thought love meant holding on tightly, or needing someone to choose me over everything else. Now I think it’s wanting the person you love to grow and become more themselves, and encouraging them even when it takes courage to let them go and do it. It’s knowing you can be fully yourself with them too.

Maybe that’s what people mean when they say that, as you get older, you come home to yourself. I used to think it sounded nice without really knowing what it meant. Now I think it happens bit by bit. You notice who you feel at ease with. You care a little less about whether your life looks impressive and more about whether it feels like yours. You see how much your family and the good people around you matter. You begin to recognise that the thoughts whirling around your head aren’t always telling you the truth, and that even the awful ones will pass.

I’m still learning all of this. Clearly. Tuesday’s spin class is fairly strong evidence that I haven’t become a wise person who listens to every piece of good advice she’s given.

But perhaps that’s why Santiago’s story keeps replaying in my head. We spend so much time looking ahead for the treasure: the achievement, the answer, the point where we’ll finally feel happy and everything will make sense. Sometimes we have to travel quite a long way before we can see what was close to us all along. And sometimes the journey helps us become the person who can see it.

For now, I’m going to listen to my consultant and give myself a proper chance to get better. I’d quite like to learn the next lesson while sitting with a cup of coffee, rather than lying awake wondering why I didn’t listen to the last one.

The spin bike, and every other exercise class, can wait. 🩷