The Age I Would Revisit

Yesterday Bianca and I were driving to get her car fixed.

It was one of those ordinary moments that should have passed by unnoticed.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing profound.

Just two people in a car driving across the Gold Coast dealing with the normal responsibilities that come with everyday life.

Then out of nowhere she asked me a question.

A simple question.

The kind of question people ask casually.

The kind of question that normally gets a quick answer.

"What age would you like to revisit?"

I don't know if it was the frame of mind I was already in.

I don't know if I was tired.

I don't know if I was emotionally vulnerable.

I don't know if God used the question to expose something that had been sitting quietly beneath the surface for a long time.

But as soon as she asked it, something happened.

It felt almost cinematic.

Like a movie reel suddenly started playing inside my mind.

Images.

Memories.

Conversations.

Faces.

Places.

Moments.

Entire chapters of my life flashed through me in real time.

And before I could even answer her question I felt my heart break.

Because suddenly I wasn't thinking about age.

I was thinking about loss.

I was thinking about who I used to be.

I was thinking about roads taken.

Roads not taken.

Choices.

Mistakes.

Consequences.

The strange weight of becoming older.

And before I realised what was happening, my mind landed somewhere in my early twenties.

Not because they were perfect years.

They weren't.

They were in a lot of areas messy

But because they felt different.

I was roughly three years removed from meningococcal disease.

Three years removed from the fight that almost killed me.

My body still worked, I had rebuilt my health after beating my illness.

I had energy.

I wasn't carrying decades of accumulated disappointment.

Life still felt open.

The future felt large.

Possibility seemed endless.

I had fallen in love.

And at the time found my soulmate.

And maybe most importantly, I still believed certain things would work out.

I thought life would unfold differently.

I think that is what hit me hardest.

Not the memories themselves.

The expectations.

The younger version of me believed certain stories would have happy endings.

He believed hard work would solve most problems.

He believed love would stay.

He believed some wounds would heal faster than they did.

He believed certain dreams would arrive sooner.

He believed certain battles would eventually disappear.

Looking back now, I feel a strange tenderness toward that younger man.

Because he had no idea what was waiting for him.

He had no idea how much pain he was about to carry.

How much loss.

How much disappointment.

How much confusion.

How many dark nights of the soul.

How many mistakes and wrong turns.

How many prayers that would seem unanswered for years.

As Bianca drove, I found myself silently staring through the window while two decades unfolded inside my head.

Tears streamed down my face in that moment it was hard to stay composed.

Twenty years.

That number feels strange when I write it.

Twenty years.

An entire generation.

A lifetime for some people.

I thought about the addiction.

the years I lost.

The energy I wasted.

The damage I caused myself.

The opportunities I missed because I wasn't healthy enough to recognise them.

I thought about relationships that ended and turned to ashes in my hands.

The message that suicide has a front row seat in my family.

Friendships that faded.

Dreams that never happened.

Projects that failed.

Doors that closed.

Moments where I sabotaged myself.

Moments where fear won.

Moments where insecurity made decisions for me.

Moments where I knew better and still chose poorly.

That is a hard thing to admit.

Especially as you get older.

The bed of regret is always full of nails.

Because eventually you realise not every scar came from something done to you.

Some scars came from your own decisions.

Some scars came from your own brokenness.

Some scars came from your own inability to listen.

That truth is painful.

But it is honest.

And honesty matters.

As the years flashed through my mind, I realised something else.

I was not only grieving what happened.

I was grieving what never happened.

I think people talk about grief incorrectly sometimes.

Most people associate grief with death.

A funeral.

A cemetery.

A coffin.

But some of the deepest griefs have no funeral.

Nobody gathers around them.

Nobody sends flowers.

Nobody acknowledges them.

You simply carry them.

Quietly.

For years.

You grieve the marriage that never happened.

The career that never happened.

The child that never arrived.

The dream that never materialised.

The future you once imagined that slowly slipped away while you were busy surviving.

And sitting in that car yesterday I realised there are parts of my life I am still grieving.

Not because I live in the past.

But because I am human.

And humans remember.

And my nervous system remembers.

We remember who we were.

We remember who we thought we would become.

We remember people.

Places.

Moments.

Versions of ourselves.

And sometimes a simple question opens the door to all of it.

What age would you revisit?

The more I sat with that question, the more complicated it became.

Because part of me wanted to revisit those years.

But another part of me wouldn't.

Because if I went back, I would also become that version of myself again.

And the truth is, for all his innocence and optimism, the younger Dylan didn't know what I know now.

He had not survived what I have survived.

He had not learned what I have learned.

He had not seen the faithfulness of God in the way I have seen it.

He had not walked through addiction.

He had not walked through recovery.

He had not walked through heartbreak.

He had not walked through disappointment.

He had not walked through all the things that eventually shaped him into who he became.

And maybe that is where the tension lives.

Because there are parts of the past I miss.

Deeply.

But I cannot separate those memories from the person I eventually became.

The truth is, suffering changed me.

Some of it for the worse.

Some of it for the better.

Some wounds left damage.

Some things still wake me up at 2.00am bed full of sweat and gasping for air.

Others produced wisdom.

Most did both.

I think about my life now.

Bianca.

My writing.

My faith.

My work.

The people I love and care about.

The ministry opportunities.

The books.

The things God has allowed me to steward.

And I realise none of those things exist without the road that brought me here.

Even the painful road.

Especially the painful road.

I wish I could tell you that yesterday's reflection ended with some neat conclusion.

It didn't.

even today I am still thinking about the question.

I didn't arrive at some profound answer.

I didn't suddenly understand every chapter of my life.

I didn't solve the mystery of suffering.

I didn't reconcile every regret.

Honestly, I mostly just sat there feeling the weight of it all.

The beauty.

The pain.

The victories.

The failures.

The miracles.

The mistakes and poor desicions.

The answers I never got.

The things I am proud of.

The things I wish I could redo.

The things I still don't understand.

Life is strange like that.

The older I get, the less life feels like a straight line.

It feels more like a collection of moments stitched together by grace.

Some moments beautiful.

Some heartbreaking.

Some confusing.

Some sacred.

Some unfinished.

And perhaps that is why Bianca's question hit me so deeply.

Because it forced me to look backward.

Not with nostalgia.

Not with bitterness or resentment.

But with honesty.

And honesty can be painful.

When that question hit my ears and heart, something in me opened like a floodgate I did not know was holding.

The truth is, if I could revisit an age, I think I would revisit those early twenties.

Not because they were perfect.

Not because everything was easier.

Not because I want to stay there.

But because I would love to sit down with that younger version of myself for an hour.

Just an hour.

I would tell him things.

I would warn him about some choices.

I would encourage him through some storms.

I would tell him not to waste so much time worrying.

I would tell him that God remains faithful even when life becomes unrecognisable.

I would tell him that survival is possible.

I would tell him that addiction does not get the final word.

I would tell him that heartbreak does not get the final word.

I would tell him that failure does not get the final word.

And before I departed I would pull him close and hold him for a moment longer than felt comfortable.

I would whisper into his ear that he is seen.

That he is loved.

That God is not finished with him yet.

Because there were seasons ahead where he would genuinely wonder if God had forgotten him.

Seasons where darkness would feel louder than hope.

Seasons where he would question everything.

And yet somehow, through all of it, God would remain.

Not perfectly understood.

Not always felt.

But present.

Faithful.

Steady.

Looking back now, maybe that is the thing that moves me most.

Not the mistakes.

Not the missed opportunities.

Not even the pain.

It is the realisation that despite everything, I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still believing.

Still writing and publishing.

Still hoping.

Still trying.

Still becoming.

Still loving.

Twenty years later.

That matters.

More than I realised yesterday.

So what age would I revisit?

Maybe my early twenties.

Maybe not.

But I know this.

Yesterday a simple question reminded me that life moves faster than we think.

The years pass.

People change.

Dreams evolve.

Bodies age.

Hair turns grey.

The story keeps moving whether we are ready or not.

And somewhere in the middle of all that movement, God keeps writing chapters we never saw coming.

Some beautiful.

Some painful.

Most both.

And as I sit here today reflecting on that conversation with Bianca, I realise something.

I cannot go back.

None of us can.

The younger version of me exists only in memory now.

But perhaps that is okay.

Because while I would love to visit him for an hour, I would not want to become him again.

The road was hard.

The road hurt.

The road nearly broke me.

But it also brought me here.

And despite everything I have lost, everything I regret, everything I still carry, I am grateful for that.

More grateful than I realised.

Even if it took a simple question in a car to remind me.

---

About the Author

Dylan Verdun Sullivan is the founder of Refined by Fire Press and an Australian author indexed in the National Library of Australia. As a Level 7 Local Guide with over 2.7 million views on Google Maps, he documents the intersection of faith, recovery, and the light found in ordinary places.

• Read the Memoir: Kissed by Death on Amazon
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