Editors Note: Do you find yourself grappling with existential worries or feeling overwhelmed by life's challenges? Every Tuesday, James Parker lends his ear to readers' questions and concerns. If you would like to share your lifelong or immediate dilemmas, drop him a note at dearjames@theatlantic.com.

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Dear James,

I celebrated my 82nd birthday last Bastille Day, and I find myself bewildered by the journey that has brought me here. The truth is, I feel as though I should have passed away by now. With emphysema to contend with, my mobility is severely limited, and I hardly venture out anymoretraveling is a distant memory.

Despite this, I often tell myself that I am doing just fine!

Dear Reader,

I sincerely appreciate your heartfelt letter; it embodies a mix of grit, raw honesty, and what I would call a doom-tastic defiance. Thank you for being so candid. Clearly, you are not as fine as you claim, yet your spirit shines through, andperhaps most importantlyyour sense of humor remains intact. I commend you for that.

In fact, I would like to take this opportunity to salute all my readers who are bravely navigating the challenging yet enriching stages of their 70s, 80s, and even 90s. I am currently 56 years old, somewhat clear on various aspects of life but monumentally puzzled by others. It is astounding to me that individuals, particularly those who have lived so much more than I have, would seek my advice. You possess a depth of experience and knowledge about life and how to live it that I can only admire, even as I hold the title of the advice columnist Dear James.

Gratefully,

James

Dear James,

At 83 years old and widowed, I live alone. Reading has been a solace for me. Throughout my life, I have been deeply passionate about the English language. I recall learning to read Shakespeare when I was just in seventh grade.

It pains me to witness the decline in language mastery, as authors, journalists, young people, and others seem to butcher the English language with alarming frequency. It especially offends me when prominent figures such as yourselfbusiness leaders, actors, artists, and respected TV commentatorsforget the basics of grammar.

Now that I find myself in the role of an old lady, I feel that the younger generations dismiss me, just as they have done with seniors throughout history. Please, I urge you, do not overlook me. Just assure me that you will work on improving your grammar; it would bring me some comfort.

Dear Reader,

While you didnt provide specific examples, I find it challenging to defend myself against your criticisms. Personally, I believe my grammar is quite solid. Perhaps its my punctuation you take issue with? If sentences that begin with conjunctions like and or but are a concern, I invite you to reimagine the preceding periods as semicolons.

Occasionally, I may write a fragmentary sentence, such as, Rustle of a hair shirt in the darkness. While it may lack a verb, these fragments mirror the fragmented nature of our experiences, which often cannot be neatly expressed in complete sentences. I believe its this splintered essence of living that I strive to convey through my writing.

That said, I assure you, I am not dismissing your concerns. However, I cannot promise that I will alter my grammar. In this area, I feel I am already performing at my peak.

On a quest for my copy of Sir Ernest Gowerss Plain Words,

James

Dear James,

Many years ago, my mother told me a rather strange story. She recounted that when I was born in November 1940, my parents had to leave me in the hospital under the care of nuns for 35 days, including over Christmasa time my mother described as the saddest of her life. The reason for my prolonged stay was that I was suffering from what she termed boils covering my body. My mother recalled that three times daily, the nuns would wash me in carbolic acid to scrub away the scabs, and my cries were so pitiful that my parents could not bear to listen. They ultimately left me there until the boils cleared.

Though I have no memory of that time, I know that I must have experienced something significant because, for many years, my body and face bore tiny white scars (which have since faded). Now, at the age of 84, I often find myself waking three mornings out of ten filled with a crippling sense of dread and torment. After a few deep breaths and a prayer of sorts, I manage to regain my composure.

Despite having faced considerable sorrows in my lifea divorce and the tragic loss of my second-born childI still see myself as a happy man. My second wife brings me joy, our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren are a delight, and I cherish our warm friendships and fulfilling hobbies.

Yet, I still grapple with these feelings of pain and despair. Could they be remnants of that infant's experience from 84 years ago? Should I simply remind myself that I am fortunate to have survived the pain, which is something to celebrate? Would it help me to better understand the suffering endured by that innocent baby? Wordsworths poignant line from his ode Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood resonates deeply with me: Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Dear Reader,

Im truly sorry to hear about the dreadful awakenings youve been experiencing. My own mornings are usually too clouded with the remnants of the previous day to be sharply aware of any immediate feelings, whether good or bad.

Two thoughts come to mind regarding your situation. First, the experiences that shape us during our early years, often when we are too small and powerless to comprehend them, tend to linger within us. Theres something beautiful in the notion that, at 84, you are still able to connect with the deep sorrow of your infancy.

Secondly, I am intrigued by the something like a short prayer that helps you through these challenging moments. I encourage you to be intentional with your words, ensuring they are comforting and uplifting because you have indeed emerged from pain and faced many challenges, and you deserve to relish in the joys of life that surround you.

Rooting for you in your early mornings,

James

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