Today I Choose to be Exhilarated – How to be Exhilarated

The most exhilarating moment of my last decade wasn’t a vacation or a zipline adventure. It was watching Curtis come home from the hospital after weeks of uncertainty, hooked up to tubes, frail but alive. My heart pounded with gratitude, relief, and joy so fierce it felt like electricity in my veins. That’s exhilaration to me now—not speed or risk, but the raw, breathtaking awareness of how precious this life is. I don’t need to chase thrills. Life hands me enough moments of pulse-racing awe—sometimes terrifying, sometimes beautiful—to remind me that being alive is the wildest ride of all.

The Walk Through Our Front Door

That moment when Curtis walked through our door—shuffling with a walker, down 50 pounds, but WALKING—I felt my whole body light up. Every cell vibrating with relief and joy and terror and gratitude all at once. I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Just stood there shaking with the intensity of having him home.

For three weeks, I’d driven to that hospital not knowing what I’d find. Some days he was alert, joking with nurses, complaining about the food. Other days he was so weak he couldn’t lift his head, so medicated he didn’t recognize me. The uncertainty was its own kind of torture—hope and despair taking turns breaking my heart.

I’d memorized every inch of that hospital room. The way morning light hit the wall at 7:30. The sound the IV pump made when it needed attention. The smell of antiseptic mixed with fear. The texture of the vinyl chair I’d slept in more nights than I wanted to count.

But watching him cross our threshold, seeing him look around our living room like he’d never seen it before, watching our dog lose his mind with joy—that was exhilaration in its purest form. Not the manufactured thrill of extreme sports, but the overwhelming relief of almost losing everything and getting it back.

My hands shook for hours afterward. My heart wouldn’t slow down. I kept checking on him, touching his shoulder to make sure he was really there, really home, really alive. That’s exhilaration at 61—not the high of risk-taking, but the overwhelming intensity of recognizing how fragile and precious everything is.

The Phone Call That Changed Everything

The call came at 2:17 PM on a Tuesday. I know because I stared at the clock while Dr. Martinez explained Curtis’s test results, his voice careful and professional but unable to hide the gravity of what he was telling me.

“We need him to come in immediately,” he said, and my world tilted sideways. The sandwich I was making fell from my hands. The ordinary Tuesday afternoon dissolved into something surreal and terrifying.

But three weeks later, another call: “Curtis is stable. We can talk about sending him home.” The exhilaration hit me like a physical force. I actually stumbled, caught myself on the kitchen counter, felt my knees go weak with relief.

That’s when I understood the difference between excitement and exhilaration. Excitement is anticipation building toward something good. Exhilaration is the overwhelming rush of surviving something you weren’t sure you would. It’s your nervous system catching up with good news after weeks of bracing for bad news.

I called everyone—our kids, my sister, our neighbors who’d been bringing meals and checking on me. Each conversation brought the exhilaration flooding back. “He’s coming home!” I kept saying, my voice breaking every time.

Jesse’s Voice After Months of Silence

Then there was Jesse’s phone call. My younger son, who’d been struggling, who’d gone months without calling, who we’d been worried about in that quiet, persistent way parents worry about their adult children when they can’t fix their problems anymore.

“Hey Mom.” Just those two words, but his voice sounded like himself again. Not the hollow, distant version I’d heard in our last few conversations, but the son I recognized. Strong. Present. Connected.

The exhilaration was immediate and overwhelming. I gripped the phone with both hands, afraid that if I let go, the connection would disappear. “Jesse? Baby, how are you?”

“I’m good, Mom. Really good. I wanted to tell you about some things that are happening.”

For the next hour, he talked. About therapy, about changes he was making, about hope for the future. About taking better care of himself. About missing us. About wanting to come visit soon.

When we hung up, I sat in my car in the grocery store parking lot and cried. Not sad tears—exhilarated tears. The overwhelming relief of hearing your child sound like themselves again. The incredible rush of hope after months of worry.

That night, I told Curtis about the call, and I felt the exhilaration wash over me again. “He sounds good,” I kept saying. “He really sounds good.”

The Unexpected Sources of Overwhelming Joy

Now I find exhilaration in moments I never expected:

The clear scan results—sitting in the oncologist’s office, watching Dr. Martinez’s face change as he reviewed Curtis’s latest images. “Everything looks clean,” he said, and I felt my entire body exhale relief I didn’t know I was holding.

The first real laugh after Dad died—six weeks of grief so heavy I thought I might never feel light again, and then Curtis told a story about Dad trying to use his new smartphone, and suddenly I was laughing. Really laughing. Bent over, tears streaming, completely surprised by joy.

Finishing something I didn’t think I could do—like the eulogy I gave at Dad’s funeral. Standing at that podium, looking out at faces I’d known my whole life, finding my voice when I thought grief had stolen it forever. The rush afterward wasn’t pride—it was exhilaration at discovering I was stronger than I knew.

Overwhelming gratitude that hits out of nowhere—driving home from the grocery store on an ordinary Thursday, and suddenly being flooded with awareness of everything I have. Curtis beside me, kids who call, a home to go to, food in the bags, gas in the tank. The intensity of gratitude that stops your breath.

These aren’t chosen thrills. They’re life breaking through your defenses and reminding you that you’re gloriously, terrifyingly alive. They can’t be scheduled or manufactured. They show up when they show up, and they leave you changed.

The Physical Reality of Exhilaration

Exhilaration at 61 feels different in my body than it did at 21. It’s less about adrenaline and more about recognition. Less about speed and more about depth.

When Curtis walked through our door, my heart pounded, but it wasn’t the racing pulse of fear or excitement. It was the deep, steady drumbeat of profound relief. My breathing changed—not the shallow gasps of anxiety, but the deep, cleansing breaths of someone who can finally exhale.

My hands shook, but not with nervousness. With the overwhelming physical response to emotional intensity. My whole body was processing the magnitude of almost losing him and getting him back.

When Jesse called, I felt warmth spreading through my chest like sunlight. My shoulders dropped. My jaw unclenched. All the tension I’d been carrying for months about him just dissolved.

This is exhilaration that heals rather than depletes. Young exhilaration often left me exhausted—after the party, the adventure, the thrill-seeking. Midlife exhilaration energizes me because it’s not about consumption; it’s about recognition. Recognition of what matters, what’s precious, what’s been given back to me when I thought it was lost.

Exhilaration vs. Excitement: The Difference

Excitement is anticipation. Exhilaration is overwhelm. Excitement you can prepare for—planning the vacation, looking forward to the event, building anticipation. Exhilaration catches you off guard and leaves you changed. It’s the difference between planning a party and suddenly realizing you survived something you weren’t sure you would.

Excitement is about looking forward. Exhilaration is about being fully present in a moment so intense it demands your complete attention. You can’t multitask during exhilaration. You can’t be anywhere else. It captures you completely.

Excitement fades when the event ends. Exhilaration changes you permanently. I’m different because of watching Curtis walk through our door. Because of hearing Jesse’s voice sound like himself again. Because of those moments when gratitude overwhelmed me completely.

Excitement is about getting what you want. Exhilaration is often about keeping what you thought you might lose, or getting back what you were afraid was gone forever.

The Vulnerability of Being Open to Exhilaration

To feel exhilarated, you have to be open to being overwhelmed. You can’t control it, manage it, or schedule it. You can only let it wash over you when it comes. And at 61, after loss and near-loss, I’m more open to that overwhelming joy when it appears.

This vulnerability is terrifying and necessary. If you close yourself off to the possibility of being overwhelmed by good news, you also close yourself off to the intensity of relief, gratitude, recognition.

I used to try to protect myself from emotional intensity, good or bad. Steady was safer than overwhelming. Controlled was more comfortable than surprised. But steady and controlled also meant missing the exhilaration of unexpected joy.

Now I let myself be caught off guard by good news. I allow unexpected relief to knock me sideways. I stay open to the possibility that something wonderful might happen even when I’m braced for something terrible.

The Exhilaration of Ordinary Miracles

The longer I live, the more I recognize ordinary miracles as sources of exhilaration:

Bodies that heal—watching Curtis’s strength return, seeing his appetite come back, witnessing his personality emerge from the fog of illness and medication. Every small improvement felt miraculous.

Love that endures—after 35 years of marriage, still being surprised by moments of overwhelming affection for this man. Still finding him funny, still wanting to tell him things first, still feeling that rush of “this is my person.”

Children who become themselves—watching Jesse find his way through struggles, seeing Tyler grow into the father I hoped he’d be. The exhilaration of recognizing the adults they’ve become.

Beauty that stops you cold—driving around a curve and seeing light hit the mountains in a way that makes you pull over. Standing in your own backyard and suddenly seeing it like a stranger would. The overwhelming awareness of living in a beautiful world.

Connection that surprises you—conversations that go deeper than expected, moments of understanding with people you thought you had nothing in common with, the sudden recognition that you’re not alone in something you thought was uniquely yours.

These moments can’t be manufactured or forced. They arise from staying open to being surprised by life, by people, by your own capacity for joy.

Exhilaration as Recognition

The most profound exhilaration comes from recognition—moments when you suddenly see clearly what’s been there all along. Curtis walking through the door wasn’t just relief; it was recognition of how much I love him, how central he is to my life, how unimaginable life would be without him.

Jesse’s phone call wasn’t just good news; it was recognition of the particular way I love this child, the specific worry I carry for him, the unique joy that comes from knowing he’s okay.

Those moments of overwhelming gratitude aren’t just appreciation; they’re recognition of how much I’ve been given, how unlikely any of it was, how temporary and precious all of it is.

This kind of exhilaration doesn’t require extreme circumstances. It just requires clarity. Sometimes you need almost losing something to recognize how much it means to you. But sometimes you can cultivate that recognition without the crisis.

The Practice of Staying Open

I’m practicing staying open to exhilaration without waiting for near-disasters to wake me up. This means:

Noticing moments of overwhelming gratitude when they arise, instead of dismissing them as sentimental.
Allowing relief to feel as big as it wants to when worries resolve.
Letting joy be overwhelming when good news comes.
Staying present in moments of recognition instead of rushing past them.

It means being willing to be knocked sideways by beauty, by love, by the sheer improbability of being alive. It means letting myself be moved by things that might seem ordinary to others but feel miraculous to me.

The Ripple Effect

Exhilaration is contagious. When I told people about Curtis coming home, they felt it too. When I shared the relief in my voice about Jesse, they caught some of it. Overwhelming joy spreads.

This is different from sharing excitement, which can feel performative or demanding. Sharing exhilaration is sharing recognition—helping others see what you’ve suddenly seen clearly, inviting them into the awareness of how precious things are.

When I talk about these moments of overwhelming joy, I watch people’s faces change. They remember their own moments of exhilaration, their own experiences of almost losing something and getting it back.

Today’s Choice

Today, choose to be open to exhilaration. Not by seeking thrills, but by being present enough to be overwhelmed by life’s intensity when it shows up. The phone call with unexpectedly good news. The moment when someone you love sounds like themselves again. The sudden awareness that you’re here, alive, with people you care about.

Don’t try to manufacture exhilarating moments—they can’t be forced. But stay open to being surprised by overwhelming joy. Let relief be as big as it wants to be. Allow gratitude to knock you sideways when it comes.

Notice the ordinary miracles: hearts that keep beating, bodies that heal, love that endures, children who find their way, beauty that exists for no reason except to be beautiful.

Exhilaration at this age isn’t about adrenaline. It’s about allowing yourself to be moved, shaken, lit up by the mere fact of being alive. It’s about staying vulnerable to being overwhelmed by goodness.

And that? That’s the ultimate thrill—not the manufactured excitement of extreme sports or exotic adventures, but the raw exhilaration of recognizing how extraordinary ordinary life actually is. How improbable any of it is. How temporary and precious and overwhelming it all is.

The phone might ring with good news. The door might open with someone you love walking through it. The moment might arrive when you suddenly see clearly how much you’ve been given.

Stay open to being exhilarated by it all.