Book Reflection: Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life by James Hollis, PhD

A review through lived response

Some books arrive as instruction manuals. Others as companions. Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life by James Hollis, PhD is something different altogether—it’s a summons.

This book landed in my hands under the guise of professional development. As a psychologist supporting midlife women through burnout and deep transition, I wanted to expand my understanding of the inner terrain they often find themselves navigating. What I didn’t expect was how personally this book would speak to me—how urgently it would ask me to pause, reflect, and reckon with my own path.

Hollis writes from a Jungian perspective, framing midlife not as a crisis, but as a profound invitation: to move beyond the ego’s agenda—the drive to achieve, to conform, to prove—and toward the reclamation of soul. He suggests that the first half of life is often lived according to scripts handed to us: family expectations, cultural norms, unconscious fear. But at some point, these scripts begin to falter. They no longer satisfy. A quiet ache emerges. Something feels... off.

That “offness” is often the soul calling us back.

Hollis doesn’t offer easy answers. Instead, he offers questions. Big ones. Ones that ask us to be honest—perhaps more honest than we’ve ever dared to be. And so I took up his invitation. I sat with these questions not only as a professional but as a human being—one who has known burnout, disconnection, and the longing for a more soul-aligned life.

Here’s what surfaced for me.

Your Life Is Addressing These Questions to You

What has brought you to this place in your journey, this moment in your life?
Part of me still doesn’t quite know. Another part says: my sheer determination to do, to create, to achieve. Another says: the support of others and the resources that have been available to me. It’s all of it.

What gods, what forces, what family, what social environment has framed your reality—perhaps supported, perhaps constricted it?
I was raised in a family system that valued doing, independence, and self-reliance. It was a stressful environment, and I learned early on to avoid stress, to work hard, and to suppress my feelings. Emotional awareness wasn’t modelled. That lack of attunement led me to push away what I was feeling—until it eventually brought me to the work I do now. Becoming a psychologist was, in many ways, a personal quest to understand what had once been out of reach.

Whose life have you been living?
Burnout revealed the truth: I had been living a life ruled by fear. Fear disguised as productivity. Anxiety disguised as control. I was constantly doing—not necessarily because I wanted to, but because it helped me feel safe. I wasn’t living from my soul—I was living from my nervous system.

Why, even when things are going well, do things feel not quite right?
Because I now know that there can be an unanswered need of the soul—a quiet sense of misalignment. Sometimes the discomfort is internal: I’m not balanced, I’m still constricting myself. Other times it’s a grief about the external world and how it feels at odds with my deeper values.

Why does so much seem a disappointment, a betrayal, a bankruptcy of expectations?
Because the scripts we’re handed early in life rarely hold up in adulthood. We expect life to deliver on promises it never really made. We look outside of ourselves for fulfilment—when perhaps the deepest need is to turn inward and begin meeting ourselves.

Why do you believe that you have to hide so much, from others, from yourself?
Because I’ve internalised the belief that being big, loud, authentic—wholly myself—will invite conflict or suffering. I’ve long been trying to protect myself from that, even though it keeps me playing small.

Why does life seem a script written elsewhere, and you barely consulted, if at all?
Culture. Systems. Expectations. But if I’m honest, I’ve also surrendered to that too easily. I get angry living in a society that often feels misaligned with my values. And yet, I’m realising I’ve had more agency than I’ve allowed myself to believe. I could speak up. I could rally. I could choose to live louder. But I still hold back. Protection. Fear.

Why have you come to this book—or why has it come to you—now?
I told myself it was for professional development. But truthfully, it’s both personal and professional. I don’t want to live a small life. I know my neuroses often stem from denying my soul. I want to keep doing the work—not just for others, but for myself.

Why does the idea of your soul trouble you, and feel familiar as a long-lost companion?
It troubles me because it invites vulnerability, and with that, the possibility of being misunderstood or judged. But it also brings warmth. A sense of belonging. A coming home. That’s what makes it feel like a long-lost companion.

Why is the life you are living too small for the soul’s desire?
Because I inherited the message: live your life, but don’t go too far. Be safe. Be careful. My parents weren’t dreamers—they were protectors. And I understand that. But my soul has always yearned for something larger, more expansive. I’m only just starting to listen.

Why is now the time—if ever it is—to answer the summons of the soul?
Because I’m alive. And even though fear still lives in me—even though the child part whispers “what if you fail?”—I know there’s something deeper calling. I want more than survival. I want a life that feels whole, meaningful, and true.

Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life is not a book you simply read—it’s a book that asks something of you. Hollis doesn’t just provide theory—he invites you to respond, to pause, to examine the architecture of your life. The questions I’ve shared above are just a few among many that arise from his writing. For me, answering them became both a personal reckoning and a professional affirmation of the reflective work I already do with clients in midlife.

If you feel called, I invite you to read the book yourself—or simply sit with the questions that surfaced here. Let them stir something. Let them land gently or provoke deeply. Whatever feels right in this moment, I encourage you to honour that.

The soul’s summons is quiet, but insistent.
Perhaps now is the time to begin listening.