Dignity and possibility.at 80

 My cousin Lorraine sent me this, I adapted it for my age and added some ideas so that those who are my age can have Dignity and possibility.

I am in my 80^th year, so, I sat in my favorite chair, looked back at my life, and thought and the truths I had known  all my life began to surface.

Kids? They’re busy writing their own story.
Health? Slips away faster than sand through open fingers.
The government? Just headlines, promises, and numbers that never change your daily reality.

Aging doesn’t hurt your body first, it hurts your illusions.

So I sat down with myself and carved out a handful of necessary truths.

Kids don’t save you from loneliness

Children grow, life pulls them in every direction, and you become a memory they visit when time allows.

You smile… and yet something inside you may remain  strangely hollow unless you have someone to share the smile with..
Kids bring joy, but they are not a shield against loneliness.

Health is not forever
One day, the outings you once jumped into with enthusiasm feel like a marathon.
You realize health was never a background character,
it was the main pillar holding your life steady.

Retirement and money
Retirement is not a reward, it’s a reality check.
Depending on the system is like standing on thin ice.
Bills grow, needs grow, prices grow but support doesn't.

Here are ten practical rules for living with dignity at any age but are important as you start the final stages of your time here..
Rule 1: Money is more reliable than anything else.
Love your kids, cherish them
but don’t make them your retirement plan.
Save for yourself.
Even small savings create big freedom.
Financial independence is dignity.

Rule 2: Your health is your real job
Nothing else matters if your body refuses to cooperate.
Move. Walk. Stretch.
Guard your sleep like treasure.
Eat cleaner. Reduce the poison disguised as sugar and salt.
Illness doesn’t discriminate,
but it respects those who take responsibility for themselves.

Rule 3: Create your own joy
Waiting for others to make you happy is the fastest way to heartbreak.
So you learn to enjoy the small things —
a peaceful breakfast, a good book, music that warms the soul.
When you know how to make yourself happy, loneliness loses its power.

Rule 4: Aging is not an excuse to become helpless
Some people turn aging into a performance of complaints.
And slowly, even those who love them start stepping away.
Strength is attractive.
Resilience is magnetic.
People respect the ones who stay capable, not the ones who surrender.

Rule 5: Let go of the past
The good old days were beautiful, yes.
But they’re gone, and there is no return ticket.
Clinging to the past steals the present.
Life today may look different, but it still holds moments worth living.

Rule 6: Protect your peace like it’s your property
Not every argument needs your voice.
Not every insult needs your response.
Not every relative deserves access to your emotions.
Peace is expensive.
Protect it from drama, negativity, and draining people ,
even if they're your close ones.

Rule 7: Keep learning something, anything
The day you stop learning is the day you start aging.
A new recipe, a new word, a new app, a new hobby
your brain needs movement just like your body does.
Learning keeps you young.
Stagnation makes you old.

Rule 8: Relationships need tending, not expecting

Friendships don’t “just happen.”

They are planted, watered, and sometimes replanted.

Waiting for the phone to ring is a lonely strategy.
Make the call. Invite someone for coffee. Say yes when it would be easier to stay home.

Connection is not automatic anymore—it’s intentional.
And when you choose it, even in small ways, life answers back.

Rule 9: Your story still matters, share it

You don’t need a stage or a book deal.
Your story matters to a neighbor, a grandchild, a stranger sitting beside you.

Tell it. Write it. Pass it along.
Your mistakes carry wisdom. Your wins carry hope.

At our age, you no longer have to keep proving yourself.
You are contributing simply by being honest about the road you’ve walked.

Rule 10: Accept help without giving up control

Independence doesn’t mean doing everything alone.
It means choosing how support fits into your life.

Let someone carry a bag, drive you, explain the new form.
That’s not weakness—it’s strategy.

Pride isolates. Wisdom adapts.

You stay in charge when you decide where help ends and self-respect begins.

At my age the noise fades.
What’s left is truth, clear, sharp, and strangely freeing.

You no longer live on promises or illusions.
You live on choices.

You may move slower.
But you still choose how you show up.
You still choose dignity over despair, engagement over retreat.

You are still here.

Still thinking.

Still sitting in your favourite chair,

Still capable of shaping the days ahead.

And for anyone lucky enough to reach this milestone,
that truth alone is reason for hope.

 Strength and freedom still belong to you

Aging is an exam no one can take for you.
You can adapt, rebuild, and rise stronger…
or sit back, complain, and wait for someone to rescue you.

But most likely no one is coming to rescue you, and that’s not a loss.
It’s a reminder.
And when ....
No one comes to rescue you ....

Stand up for yourself ...

Because you still can..
And that single truth is enough to transform the rest of your life. 

Changing the Way, We Speak, Act, and Show Up: Becoming an Ally Against Ageism

 There’s a moment that happens at the end of a good visit. The dishes are done. The stories have been shared. You stand at the door a little longer than necessary, knowing you’re leaving with something with which you didn’t arrive. A new understanding. A responsibility. A quiet resolve to do things differently.

This is that moment.

Over the course of this series, we’ve walked through workplaces, homes, community halls, and public celebrations. We’ve listened to stories of exclusion and dignity, loss and contribution, invisibility and joy. We’ve named ageism not as a personal failure, but as something woven into systems, language, and habits we rarely stop to examine.

And now we arrive at the final question: What do we do with what we know?

Becoming an ally against ageism doesn’t begin with policy or programs. It begins closer to home—in the way we speak, the way we listen, and the way we show up for one another.

I think back to a conversation I once overheard. A group of women, all older, laughing together. One of them was being praised and someone said, “Well, you look good for your age.” Everyone chuckled. Including me. And then the moment passed.

Later, it stayed with me.

No harm was intended. The comment was offered as a compliment, and because it was self-directed or shared among peers, it felt harmless. But scratch the surface and the message is clear: aging is something to be defended against. Looking good is an exception. Worth is conditional.

I didn’t challenge it. Not because I didn’t know better, but because ageism often travels disguised as humour, politeness, or “just the way we talk.” And that’s exactly why it’s so powerful.

Language shapes what we believe is possible.

When we say things like “I’m too old for that” or “I couldn’t wear that at my age,” we may think we’re being realistic or self-deprecating. What we’re often doing is reinforcing a story that aging narrows life rather than deepening it. That curiosity has an expiry date. That joy, learning, risk, or visibility belong to someone else now.

Internalized ageism is quiet. It rarely feels like discrimination. But it’s one of the strongest barriers to change, because it teaches us to step back before anyone else asks us to.

Allyship asks us to notice those moments, and gently interrupt them.

Sometimes that means pausing and rephrasing. Sometimes it means asking, “Why does age matter here?” Sometimes it means not laughing along, or offering a different perspective. Not with anger or superiority, but with curiosity and care.

At the community level, allyship grows when we move beyond intention into structure. As a seniors’ association, we actively encourage programs that bring generations together—not as charity, but as collaboration. Mentoring initiatives where knowledge flows both ways. Shared projects where planning, leadership, and credit are truly shared. Spaces where age is neither hidden nor highlighted, simply respected.

These efforts matter because ageism doesn’t disappear on its own. It’s challenged through repeated, visible examples of older adults contributing, leading, learning, and being fully present in community life.

Education plays a role here too. When people learn about aging—not as decline, but as a complex, varied, and meaningful stage of life—attitudes shift. Fear softens. Assumptions loosen their grip. We begin to see later life not as an ending, but as a continuation with its own richness and responsibility.

My hope is that as you’ve read these blogs, you’ve caught yourself thinking, “I hadn’t noticed that before,” or “I’ve probably said that,” or even, “I want to do better.” That’s not guilt talking. That’s awareness waking up.

And awareness is where momentum begins.

Challenging ageism doesn’t require perfection. It requires presence. The willingness to stay in the conversation. To question привычные phrases. To advocate for inclusive policies at work, in housing, in healthcare, and in community planning. To notice who isn’t in the room—and ask why.

Most of all, it requires us to see aging not as a problem to solve, but as a shared human experience we are all moving toward together.

If this series has done its work, it hasn’t lectured. It has walked alongside you. Using data as a compass, stories as the vehicle, and community as the destination.

And now, standing here at the door, the question lingers—not as a challenge, but as an invitation:

How will you speak, act, and show up differently now?

That answer, lived out in small, everyday choices, is how ageism finally begins to lose its hold.

From Conversation to Culture Change: How Intergenerational Work Transforms Communities

It started, as many good things do, with a simple invitation.

The city was preparing to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the May Day Festival, a tradition rooted deeply in our town’s identity. Generations had grown up with it, children weaving ribbons around the Maypole, parents lining the streets, grandparents telling stories of how it used to be “back when.” This time, the organizers wanted something more than a reenactment. They wanted the celebration to mean something.

Someone asked a question that doesn’t get asked often enough: What if seniors were part of this, not just watching, but helping shape it?

When the idea was brought to the seniors’ board, there was a pause. Not because of hesitation, but because people understood the weight of the invitation. This wasn’t about nostalgia. This was about partnership. About trust. About standing shoulder to shoulder with a younger generation and saying, “Let’s build this together.”

The plan that emerged was bold in its simplicity. Twenty-four seniors would join Grade 5 students from three local schools to dance the Maypole together. Not perform for each other. Perform with each other. Organizers in their twenties, thirties, and forties would coordinate logistics alongside volunteers in their seventies and eighties. Everyone would have a role. No one would be a token.

What followed was something quietly powerful.

In school gyms and community halls, seniors learned steps alongside children young enough to be their great-grandchildren. There were missteps and laughter, ribbons tangled and untangled, stories exchanged between practice runs. A senior showed a child how to recover gracefully from a missed step. A child showed a senior a shortcut for remembering the pattern. No one was “helping” anyone. They were learning together.

This is where ageism begins to lose its grip.

So much discrimination thrives on distance, on the idea that “older” and “younger” are separate worlds with little to offer each other. Intergenerational work collapses that distance. It replaces assumptions with familiarity. It turns abstract respect into shared experience.

On the day of the festival, the four Maypoles stood tall in the centre of the arena, ribbons bright against the spring sky. As the music began, seniors and students moved together, weaving colour and rhythm into something unmistakably joyful. The crowd didn’t see “old” and “young.” They saw a community in motion.

And then something unexpected happened.

The seniors were invited back the following year, not as a novelty, but as tradition. They were asked to help kick off the next hundred years of May Day celebrations.

That’s culture change.

Intergenerational work doesn’t just soften attitudes; it reshapes systems. When young organizers see older adults as collaborators, it changes who gets invited to the table. When children grow up working alongside seniors, it rewrites what aging looks like in their minds. When seniors are trusted with visible, meaningful roles, it challenges the quiet narrative that usefulness has an expiry date.

Importantly, this work succeeds only when it’s grounded in equality. Not mentorship that flows one way. Not “keeping seniors busy.” True intergenerational projects are built on mutual respect and shared power. Each generation brings something essential: energy, perspective, memory, creativity, and steadiness. When one is missing, the whole structure weakens.

The beauty is that action doesn’t have to be grand to be transformative.

A community garden planned by teens and tended by retirees. A storytelling project where students record elders’ histories, and elders learn new technology in return. A neighbourhood safety initiative where older residents’ lived knowledge complements younger residents’ organizing skills. These are not expensive solutions. They are human ones.

Ageism thrives in isolation. It withers in connection.

The May Day dance mattered not because it was perfect, but because it was shared. It reminded everyone watching and participating that communities are strongest when all ages are visible, valued, and involved in shaping the future.

Conversation is where change begins. Culture shifts when we move from talking about each other to working with each other.

Sometimes, all it takes is an invitation and the courage to say yes.

Seeing the Longevity Dividend: From Burden to Shared Asset

Every conversation about aging eventually seems to circle back to the same question: Can we afford it?

An aging population is often framed as a looming burden on healthcare, on housing, on public services. The language is heavy with concern and cost. What rarely makes it into the conversation is a different way of seeing things: not as a problem to manage, but as a resource to value.

This is where the idea of the Longevity Dividend comes in. It invites us to ask a better question: What becomes possible when people live longer, fuller lives, and are included rather than sidelined?

I saw a living answer to that question at the Tri-City Seniors’ annual Christmas gathering.

The room was warm, crowded, and alive with conversation. People gathered around tables, cups of coffee in hand, sharing stories that moved easily between past and present. Someone talked about Christmas mornings growing up. Another remembered the sound of boots on frozen sidewalks and the sting of cold air on bare cheeks.

One story kept resurfacing, spoken with a particular kind of fondness, the wooden crates of Japanese oranges.

For many, those oranges were the unmistakable sign that Christmas had arrived. They were rare, precious, and shared carefully. A small luxury that marked the season and stayed in memory long after the holidays passed.

As the stories flowed, something else became clear. These weren’t just recollections. They were threads of lived history, of immigration, resilience, community, and change. Knowledge carried, not in textbooks, but in voices, laughter, and shared recognition.

Then the conversation shifted.

Today, one of the signs of the Christmas season isn’t oranges in wooden crates. It’s the growing need at the food bank.

Without fanfare, the group had acted. The seniors collected 134 pounds of food and over $300 in cash donations for the local food bank. It wasn’t a symbolic gesture. It was practical, immediate care.

Many of these same people remembered walking to school every day, regardless of snow or rain, in towns across British Columbia and Canada. They remembered winters that were cold but predictable. And almost all of them shared the same reflection: no matter the weather, they didn’t worry about whether there would be food on the table.

That memory matters.

It connects past stability with present concern. It fuels a sense of responsibility, not out of guilt, but out of gratitude. These seniors weren’t acting because they were asked to. They were acting because they care deeply about the community they helped build and the future being shaped by the next generation.

This is the Longevity Dividend in action.

When older adults are fully included, they bring more than time or availability. They bring perspective. They bring continuity. They bring a long view that connects what was, what is, and what could be.

Too often, we frame seniors as recipients of care, of services, of support. And yes, support matters. But that frame is incomplete. It misses the daily acts of leadership, creativity, volunteering, caregiving, and quiet generosity that sustain communities.

The Longevity Dividend isn’t just economic. It’s social. It shows up in mentorship, in civic engagement, in the passing on of traditions, and in the willingness to notice when something isn’t right and do something about it.

What made that Christmas gathering powerful wasn’t nostalgia. It was relevance. These seniors weren’t living in the past. They were using the past to inform present action.

When generations come together around shared values, care, fairness, responsibility, the benefits flow both ways. Younger people gain context and grounding. Older people remain connected and purposeful. Communities become more resilient because knowledge and care aren’t siloed by age.

Reframing aging doesn’t mean ignoring challenges. It means refusing to define people solely by what they might need. It means recognizing what they already give, and what becomes possible when we invite them fully into the story.

At that Christmas gathering, the Longevity Dividend didn’t appear as a policy or a statistic. It showed up as food on a scale, cash in an envelope, and hope quietly passed from one generation to the next.

And that kind of dividend keeps paying forward.