Pain Is a Very Clear Teacher

I have rheumatoid arthritis and have lived with it for several years now. So far, I’ve been lucky. The disease has shown up in my shoulders, my back, and my ankle, but with treatment I’ve been able to keep going.

When I was first referred to a specialist, she was skeptical. Rheumatoid arthritis, she told me, doesn’t usually manifest in the shoulders. Tests showed that, in my case, it did. Treatment followed, and the pain in my shoulders eased. Then the disease shifted to my back. More medication helped. Now it has settled into my ankle, and I’m waiting for surgery.

In the meantime, I still get around, just more slowly, and with a noticeable limp.

My wife jokes that I have my own pharmacy. I laugh and agree. The truth is those medications allow me to function. Physical pain is something we can name, measure, and explain. It shows up on scans and blood tests. It has protocols and prescriptions. Other people understand it without much explanation.

And because it’s so clear, we tend to respect it.

Emotional pain is different.

My father was killed in an accident more than fifty years ago. My mother died over forty years ago. I still feel the pain of those losses. I see how my wife continues to carry the loss of her mother. I see my daughters living with the grief of losing their best friend. Emotional pain doesn’t fade with time; it changes shape, but it stays.

My adopted daughter lost her sister a few months ago. On the day before her birthday, we were talking about her sister, and she suddenly broke down in tears. She apologized, instinctively, as though grief needed permission. But there was nothing to apologize for. The loss of a family member never truly leaves.

Unlike physical pain, emotional pain is harder to locate. It doesn’t limp. It doesn’t show up on an X-ray. People understand it in theory, but often struggle to express it; or to recognize when it has crossed from sadness into strain.

Cognitive pain may be harder still.

We are starting a program for caregivers of people living with dementia because there are so few resources to help them manage the constant mental and emotional load they carry. The vigilance. The worry. The grief that arrives long before loss. This kind of strain is exhausting, yet largely invisible. And because it doesn’t announce itself the way joint pain does, it is often ignored, by others and by the caregivers themselves.

Physical pain teaches us clearly. It draws a line we can’t cross without consequence. Emotional and cognitive pain whisper instead. They ask for attention long before they demand it.

Self-regulation, then, isn’t just about responding to what hurts most loudly. It’s about learning to hear the quieter signals before they overwhelm us. Wisdom lies not in enduring everything, but in knowing when something needs care, support, or rest; even when there’s no limp to point to.

If physical pain is a teacher, emotional and cognitive pain are subtler instructors. The lesson is the same, though harder to learn, ignoring discomfort doesn’t make us stronger. It only delays the moment when listening becomes unavoidable.

Choosing Not To, or Being Unable To?

Golf has been part of my life for about twenty-five years. I enjoy it, though I’ll be the first to admit I’m not very good at it. and never will be, for a number of reasons.

One of those reasons is simple: I don’t spend enough time on it. I play once a week with friends, starting in May and wrapping up in September. When I first took up the game, many people offered to help me improve. At the beginning, I believed I could. I practiced. I paid attention. I worked at it.

After a few years, something became clear. Starting a new hobby at fifty-five meant I was never going to reach the level of proficiency of friends who had been golfing since their twenties. That wasn’t failure; it was reality.

At that point, I had a choice.

I could continue chasing improvement, measuring myself against standards I was unlikely to reach, or I could change my relationship with the game. I listened to my friends’ advice, adjusted my swing as best I could, but I stopped going to the driving range and the putting green to practice. I stopped keeping score.

Instead, I chose to play one hole at a time. I tracked the game, but I no longer judged it. I went out to enjoy the walk, the conversation, and the shared experience.

Something interesting happened.

I now golf with a group of friends, none of whom keep score anymore. We enjoy each other’s company and the game itself, but we never talk about numbers. Competitiveness quietly gave way to companionship. Once we made that decision, new doors opened. New friendships formed. And we still hold our heads high at the nineteenth hole.

This wasn’t giving up golf. It was choosing how to play it.

That distinction matters.

There’s a difference between being unable to do something and choosing not to do it the same way anymore. One strips you of agency; the other affirms it. Adaptive choices allow us to stay connected to what matters, even as circumstances change.

The friend I mentioned in the previous post is still wrestling with his decision to seek help. For someone who has always carried responsibility alone, allowing others in feels uncomfortable, even threatening. But I can already see the possibilities lining up; people ready to step forward, contribute, and share the load only when he’s ready to see that asking for help doesn’t close doors. It opens them.

Just as my golfing friends eventually faced their own limits. As their skills declined, they had to choose stop playing altogether or stop keeping score. They chose the latter, joined my team, and discovered a lot more joy than they expected.

Dignity isn’t found in doing everything ourselves. It’s found in deciding how we remain present, connected, and engaged. Choosing differently isn’t surrender. It’s often the clearest expression of agency we have.

When Acceptance Sounds Like Quitting

Over the years, I’ve known many hardworking, ambitious, generous people. The kind who step forward when others hesitate. Leaders who take on difficult issues, knowing full well that success isn’t guaranteed, but effort matters. They don’t always win, but they don’t walk away either.

Some of them, when they retired, simply shifted direction. New projects, new goals, fresh energy. Their sense of purpose didn’t fade; it found new outlets. Watching them, it would be easy to believe that momentum, once earned, is something you carry for life.

One of those people is a leader in our community and a friend of mine. For more than seventy years, his body had never really failed him. No long-term pain. No serious limits. Then, unexpectedly, his hip did. What followed was a slow and humbling lesson in waiting, frustration, and vulnerability.

A hip replacement doesn’t usually sound dramatic. You won’t die from it. But it can take away your mobility, your independence, and your patience. Our medical system is very good at responding to crisis. It’s less effective when the problem is ongoing pain that can technically be “managed.” His wait time for surgery was eighteen months.

Because he had the means, he chose another route. He went to Mexico, had the surgery, and stayed to recover. But something went wrong when he came home. After consultations with surgeons, he was told the operation would have to be redone.

That’s when he said something that stopped me.

“I have to find someone to replace me,” he said. “I can’t keep doing all the things I’ve been doing. I need help.”

On the surface, it sounded practical. Sensible. Necessary. But underneath it carried a heavy emotional weight. For someone who had always been capable, reliable, and driven, saying I can’t do this anymore felt dangerously close to saying I am done.

Acceptance often arrives like that. Not as relief, but as loss.

We use language with ourselves that quietly erases parts of who we believe we are. I don’t do that anymore. I’m not useful the way I was. It’s time to step aside. Each phrase sounds reasonable, even mature, but taken together they can shrink a life faster than any physical limitation.

In my friend’s case, acceptance wasn’t surrender; it was a shift in identity. His sense of invincibility was gone, replaced by something unfamiliar: dependence. He had never had to ask for help before. And yet, in doing so, something unexpected happened.

The people who worked with him had long hoped he would slow down. Not because they doubted him, but because they wanted to contribute more themselves. By accepting that he needed help to continue his mission, he didn’t abandon it. He made room for others to step forward, to grow, to show their strengths.

Acceptance, then, didn’t narrow his world. It changed its shape.

The danger isn’t acceptance itself. It’s confusing acceptance with erasure. Believing that letting go of how we do things means letting go of why we do them.

Sometimes wisdom sounds like quitting, until we listen more closely and realize it’s actually an invitation to continue, just not alone.

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.

Living the Third Act with Intention

 At a recent provincial Senior Summer Games, my brother had a humbling and inspiring experience. At over 75, he and his partner played in the doubles tennis event. They fought hard but came in second. The winners? A team made up of a 95-year-old and his 85-year-old partner.

That victory says something powerful about aging. Retirement is no longer a brief period of rest at the end of life. It’s an extended act, sometimes longer than school or early adulthood, which requires its own form of vision and preparation.

From Two Acts to Three

Traditionally, life was seen as two acts:

• Act One: Education and work preparation.
• Act Two: Career and family.
  Retirement was a short epilogue.

But now, retirement is a full third act. Thirty-plus years of living, learning, and creating new meaning. If we treat it as a passive stage, it can feel empty. But if we embrace it as an intentional act, it becomes a stage for reinvention.

Building the Third Act

So, how do we build this stage of life? The answer lies in balance:

• Physically, we need to stay strong, not just to avoid illness but to keep doing what we love, like playing tennis at 95.
• Emotionally, we need community and purpose. Without them, the years feel longer and lonelier.
• Financially, we must prepare for decades of living, not just a handful of years. That means smarter planning and ongoing adjustments.
• Creatively, we must cultivate joy. Whether through hobbies, travel, volunteering, or entrepreneurship, creativity gives life texture.

Inspiration in Action

My brother’s story is a reminder that older age doesn’t mean stepping off the court, literally or figuratively. The 95-year-old didn’t win because he defied aging; he won because he prepared for it. He adapted his life to stay strong, engaged, and ready.

That’s the challenge for all of us: not to deny aging, but to rethink what it means. Retirement is not an ending; it’s an opening.

Living with Intention

The third act gives us time, precious, powerful time. The question is: how will we use it? Will we drift into it unprepared, or will we step into it with intention, planning, and imagination?

The players at the Senior Summer Games showed what’s possible when we choose the latter. They remind us that we have more control than we think, and that retirement is not about slowing down but showing up.

If life is a play in three acts, retirement is no encore. It’s the act that ties the story together, the place where all our learning, resilience, and creativity come alive.

Embracing an Extended Lifespan with Pride

 The Changing Face of Aging: Living Longer, Living Fully

With life expectancy steadily increasing, retirement no longer marks the beginning of a slow wind-down. Today, seniors can anticipate decades of active, meaningful life ahead. Embracing this extended lifespan with intention, pride, and a positive mindset allows older adults to live fully, pursue passions, and create a legacy they can be proud of.

Jamal is a 78-year-old retired engineer who discovered his love of photography late in life. For years, he had devoted himself to work, family, and responsibilities, putting his own passions on hold. Retirement gave him the time and freedom to explore a world he had only observed through the lens of busyness. He joined a local photography club, traveled to new countries to capture landscapes, and now showcases his work in exhibitions that inspire younger and older audiences alike.

Jamal’s story demonstrates that longer life expectancy is not simply about adding years, it’s about adding richness and purpose to those years. Each decade beyond traditional retirement is an opportunity to explore, contribute, and reinvent oneself. Embracing this extended lifespan means recognizing that life after 65, 70, or 80 can be vibrant, exciting, and full of personal growth.

A positive mindset is central to this approach. Studies show that seniors who focus on strengths, engage in lifelong learning, and nurture social connections enjoy better physical and mental health. Rather than fearing age or lamenting time passed, embracing aging with pride allows seniors to approach each day with curiosity and joy. They pursue dreams deferred, strengthen communities, and inspire others by demonstrating what a fulfilling later life can look like.

Intentional living is also key. This means setting goals, building routines that nourish the body and mind, and prioritizing experiences that matter. For some, it may be volunteering, mentoring, or traveling. For others, it may be creative endeavors, fitness challenges, or starting a new business. The point is that a longer life is an invitation to continue shaping your story on your own terms.

Jamal’s photography is more than art, it’s a testament to the power of embracing life fully, regardless of age. He approaches each day with pride, curiosity, and determination, proving that extended life is not something to fear but something to celebrate.

The changing face of aging is about possibility. Seniors today are living longer, healthier, and more purposeful lives than ever before. By embracing each decade with intention, pride, and a positive mindset, older adults can create a life that is not just long, but deeply meaningful, inspiring, and joy-filled.

Aging is no longer a countdown, it’s a canvas. With vision, courage, and heart, every new chapter can be brighter than the last. The question is not how long we live, but how fully we embrace the time we have.

We’re Not Aging Like Our Grandparents

 The Changing Face of Aging: Stronger, Smarter, More Capable

When we think of aging, it’s natural to picture the generation before us, our grandparents, who often slowed down, faced chronic health issues, and retired from active social lives much earlier. But today’s seniors are redefining what it means to age. Advances in medicine, better nutrition, active lifestyles, and a shift in mindset mean more active, capable, and energetic seniors than ever before.

Take the story of Maria, a 72-year-old retired teacher. When she first retired, she didn’t want to be “the old lady in the rocking chair.” Instead, she signed up for a triathlon training program designed for older adults. At first, she struggled to keep up with the younger participants, but over time, she built stamina, strength, and confidence. She now competes in local races, travels with a cycling club, and even mentors others who want to adopt a more active lifestyle in retirement.

Maria’s story isn’t just about physical capability; it’s about mindset. She embodies the idea that aging doesn’t mean stepping back, it can mean stepping forward with intention and curiosity. Modern seniors are rewriting the narrative of aging by embracing opportunities that previous generations didn’t have. They’re learning new skills, pursuing hobbies that challenge the mind, and engaging in social activities that nourish the soul.

Medical advances play a critical role. Conditions that once limited independence—heart disease, arthritis, diabetes—are now managed more effectively, allowing seniors to remain mobile, active, and vibrant well into their later years. Preventive care, exercise programs tailored to older adults, and innovations in technology have created tools for maintaining health and vitality in ways unimaginable just a few decades ago.

Lifestyle choices also make a difference. Today’s seniors are more informed about nutrition, sleep, mental health, and the benefits of staying socially engaged. Many embrace lifelong learning, travel, and volunteer work, discovering purpose and joy at every age. With this combination of science, self-care, and curiosity, aging no longer looks like what it did for our grandparents, it looks like life in full color, with endless possibilities.

The changing face of aging is a story of empowerment. It’s about rejecting outdated stereotypes and embracing the idea that retirement and later life can be dynamic, purposeful, and exhilarating. Seniors like Maria show us that age is not a limitation—it’s a launchpad for continued growth, creativity, and contribution.

Aging isn’t a decline, it’s a transformation. With better health, more opportunities, and the courage to try new things, seniors today are living proof that life in your 70s, 80s, and beyond can be active, inspiring, and full of energy. The next generation of seniors isn’t just growing older, they’re growing stronger, brighter, and bolder than ever before

Retirement is Not an Ending, It’s Reinvention

Retirement is not a period of slowing down; it is a canvas for reinvention. Life after work gives us the rare chance to reshape our days, redefine ourselves, and explore who we can become when we are no longer defined solely by our jobs or routines.

Take the story of Robert, who retired from a decades-long career in accounting. Initially, he felt a sense of emptiness, unsure how to spend his time. But rather than letting retirement define him as someone “done,” he chose reinvention. He enrolled in a culinary program, started a small catering service for local events, and began sharing his love of cooking with neighbors. Through reinvention, Robert discovered not only a new passion but also a vibrant sense of purpose and community connection.

Reinvention can take many forms. Perhaps you are called to volunteer for causes you’ve long admired, explore hobbies that spark curiosity, or pursue a lifelong dream postponed by the demands of work and family. Retirement allows you to step outside old patterns and reimagine the possibilities. Like a sculptor facing a blank block of marble, you hold the power to create something entirely new.

This process isn’t just about trying something different, it’s about embracing growth, curiosity, and courage. Reinvention means giving yourself permission to experiment, to stumble, and to rise again in ways you hadn’t anticipated. It’s about asking, “Who do I want to be in this next chapter?” and daring to find the answer.

The magic of retirement lies in its flexibility. You can blend old passions with new pursuits, travel to far-off places, learn new skills, or cultivate relationships that enrich your soul. Each day becomes an opportunity to try something unfamiliar, to expand your horizons, and to build a version of yourself you might not have met before.

With longer life expectancies, retirement is less about winding down and more about expanding your possibilities. It is a stage to harness the wisdom and experience of the past while stepping boldly into uncharted territory. Reinvention isn’t a one-time act, it’s a mindset, a commitment to continual growth and self-discovery.

Retirement is a second act, a reinvention of the self, a chance to write the story you’ve always imagined. It’s not about endings; it’s about evolution. Like an author facing a blank page, you hold the pen. Your next chapter is unwritten, and every choice is an opportunity to create something remarkable.

Retirement is Not an Ending, It’s a Launchpad

Retirement isn’t the final stop, it’s the launchpad to a sky full of new possibilities. Imagine standing at the edge of a platform, the ground behind you familiar, comfortable, but the horizon ahead brimming with potential. This is the moment to chart new courses, discover passions you never had time for, forge friendships, and set out on adventures that enrich and redefine your days.

Consider the story of Elaine, a retired nurse who spent decades caring for others. At first, retirement felt like a gentle descent into quiet days, but soon she realized it could be her liftoff. She dusted off her neglected love for painting, joined a local art collective, and even organized a community exhibit. What began as a personal hobby transformed into a vibrant social network and a creative career she never imagined. Retirement became her launchpad, propelling her into a new orbit of possibility.

Retirement offers the rare freedom to experiment. Perhaps you’ve always dreamed of writing a memoir, learning a musical instrument, or taking a long journey to a place you’ve only read about. The beauty of a launchpad is that it gives you the tools—and the momentum—to try, to fail, and to succeed on your own terms. Unlike the constraints of a work schedule, this stage of life allows you to follow curiosity wherever it leads.

Even the small steps can feel like liftoff. Joining a volunteer program, signing up for a dance class, or even traveling to a new city can launch you into experiences that expand your world. Each choice becomes fuel for growth, each friendship a boost of energy, each adventure a spark that illuminates your path.

With life expectancy stretching well into our 90s, retirement is no longer a brief pause before the final chapters. It’s a sustained period for exploration, discovery, and reinvention. You can set goals, chase dreams, and embrace challenges you never thought possible. Just like astronauts preparing for lift-off, you gather your tools, chart your course, and take a leap into the unknown. And the thrill of that launch? Priceless.

Retirement is not a retreat from life—it’s an opportunity to soar. Step onto your launchpad. Look to the horizon. Your new adventure is waiting, and the sky is vast. Every sunrise offers a chance to ignite new passions, explore hidden talents, and rediscover the joy of living fully. Retirement is your takeoff. Are you ready to launch?

Growing Old with Curiosity, Wonder, and Laughter

As I move toward my 80th year, one thing stands out: curiosity and wonder have never left me. They were my companions in youth and remain so now. Even as life narrows in some ways, curiosity keeps the mind wide open. Wonder allows me to look at the world , no matter how familiar , with fresh eyes.

What comforts me most about growing old gracefully is discovering the power of laughter. There’s a big difference between the laughter of a sage and that of a preacher. The sage laughs deeply, with joy in the belly. The preacher, when he laughs at all, does so stiffly, from the corner of the mouth. If aging has taught me anything, it’s that a good laugh is both wisdom and medicine.

My ideals have shifted too. In youth, I had causes, convictions, even ideologies I tried to pass along to others. I wanted to persuade, to convert, to fix. Now, I no longer feel that urge. I don’t need to convince anyone. I don’t feel superior because others see the world differently. With age, I’ve learned that life is too vast, too mysterious, to be squeezed into neat categories of “isms” or principles. These days, my ideal is freedom , freedom from ideals themselves.

That doesn’t mean apathy. It means acceptance. Life is the ocean we swim in; we can’t control its currents, but we can learn to move with them. Some days are calm, others stormy, but the sea itself is still beautiful. And while we may not change human foolishness, one can fight evil, but stupidity often wins the day , we can choose not to let it sour our spirits.

When I look back, I see moments of tragedy, foolishness, and disappointment, but I also see resilience. I’ve learned that the person who takes themselves too seriously is setting themselves up for misery. Humor, humility, and perspective are far lighter companions.

In the end, life itself is not the problem. It is the gift, the ocean in which we swim. The real challenge is to live without polluting those waters, without dimming the spirit that animates us. For a creative person, perhaps the hardest task is simply to stop trying to remake the world in their image, and instead, to embrace people as they are , good, bad, or indifferent.

So, as I step into 80, I carry with me curiosity, wonder, laughter, and acceptance. They are lighter than ideals, stronger than certainty, and far more joyful to share. And maybe that’s what makes this milestone something to celebrate after all.

To my children and grandchildren: if you take one lesson from me, let it be this , never lose your sense of curiosity or your sense of wonder. They’ll serve you better than any rulebook or ideology. And laugh, often and deeply. Life is never perfect, but it is always precious. May you find joy in it every single day, at whatever age you find yourself.

Post One: Turning 80 – A Milestone or Just Another Year?

Next year I’ll be turning 80, as will many of my close friends. It’s a milestone that gives me pause , not because I feel “old,” but because it feels like the right moment to look back, look around, and look forward. Over the next two posts, I’d like to share some reflections on reaching 80 , thoughts for my friends who are walking this path with me, and for my children and grandchildren who are still writing the earlier chapters of their lives.

“Find something more important than you are,” philosopher Dan Dennett once advised, “and dedicate your life to it.” That’s solid advice for the young , but it’s also a compass for those of us reaching the later chapters of life.

Next year, I’ll be turning 80, as will many of my close friends. It’s a number that can feel like both a milestone and just another birthday, depending on how you look at it. Henry Miller, the writer, put it beautifully in his essays on turning 80. He suggested that if, at eighty, you can still walk with ease, enjoy a hearty meal, sleep without pills, and find joy in birdsong, flowers, mountains, and seas, then you are truly fortunate. That kind of gratitude, he said, should move you to your knees morning and night.

I’ve found that to be true. Aging doesn’t take away wonder; if anything, it sharpens it. When I spend time with friends my age who remain lively, curious, and creative, I’m struck by how young they still are in spirit. By contrast, I sometimes notice that the truly “old” people aren’t necessarily the ones with gray hair , they’re the middle-aged folks stuck in their routines, afraid of change, and retreating into their mental bomb shelters.

Another realization that’s come with time: people don’t really change in their basic character. Success doesn’t transform us; it often magnifies our faults. The clever classmates of our youth aren’t always as impressive once life tests them. The people we clashed with back then are often the same people we still struggle with, no matter what title they’ve acquired. Life can teach lessons, yes, but growth is never guaranteed.

One of the humbling parts of getting older is watching our children and grandchildren make the same mistakes we once did. We see them stumble, sometimes painfully, and recognize the echoes of our own past missteps. And yet, that reflection softens us. In their struggles, we’re reminded of the foolishness we carried in our younger days , and maybe still do in some form.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I find myself far more cheerful at 80 than I ever was at 20 or 30. I wouldn’t trade places with my teenage self for anything. Youth may be glorious, but it can also be exhausting and uncertain. For me, real vitality didn’t arrive until my forties, when I was finally ready to embrace it. Picasso once joked that “one starts to get young at the age of sixty, and then it’s too late.” I’d say my sixties and seventies were full of joy, curiosity, and a sense of renewal. And as I approach 80, that curiosity and wonder remain intact.

Perhaps that’s the secret: to stay curious, to find beauty, and to keep laughing. Because if there’s one gift of age, it’s learning not to take life , or yourself , too seriously.

To my friends who are sharing this journey with me: I raise a toast to us all. We’ve seen so much, learned so much, and still have the curiosity and humor to keep going. May our 80th year be full of laughter, adventure, and the joy of discovering that the best parts of life don’t have an expiration date.

The Adventure of a Life Fully Lived

By now, I hope I have helped you as we explored the essential principles of embracing later life: accepting the inevitability of aging, recognizing it as a privilege, cultivating the qualities that make life meaningful, holding yourself with dignity and openness, and pursuing passions that connect you to the world.

The later chapters of life offer something unique: freedom from the pressures of youth, the clarity to focus on what matters most, and the opportunity to leave a lasting legacy of love, wisdom, and generosity. These years can be the most rewarding adventure, not despite age, but because of it.

My hope is that your take the lessons, stories, and reflections I have discussed as an invitation: stand tall, open your heart, engage with curiosity, and pursue what makes you feel alive. The privilege of aging is not simply to live longer, but to live richer, fuller, and more meaningfully. Every day you are given is a chance to write a chapter that matters, for yourself and for everyone whose life you touch.

Aging is not the end. It is the triumph of a life well-lived.

The Triumph of a Life Fully Lived

Aging is often framed as a slow decline, a gradual loss of strength and relevance. But this is only one perspective, and it is far from the whole truth. In reality, the process of aging is not just about adding years; it is about deepening life. Each decade we live offers the opportunity to cultivate wisdom, nurture relationships, and explore parts of ourselves that youth often leaves untouched. The later chapters of life can be filled with joy, contribution, and love, but only if we choose to engage with them fully.

Consider the story of Eleanor, a woman I met in her late eighties. She had been widowed for more than a decade, and like many, she initially worried that life’s richness had passed her by. Yet Eleanor decided to embrace the years she had left with intention. She joined a local storytelling circle, began painting again after a fifty-year hiatus, and volunteered at a nearby school to read to children. In her own words, she felt more alive at 85 than she ever had in her forties. What changed? Eleanor chose to engage with life rather than withdraw from it. She found meaning in connection, creativity, and contribution, the hallmarks of a life fully lived.

The first step in making the most of later life is accepting that we cannot control time. Our bodies change, friends and loved ones may leave us, and some dreams will remain unfinished. These realities are inevitable. But while we cannot slow the passage of years, we can control how we meet them. We can choose to approach each day with intention rather than resignation.

This choice manifests in many ways. We can cultivate beauty that comes from within, a warmth, kindness, or grace that does not fade with age. Unlike youth, when beauty is often measured by appearances and vitality, this inner beauty is crafted from decades of experience, insight, and empathy. Each kind word spoken, each moment of generosity, and each act of patience adds depth and radiance to our presence.

We can hold our hearts gently each morning, acknowledging our vulnerabilities while protecting our capacity for love and joy. Aging may bring losses and disappointments, but it does not have to harden us. Instead, it can refine us, allowing us to embrace forgiveness, both for ourselves and for others. Forgiveness lightens the heart and frees us to engage fully with life’s remaining chapters.

We can remain passionate, finding pursuits that keep us connected to the world and to others. Passion in later life may look different than in youth; it may no longer demand physical feats or professional accolades. Instead, it may be the pursuit of art, mentorship, volunteering, or simply nurturing meaningful relationships. The key is that it keeps our minds alert, our hearts open, and our lives intertwined with those around us. Passion, after all, is one of the greatest indicators of vitality, regardless of age.

Aging is not the end of the story. On the contrary, it is the beginning of a chapter where the pressures of youth, the striving for approval, the urgency of ambition, the anxiety of comparison, gradually fall away. Freed from these constraints, we can begin to live more authentically. We are able to focus on what truly matters: connection, creativity, joy, and contribution. In these later years, our essence, the core of who we are, has a chance to shine more clearly than ever before.

Consider Harold, a man in his late seventies who once worked relentlessly in a high-pressure corporate job. Retirement initially felt like a void, and he worried that his life’s meaning had been tied only to work. But Harold began volunteering at a community garden, teaching local children about plants and sustainability. He found a new rhythm, a new joy, and a new sense of purpose. The triumph of his life was not defined by promotions or paychecks but by the meaningful connections he built and the knowledge he shared. This is the kind of triumph that aging allows, one rooted in engagement, generosity, and presence.

Growing older also gives us a unique perspective on time itself. We begin to appreciate moments that once seemed ordinary: a quiet morning, a shared meal, a conversation with a friend. The richness of life is no longer measured in milestones or accomplishments alone but in these small, profound experiences that make each day meaningful. The longer we live, the more we can savor these moments, the more we can recognize the beauty woven into ordinary life.

Ultimately, the triumph of a life fully lived comes from embracing the entirety of our experiences, joys and sorrows alike, and allowing them to inform how we show up in the world today. Courage, curiosity, and compassion become our guiding principles. Courage allows us to face the realities of aging with grace rather than fear. Curiosity keeps our minds active and open, inviting new experiences and insights. Compassion allows us to connect deeply with others, leaving a lasting impact that extends beyond ourselves.

To grow old is a privilege, and to live that age with engagement, purpose, and joy is the ultimate achievement. By choosing to embrace each day, to cultivate inner beauty, to forgive, and to pursue passions that connect us to life and others, we transform aging from a process to dread into an adventure to savor. These later chapters, rich with experience and perspective, offer the possibility of a life that is not just longer but deeper, more meaningful, and profoundly fulfilling.

Aging is not the final act; it is the stage where the fullness of a life well-lived comes into focus. The pressures of youth may fade, but the rewards of wisdom, connection, and contribution are abundant. Those who embrace this stage with courage and intention discover that growing older can be the most rewarding adventure of all.

Pursuing Meaning with Passion

 They say you know you’re getting older when your back goes out more than you do.

I hope you laughed, not everyone gets the gift of growing old. Yet in the rush of everyday life, we sometimes forget this simple truth.

I’m reminded of a man I met years ago at a community gathering. He was in his early eighties, sharp as ever, with a warm smile that drew people in. Over coffee, he told me about his younger brother, full of life, talented, and adventurous, who passed away in his thirties. “Every birthday I’ve had since then,” he said quietly, “has been a gift my brother never got. I’ve tried to live enough life for both of us.”

That conversation stayed with me. It made me realize that every wrinkle, every laugh line, every year we add is a sign that we’re still here, still living, still loving, still learning.

We may not run as fast as we once did, and our reflection may surprise us now and then, but these changes are not losses, they’re reminders of time’s generosity.

So today, let’s remember aging isn’t something to fear or hide from. It’s a privilege denied to many. The years we carry are not a burden, but a badge of honour for a life still unfolding.

Live it fully. Wear your age proudly. It’s proof you’re one of the lucky ones.

My friend Larry proved this at the grocery store. He was leaning on his cart, surveying the cookie aisle like a general plotting a military campaign. A young clerk wandered over and asked, “Sir, can I help you find something?”

Without missing a beat, Harold said, “Yes. The Oreos. And my twenties. If you see them, let me know.”

The kid laughed, but Harold just smiled. “I’m 80,” he said. “Every wrinkle, every gray hair, every little ache—those are souvenirs from a life I’m lucky to still be living. You learn after a while that it’s not the years that matter, it’s what you do with them.”

That’s the real secret: life doesn’t lose its flavor with age, it just asks you to season it differently. Pursuing meaning with passion isn’t reserved for the young. In fact, the longer you’ve lived, the more you know exactly what matters.

Passion at 25 might look like climbing mountains or chasing promotions. Passion at 70 might mean mentoring someone, traveling to places you’ve always dreamed of, volunteering for a cause close to your heart, or simply making time to watch the sunrise with someone you love.

The point isn’t to move faster, it’s to move with purpose. To throw yourself into the things that light you up inside.

So, buy the cookies. Tell the stories. Wear the wrinkles with pride. Every year you’re given is another chance to live with meaning, laugh out loud, and love fiercely. Growing older isn’t losing your youth, it’s winning the time to savor what truly matters.

To grow old is a privilege, not a burden. Each wrinkle is a chapter, each gray hair a thread in the tapestry of a life lived fully. And the greatest gift we can give ourselves in these years is not simply to live longer, but to live with purpose and joy.

I once knew a man who, at 78, began volunteering at a local animal shelter. He had never owned a pet in his life, yet every morning he showed up, feeding, cleaning, and sitting quietly with animals that needed comfort. “They give me more than I give them,” he told me, his eyes shining. “This is the most alive I’ve felt in decades.”

Meaning doesn’t come from chasing youth, it comes from chasing what matters to you. Whether it’s painting, mentoring, gardening, or helping others, passion fuels the spirit, and the spirit keeps the body moving.

Life isn’t winding down; it’s opening up to new chapters. Your purpose may shift, your passions may evolve, but the privilege of growing old gives you the wisdom, freedom, and courage to embrace them fully.

So, ask yourself, not “How much time do I have left?”, but “What will I do with the time I have?”

The Way We Hold Ourselves

A few winters ago, I met a man named Daniel at a community center gathering. He was 84, tall, and walked with a cane. His steps were slow, but his presence filled the room. He greeted everyone with the same warmth, whether they were an old friend or a stranger passing by.

During our conversation, I learned that Daniel had survived the loss of his wife, two serious illnesses, and the closure of the business he’d run for decades. Yet he spoke not of regret, but of gratitude, for his children, for the small apartment where he lived, for the friends who still called to check in.

When I asked him how he managed to stay so upbeat despite the hardships, he paused, smiled, and said, “I decided a long time ago that I’d carry my life like a basket of bread, not a sack of stones. Same weight maybe, but one feeds me, and the other just wears me down.”

His words have stayed with me because they capture the essence of aging well: the way we hold ourselves matters more than the weight we carry.

Life will bring challenges, no matter our age. Health changes, financial adjustments, and losses are part of the human journey. We can’t always choose our circumstances, but we can choose the posture we take toward them.

Some people carry their years as a heavy burden, shoulders hunched, eyes on the ground, focused only on what has been lost. Others carry them with a quiet dignity, a light in their eyes, and a readiness to keep showing up for life. The difference lies in attitude.

When we hold ourselves with openness, we invite connection. When we hold ourselves with curiosity, we invite learning. When we hold ourselves with gratitude, we invite joy, even in difficult seasons.

Aging well is not just about physical posture, though that plays a role. It’s also about the position of the heart. Are we carrying our hearts in a way that keeps them open to love, forgiveness, and new experiences? Or have we let disappointment harden them?

A poet once said, “Each morning, take your heart in your two hands.” That is a daily choice, to protect our joy, to guard against bitterness, and to keep our hearts light enough to lift when needed.

It’s surprisingly easy to slip into negativity as the years go by. Little complaints become daily companions, and soon the world looks smaller, grayer, less inviting. But negativity, left unchecked, becomes a habit, and habits can be changed.

Start noticing the language you use about aging. Are you constantly talking about what you “can’t” do anymore? Try shifting toward what you can do, and what you still enjoy. This doesn’t mean ignoring difficulties, but it does mean refusing to let them define you.

The way we physically hold ourselves affects how we feel emotionally, and vice versa. Standing tall, taking a deep breath, looking someone in the eye, these actions send signals to the brain that we are capable and engaged.

Simple daily habits can reinforce this:

• Walk with your head up and shoulders back.
• Make eye contact when speaking to others.
• Smile, even if only slightly; it softens both you and the person you’re speaking with.

These are not tricks, they’re reminders that our bodies and minds are connected. How we hold one affects the other.

Holding yourself well in later life is not about pretending everything is fine. It’s about meeting reality with resilience.

Resilience doesn’t mean avoiding sadness or disappointment; it means moving through them without losing sight of the good. When Daniel lost his wife, he told me there were days he didn’t want to get out of bed. But each morning, he made himself stand up, put on decent clothes, and walk to the corner café. That small act, holding himself as someone who still belonged to the living, kept him from disappearing into grief.

Practical Ways to Hold Yourself Well

1. Set the Tone Each Morning
   Before you get busy, pause to ask: What kind of person do I want to be today? Let that intention shape your posture, words, and choices.
2. Stay Connected
   Isolation can make us close in on ourselves. Keep a rhythm of connection with family, friends, or community activities.
3. Practice Gratitude Aloud
   Say thank you, to people, for moments, for simple pleasures. Speaking gratitude out loud reinforces it internally.
4. Engage Your Senses
   Notice the warmth of your coffee mug, the sound of a bird outside, the scent of fresh bread. These small moments can lift the heart.
5. Choose Bread Over Stones
   When faced with a hardship, ask: Can I carry this in a way that nourishes me, rather than weighs me down? Sometimes that means seeking help, sometimes reframing the story you tell yourself.

The way we hold ourselves doesn’t just affect our own lives, it leaves a mark on others. Younger generations notice whether older adults are bitter or gracious, closed-off or welcoming. They will remember your presence more than your advice.

Daniel’s children and grandchildren will never forget his basket-of-bread wisdom. Not because it was poetic, though it was, but because they saw him live it. His posture toward life fed not only himself but everyone around him.

We can’t choose every weight life gives us, but we can choose how to carry it. The way we hold ourselves, in body, mind, and heart, shapes how we experience aging and how others experience us.

Walk tall, keep your heart open, and carry your life like a basket of bread. Let it nourish you. Let it nourish those around you. Because in the end, it’s not the years that define us, but the way we’ve carried them.

Becoming a Person Worthy of Old Age

 When you are young, life feels endless. Years stretch ahead like an open road, and it’s easy to believe there will always be time, time to fix mistakes, to deepen relationships, to follow dreams. But as we grow older, we begin to see time differently. The road behind us is longer than the road ahead, and the question shifts from “How much time do I have?” to “What kind of person have I become?”

It’s a question worth asking, and answering honestly. Because the truth is, old age in itself is not necessarily an achievement. We can grow older without growing wiser, kinder, or more open to life. But to become someone worthy of old age, someone whose years have been used well, that is a triumph.

A few years ago, I met Margaret, a woman who was celebrating her 90th birthday. The gathering was full of laughter, music, and stories. At one point, a younger guest asked her the inevitable question: “What’s your secret to a long, happy life?”

Margaret smiled and said, “Oh, I don’t have a secret. I just decided early on that I’d rather wear out than rust out.”

She went on to explain that she never let her heart grow small. She kept learning, even when it was uncomfortable. She forgave people who hurt her, not because they deserved it, but because she deserved peace. She let herself fall in love with things over and over again: painting at 50, gardening at 70, photography at 82.

Margaret was living proof that the beauty of later life is less about avoiding wrinkles and more about cultivating qualities that make your presence a gift to others.

When we are young, beauty often comes unearned, a side effect of fresh skin and quick reflexes. But in later life, beauty is crafted. It is shaped by the way you treat others, the way you meet challenges, and the way you carry yourself through disappointment and joy.

Becoming a person worthy of old age means developing qualities that time can’t erode:

• Kindness that sees beyond the surface.
• Curiosity that refuses to fade.
• Resilience that grows stronger with every setback.
• Forgiveness that makes space for peace.

These qualities don’t appear automatically with age, they must be nurtured, often in the face of life’s hardest moments.

One well-known author, reflecting on his eightieth birthday, said the greatest victory of aging was retaining the ability to fall in love, not necessarily with people, but with the world itself. It could be falling in love with a new piece of music, a sunrise, a hobby, or the laughter of friends.

When you allow yourself to be delighted by life, you keep your spirit from closing off. You remain open to joy, even when things are not perfect.

Another poet once offered a piece of advice on the art of growing older: “When you wake in the morning, take your heart in your two hands.”

It’s a reminder that we must guard the qualities that make life worth living. That means refusing to become cynical, refusing to stop learning, and refusing to let life’s hardships harden us beyond recognition. Every day is a chance to start again, not from scratch, but from experience.

There are certain traps that age can set for us if we’re not careful:

• Bitterness over what we’ve lost.
• Cynicism about the future.
• Isolation that comes from withdrawing instead of reaching out.

Becoming a person worthy of old age means resisting these traps. It means choosing connection over withdrawal, hope over resignation, and gratitude over complaint.

One of the privileges of later life is influence. Whether you realize it or not, younger people are watching, not just family members, but neighbours, community members, even strangers. They notice how you carry yourself, how you respond to difficulties, how you treat others.

Your way of being can inspire others to see aging differently. Imagine the ripple effect of showing that later years can be vibrant, generous, and joyful. This is not about pretending everything is perfect; it’s about demonstrating that a well-lived life is not defined by the absence of hardship, but by the presence of grace.

If you want to become a person worthy of old age, you can start at any point, whether you’re 60, 80, or beyond. Here are some ways to begin:

1. Stay Open to New Passions
   Try something new every year. It doesn’t have to be grand, even learning a few words in another language can reignite curiosity.
2. Practice Generosity
   Give your time, your attention, your skills. Generosity keeps you engaged with life and connected to others.
3. Let Go of Grudges
   Forgiveness is not about forgetting the hurt; it’s about refusing to let it control your present.
4. Be Curious About Others
   Ask questions. Listen to stories. The more you engage with others, the more you learn, and the more interesting you become.
5. Nurture Joy
   Find small daily rituals that make you smile, music, a walk, a hobby, or a conversation with a friend.

Old age will come whether we are ready or not. But the quality of that age is not set in stone. We can become sour and closed-off, or we can become vibrant and open-hearted.

Margaret’s example still lingers in my mind. At 90, she was not just living, she was alive in the truest sense. She had become someone worthy of the years she’d been given.

And that’s the invitation for all of us: not just to grow old, but to grow into someone whose life, and presence, is a gift to others.

To Grow Old Is a Privilege

It’s easy to forget, in the day-to-day flow of life, that reaching older age is not guaranteed. We speak of getting older as if it were something everyone will do, but the truth is, millions never have the chance. Illness, war, accidents, and circumstances beyond anyone’s control have claimed lives far earlier than anyone expected.

If you have lived long enough to read these words as an older adult, you have already received a gift that many never open: the gift of time. And not just more time, but time with a mind shaped by decades of experience, with relationships that have weathered storms, with a story that’s still unfolding.

For most of human history, old age was rare.

Before modern medicine, clean water, reliable food supplies, and vaccines, average life expectancy was short, often under 40 years. Those who reached what we now call “senior years” were exceptions, not the rule. They were the ones who carried the memories of the community, the wisdom of survival, the stories that connected generations.

Today, in much of the world, people live decades longer than their ancestors. That means more time to see children grow up, more time to repair relationships, more time to learn, travel, contribute, and love. If we can hold that truth in our minds, aging stops being a burden and becomes a remarkable privilege.

We often measure wealth in terms of money or possessions. But there is another kind of wealth that comes only with age: the wealth of lived experience.

Think about it: you have likely survived moments you thought you wouldn’t. You’ve adapted to changes you never imagined you could. You’ve made choices, some wise, some regrettable, and learned from both. You’ve laughed, cried, celebrated, grieved, and carried on. These are not small achievements; they are the treasures of a long life.

Younger people may have physical energy on their side, but they do not yet have the perspective that comes from decades of living. The ability to look at a challenge and think, “I’ve faced hard things before, and I know I can again”, that is a strength built only over time.

Growing older means you’ve had the privilege of witnessing the world change, sometimes in breathtaking ways. You’ve seen technologies emerge that once belonged only in science fiction. You’ve watched social movements shift the course of history. You’ve seen fashions, music, and ideas rise, fade, and return again.

You have likely witnessed personal miracles, too: a child taking their first steps, a friend overcoming illness, a loved one achieving a dream. Longevity allows us to see the long arc of life, with all its twists, turns, and unexpected joys.

In younger years, life often feels like a sprint, building careers, raising families, paying bills, juggling responsibilities. Aging offers a different pace. If we are willing to embrace it, it can offer a chance to focus on what truly matters.

This is one of the most overlooked privileges of aging: the freedom to choose.

• You can choose how to spend your days.
• You can choose which relationships to nurture.
• You can choose which battles are worth fighting, and which are better left alone.

You may no longer have the energy or desire for constant busyness, but you have the wisdom to know that not everything is worth your time. That clarity is a gift that comes only after years of living and learning.

It is easy to slip into the habit of noticing what aging takes away, perhaps a bit of stamina, a bit of flexibility, or a bit of quick recall. But gratitude shifts the focus toward what remains and what has grown richer with time.

Try starting each day by naming three privileges your age has given you. They might be:

• The ability to tell a story that helps someone younger understand life.
• The patience to sit quietly and truly enjoy a sunset.
• The joy of watching generations of your family interact.

When we frame aging as a privilege rather than a problem, our daily experience changes. Gratitude softens resentment and opens the door to joy.

Like all privileges, growing older comes with responsibility. You have knowledge that others need. You have perspective that can guide. You have the ability to mentor, encourage, and inspire.

One of the most powerful ways to honour the privilege of aging is to invest in the generations that follow. Share your skills. Tell your stories. Offer your presence when someone feels alone. These acts keep your life vibrant while ensuring that your experiences continue to shape the world after you’re gone.

Every season of life has its beauty. Childhood holds wonder. Young adulthood holds energy. Midlife holds ambition. Later life holds perspective, gratitude, and the chance to focus on meaning over speed.

There is no point in wishing for another season once it has passed, just as there is no point in wishing autumn leaves would stay green. The beauty of life is in the change. When we learn to love the season, we’re in, we live more fully, with less regret and more contentment.

To grow old is not to decline; it is to carry forward. You carry the memories of the people you’ve loved, the lessons you’ve learned, the challenges you’ve met, and the joys you’ve embraced.

It is a privilege to have lived long enough to look back and see how far you’ve come, and to still have time to look ahead with curiosity and hope.

The years you have are not something to hide or apologize for. They are your credentials, your history, and your story. Wear them with pride. Live them with gratitude. And remember: every day you wake up is another day to enjoy the extraordinary gift of growing older.