“Not a Good Fit”: Ageism at Work and the Myth of the Ideal Employee

 It often starts with a phrase that sounds harmless enough.

“Not a good fit.”
“Looking for new energy.”
“Time to bring in fresh ideas.”

These words rarely appear in policy manuals, but they echo through workplaces every day. They’re heard in job postings, performance reviews, and hallway conversations. And for many older workers, they signal the beginning of a slow, quiet exit.

In today’s workplaces, ageism rarely announces itself openly. Instead, it shows up through practices sometimes called quiet firing or silent layoffs, strategies which nudge older employees toward resignation without the organization having to say the uncomfortable part out loud.

Sam knows this pattern well.

For years, Sam had been a model employee. Strong evaluations. Reliable performance. Deep knowledge of the organization and its people. Then, in his late fifties, something shifted. His annual review was mostly positive, but this time it included several pointed criticisms about “choices” he was making. Nothing dramatic. Nothing specific enough to respond to easily.

The message wasn’t written down, but it was clear: do better, or else.

After years of positive feedback, the possibility of being placed on a Performance Improvement Plan suddenly hovered in the background. These plans are often framed as supportive, but many older workers recognize them for what they can become: unrealistic expectations, vague goals, and insufficient support, designed less to improve performance and more to create a paper trail.

Sam hadn’t changed. The workplace had.

Then there’s Terry.

Terry works in a competitive industry that prides itself on innovation and continuous learning. On paper, the company does everything right. Training opportunities are encouraged. Professional development is funded. Staying current is valued.

But Terry noticed something over time. She was being overlooked.

Younger colleagues with less experience were offered training, mentorship, and advancement opportunities. Terry, despite her track record and institutional knowledge, was quietly bypassed. No one told her she wasn’t eligible. She simply wasn’t considered.

This kind of exclusion is subtle, but its impact is profound. When development opportunities flow toward youth by default, experience is treated as a finished product rather than an evolving asset.

I saw echoes of this when I was still working. I heard younger managers talk about the need for “new blood” and “fresh ideas.” I was asked more than once about my retirement plans, often framed as casual curiosity rather than pressure.

I didn’t ignore those comments. I responded.

I pointed out the contributions older workers were making every day. I reminded them that when experienced employees leave, they don’t just take a job opening with them; they take relationships, context, and collective memory. They take lessons learned the hard way. They take the ability to see patterns others haven’t lived long enough to recognize.

This is where the concept of crystallized intelligence matters.

Crystallized intelligence refers to the knowledge, skills, and judgment accumulated over time. It includes emotional regulation, problem-solving in complex situations, and the ability to navigate organizational dynamics with nuance. It’s not a consolation prize for declining speed. It’s a competitive advantage.

Yet many organizations undervalue it because it doesn’t fit the myth of the ideal employee, fast, endlessly adaptable, and unburdened by history. In chasing that myth, workplaces lose balance. Teams become reactive rather than thoughtful. Mistakes repeat. Mentorship disappears.

Ageism at work harms individuals, but it also damages organizations. Quiet firing erodes trust. Overlooking experienced workers weakens succession planning. And pushing people out prematurely creates instability that no amount of “fresh ideas” can fix.

The tragedy is that most of this happens without open conversation. Older workers are left to interpret signals, manage anxiety, and decide whether to fight or leave. Many choose to go quietly, convinced it’s better than being labeled resistant or obsolete.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

Workplaces that thrive across generations recognize that learning flows both directions. They invest in development at every stage of a career. They value experience not as a relic, but as a resource. They ask older workers what they want next instead of assuming they’re winding down.

Ageism at work isn’t always about forcing people out. Often, it’s about failing to imagine them staying in meaningful ways.

And when organizations do that, everyone loses, not just the people shown the door, but the culture left behind when experience walks out with it.

Missed Signals and Missed Care: Ageism Inside the Health System

In Canada, it has become almost routine to begin any conversation about healthcare with the same phrase: the system is in crisis. Emergency rooms are crowded. Family doctors are hard to find. Nurses and physicians are stretched thin. Everyone knows someone who has waited too long or felt rushed through an appointment.

That reality is undeniable. But it has also created a dangerous permission slip, one that allows poor treatment of seniors, minorities, and other vulnerable people to be excused rather than questioned. Being overwhelmed should never mean being dismissive. Yet for many older adults, that is exactly how care feels.

I experienced this firsthand after having my knee replaced.

The surgery itself went well, but shortly afterward, I fell and was given medication for pain. I had a bad reaction to the drug. Concerned, I was moved to another hospital where staff could keep a closer eye on me. Warnings were passed along. My wife was clear about what had happened and for what to watch.

Still, while I was in a drug-induced delirium, I fell again.

The warning signs were there. The information had been shared. But it wasn’t fully heard. Whether it was time pressure, assumptions about aging, or a belief that confusion was simply “normal at my age,” the result was the same. Dismissal led to harm.

This is how ageism operates inside systems, not through cruelty, but through assumptions. Older patients are often seen as fragile, confused, or inevitably declining. Symptoms are brushed off as part of aging rather than signals requiring attention. Pain is normalized. Confusion is expected. Complexity is simplified away.

Sometimes this leads to under-treatment. Symptoms are minimized. Diagnostic testing is delayed or never ordered. Opportunities for early intervention are missed.

Other times it leads to over-treatment. Psychotropic medications are prescribed too quickly. Sedation becomes a shortcut. Behaviour is managed chemically rather than understood contextually. Especially in long-term care, this can strip people of clarity, mobility, and independence.

A friend of mine has lived with chronic pain for more than seven years. She has seen multiple doctors, told her story countless times, and left more than one appointment feeling unheard. Eventually, she found a physician who did something remarkably simple: listened.

This doctor took her pain seriously. Ordered tests. Asked follow-up questions. Acknowledged uncertainty rather than dismissing it. For the first time in years, my friend feels there may be a path forward.

She told me something that has stayed with me. “Some of them didn’t hear my story,” she said. “They only saw a woman of a certain age.”

That sentence captures the quiet harm of medical ageism perfectly.

When clinicians see age before a person, they stop listening fully. When they assume decline, they stop investigating. And when people sense they aren’t being heard, they begin to doubt themselves. They downplay symptoms. They stop advocating. They accept discomfort as inevitable.

This doesn’t only affect health outcomes. It affects trust.

And yet, this is not a story about villains and victims. Many healthcare professionals are deeply committed, compassionate, and frustrated by the same system their patients struggle with. I’ve seen nurses who insist on slowing down, doctors who ask one more question, therapists who treat older patients as partners rather than problems to manage.

These are the bright spots, and they matter.

What distinguishes them isn’t extra time or special resources. It’s a mindset. A refusal to let age become a diagnostic shortcut. A willingness to stay curious. A belief that older adults are reliable narrators of their own experience.

Systems can reinforce ageism, but they can also interrupt it. When hospitals build processes that encourage shared decision-making, when staff are trained to recognize unconscious bias, and when older patients and caregivers are treated as credible sources of information, care improves. Not just emotionally, but clinically.

The healthcare system may be under strain, but that strain does not absolve us of responsibility. Especially when the cost of assumption is injury, prolonged pain, or loss of dignity.

If there is hope in this moment, it lies in noticing where listening breaks down, and where it holds.

Every time an older adult is heard fully, a different story unfolds. One where age does not obscure symptoms, and experience is not mistaken for confusion. One where care is shaped by evidence, empathy, and respect.

The healthcare crisis is real. But so is the opportunity to decide who gets seen clearly within it.

Words That Wound: Language, Labels, and the Power of “Elder Speak”

The doctor’s office was quiet in that familiar way, paper rustling, keyboards tapping, a muffled cough from behind a closed door. I was mid-sentence, trying to explain something that mattered to me, when I paused. I could feel the right words hovering just out of reach.

Before I could gather them, the person across from me stepped in and finished my thought.

They meant to help. I know that. And I didn’t correct them. I nodded, let the moment pass, and moved on. But something about it stayed with me, because it wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last.

As I’ve gotten older, I sometimes take a little longer to find the exact words I want. Writing is easier for me; I can rearrange, rethink, and refine. Speaking is different. It happens in real time. There are pauses. Small searches. Moments of silence that feel longer than they are.

Those pauses often invite interruption.

What’s interesting is that when I was younger, I did the same thing. I finished people’s sentences. I jumped in when someone hesitated. At the time, it felt efficient, even supportive. I didn’t see it as a problem until life offered me a lesson I never forgot.

When my wife suffered a brain aneurysm and was in recovery, I spent long days by her side. One day, as she struggled to express herself, I did what I’d always done. I finished her sentence.

The nurse stopped me gently but firmly.

She explained how important it was that I wait. That my wife needed the time and space to find her own words. That interrupting, even with love, could take away her agency, her confidence, and her voice.

I still remember standing there, feeling slightly embarrassed, but mostly grateful. That moment changed how I listen.

Now, when I talk with other seniors, and someone pauses mid-thought, I wait. I resist the urge to help by supplying the word I think they’re reaching for. I let the silence do its work. And more often than not, the words come, stronger for having arrived on their own.

This is where conversations about elder speak begin, not with bad intentions, but with habits we rarely examine.

Elder speak is a way of communicating with older adults that sounds caring on the surface but carries an undercurrent of condescension. It often includes speaking more slowly or loudly than necessary, using simplified language, exaggerated praise, collective pronouns like “we” instead of “you,” or addressing adults with terms like “dear” or “sweetie.” It can also show up in finishing sentences, redirecting answers, or talking around someone instead of with them.

In healthcare settings, elder speak is especially common. Time pressures are real. Providers want to be kind, efficient, and reassuring. And yet, the impact can be damaging.

When an older person is spoken to this way, the message, intentional or not, is clear: You are less capable. You are not fully in charge here. Over time, that message erodes confidence. People may speak less, ask fewer questions, or stop correcting misunderstandings. Important information gets lost, not because it wasn’t there, but because the space to share it disappeared.

What makes elder speak tricky is that it often feels polite. Friendly, even. Many older adults don’t challenge it because they don’t want to seem difficult or ungrateful. Others internalize it, assuming the problem lies with them rather than the communication style.

And this doesn’t only happen in medical offices or care homes. It happens in grocery stores, family gatherings, community meetings, and casual conversations. Anywhere a pause is interpreted as a deficit rather than a moment of thought.

The difference between respectful communication and subtle condescension isn’t always in the words themselves. It’s in the pacing. The tone. The willingness to wait.

Respect sounds like allowing someone to finish, even if it takes longer. It sounds like asking questions without answering them yourself. It sounds like speaking to an adult as an adult, regardless of age, health, or setting.

None of this requires special training or scripts. It starts with awareness.

The next time someone pauses while speaking, notice what happens inside you. The urge to help. The discomfort with silence. The assumption that speed equals competence. Pauses aren’t signs of decline; they’re often signs of care, choosing the right words instead of the quickest ones.

Language shapes experience. The way we speak to one another either expands or narrows the space people feel they’re allowed to occupy. When we slow down just enough to let others speak for themselves, we don’t lose time. We gain understanding.

And sometimes, all it takes to protect someone’s dignity is the courage to wait.

When the Message Gets Inside: How Self-Directed Ageism Shrinks Possibility

When I was younger, I made a simple promise to myself. Every year, I would try one new thing.

It didn’t have to be dramatic. Sometimes it was a new skill, sometimes a new role, sometimes just walking into a room where I didn’t know anyone. What mattered was that it was unfamiliar. Each time, I noticed the same thing happen. I learned something, or I grew a little, or I discovered I was more capable than I had assumed.

That habit followed me into later life.

Now, when I present at workshops or strike up conversations with people I’ve just met, I often hear the same response: “I could never do what you’re doing.” It’s usually said kindly, sometimes admiringly. But underneath it, I hear something else. Not humility. Not realism. Self-doubt.

Somewhere along the way, many capable, curious older adults have absorbed the message that certain doors are no longer meant for them. Not because of physical limits or lack of interest, but because of an internal voice that says, people our age don’t do that.

One of the unexpected joys of being a senior is realizing that I don’t have to care as much about what others think. That freedom can be light, almost playful. And yet, I see friends who don’t feel it. Friends who won’t tackle anything new because they’re afraid to fail, or worse, afraid to look foolish.

I don’t feel sorry for them. I feel sad.

Not because their lives lack meaning, but because they’re missing moments that might surprise them. Activities that could be fun. Opportunities that might open new doors. Conversations that could lead to friendships they didn’t know they needed. Self-directed ageism doesn’t take away what we already have. It quietly limits what we’re willing to reach.

A friend of mine offers a powerful example of how strong and how fragile this internal barrier can be.

He lost his wife five years ago. Grief reshaped his world, as it does. Two years ago, he attended his high school reunion. It was emotional, nostalgic, and grounding all at once. About a year after that, he was looking through the list of people who had attended and saw a name he hadn’t thought about in decades. His first girlfriend, back in grades eight and nine.

He paused.

Part of him wanted to get in touch. Another part shut the idea down immediately. What would I say? What if she doesn’t remember me? What if it’s awkward? He told himself it was too late, too complicated, too far away. She lived in the Interior of British Columbia. He lived on the coast. Distance became a convenient reason to stop thinking about it.

Self-doubt won.

Months passed. Then, one day, he found himself thinking about her again. The memory hadn’t faded. This time, instead of pushing it away, he did something that made him deeply uncomfortable. He sent an email.

It was short. Simple. Almost painfully cautious. “Are you Linda, and do you remember me?”

Then he left on a two-week camping trip with his children and grandchildren, convinced he’d either hear nothing back or return to an awkward silence.

She responded within a day.

And then she waited.

When he came back and finally replied, the restart was rocky. They had both lived full lives. They were careful, unsure, and very aware of what could go wrong. But they kept talking. Slowly, honestly, without pretending to be younger versions of themselves.

Today, they are a couple. And they are both very happy.

This story isn’t about romance. It’s about permission. The permission to risk embarrassment. The permission to try. The permission to believe that curiosity doesn’t expire.

Self-directed ageism shows up when we stop sending the email, stop signing up, stop raising our hand, stop imagining ourselves in new situations. It affects confidence, yes. But it also affects health choices, social engagement, and our willingness to stay connected to life beyond our routines.

The discomfort of trying something new doesn’t disappear with age. If anything, it can feel sharper, because the cultural message tells us we should be narrowing our world, not expanding it.

But the truth is, possibility doesn’t shrink on its own. It shrinks when we quietly agree that it should.

Recognizing self-directed ageism can be unsettling. It asks us to notice where we’ve absorbed limits that were never ours to begin with. And while that realization can sting, it also opens a door.

Because once we see the message for what it is, we can choose, sometimes nervously, sometimes boldly, not to let it have the final word.