My neck has opinions now. My knees, too. They speak mostly in the mornings, in quiet protestations I didn’t sign off on. There are new sounds when I stretch. New rituals to get out of bed. A growing loyalty to firm pillows.
But here’s the thing: I also care less. About impressing people. About fitting into anything—jeans, friendships, or expectations. Somewhere along the way, the volume turned down on needing to be liked. Or maybe it just got drowned out by something steadier. Something closer to contentment.
In my twenties, I lived for approval. I dressed for other people’s eyes. I chased things I didn’t even want just to prove I could get them. I said yes too often. Smiled when I wasn’t amused. Held my breath in rooms where I should have taken up space.
Now? I stretch out. I speak slower. I know when to leave.
Aging is strange like that. It sneaks up on you with laugh lines and clarity. It doesn’t announce itself all at once. It arrives in fragments. A grey hair. A forgotten name. The sudden joy of cancelling plans.
There’s a beauty to it I didn’t expect. A softening. Not in ambition, necessarily, but in urgency. I still want things. Big things. But I no longer believe that faster is better. I no longer believe that more is the answer.
I find myself gravitating toward people who are honest, not impressive. I want real conversations. The kind that leave you feeling known. Not sized up.
Aging has made me more curious. About the world. About myself. About the stories people carry. It’s also made me more tired at parties, but that feels like a fair trade.
I look in the mirror now and see a face that’s lived. Not in the dramatic, climb-Machu-Picchu sense, but in the quiet accumulation of days. Of early mornings. Of long drives. Of sitting with people I love, even when we didn’t have much to say.
There’s a steadiness that comes with getting older. A kind of internal settling. The stakes feel both higher and lower. You know time is finite, so you stop wasting it. But you also stop panicking when things don’t go to plan.
Aging hasn’t made me fearless. But it’s made me braver. I know what I can survive. I’ve seen what I can come back from. I’ve built resilience the old-fashioned way—by living.
And while there are things I miss—elastic collagen, for one—I wouldn’t go back. Not for all the dewy skin in the world. Because this version of me feels real. Less polished, maybe. But more at ease.
Aging, as it turns out, isn’t just about decline. It’s about deepening. Becoming. Letting go of the script and writing your own.
And if that means I need reading glasses to do it, so be it.