I'm 62 and I finally stopped apologizing for not wanting to travel, try new restaurants, or 'stay curious' — because I realized that the pressure to always be experiencing something new was just another way to avoid sitting with who I actually became

Last week, I declined an invitation to a sushi-making class, and for the first time in my life, I didn't make up an excuse. I just said "No thanks, that's not my thing." The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening, but I felt something shift inside me — like finally taking off shoes that never quite fit right.

For decades, I believed that saying no to new experiences meant I was becoming one of those old people. You know the type — stuck in their ways, afraid of change, slowly calcifying into irrelevance. So I said yes to things I didn't want to do. Wine tastings when I'm perfectly happy with my vegan wine. Weekend trips to places I had no interest in seeing. Cooking classes for cuisines I'd never order in a restaurant. I performed enthusiasm like it was my second job.

But here's what I've learned at 62: The constant pursuit of novelty can become its own kind of prison. And sometimes, knowing exactly what you like and don't like is the most honest thing you can be.

The tyranny of staying curious

Somewhere along the line, "staying curious" became a moral imperative. Every self-help book, every lifestyle magazine, every well-meaning friend insists that the key to aging well is to keep trying new things. Learn a language! Take up pickleball! Join a book club! Travel to places where you don't speak the language and the food makes you nervous!

I get it. I really do. Movement is life. Stagnation is death. But there's a difference between genuine growth and the frantic accumulation of experiences just to prove you're still alive.

After selling my restaurant four years ago, I had all this time suddenly. Everyone had suggestions. "Now you can finally travel!" they said. "Now you can explore!" But explore what, exactly? I'd spent 35 years exploring every possible way to keep a restaurant running, from learning the perfect inventory system to figuring out how to keep good staff from leaving. That was my exploration. That was my curiosity in action.

The truth is, I know what brings me joy. A good book in my favorite chair. My morning espresso routine. Phone calls with my kids where we actually talk about real things. These aren't consolation prizes for a life half-lived. They're choices, deliberate and considered.

When trying new things becomes avoidance

Here's something nobody talks about: constantly seeking new experiences can be a sophisticated form of running away. When you're always looking for the next adventure, the next restaurant, the next trip, you never have to sit still long enough to ask yourself the hard questions.

Who am I when I'm not performing my openness to experience? What do I actually want from these remaining decades? Am I okay with the person I've become?

After 35 years in the restaurant business, I was used to constant motion. There was always a crisis to solve, a new menu to plan, a difficult customer to charm. When I sold the place, the sudden stillness felt like drowning in reverse. So I did what everyone suggested — I tried to fill the void with activities. Photography class. Spanish lessons. A disastrous attempt at golf that ended with me leaving my rented clubs in the parking lot.

But the busier I kept myself, the more I realized I was using novelty like I used to use the chaos of the restaurant — as a shield against actually examining my life. The restaurant had been my identity for so long that without it, I was terrified to discover there might be nothing underneath.

The courage to be boring

There's immense pressure, especially as we age, to prove we're not boring. To demonstrate our relevance through our willingness to adapt, change, grow. But what if being "boring" is actually a sign of self-knowledge? What if knowing that you'd rather read than go to a street festival, rather cook a familiar meal than try that new fusion place, rather call an old friend than make new ones — what if that's not giving up but growing up?

I spent decades in restaurants watching people perform sophistication. Ordering wines they didn't like to seem cultured. Claiming to love dishes they found puzzling. The whole dance of pretending to be more adventurous than they actually were. I was part of it too, both as performer and audience.

But now? I eat the same breakfast five days a week. I have three restaurants I rotate through when I do go out. I read mystery novels that follow predictable patterns. And I'm not apologizing for any of it anymore.

This isn't about being closed-minded. If something genuinely interests me, I'll pursue it. But the key word there is "genuinely." Not because I should. Not because it would make a good story. Not because it would prove I'm still vibrant and engaged. But because I actually want to.

Sitting with who you've become

The hardest thing about stopping the constant motion, the perpetual seeking of new experiences, is that you're left with yourself. Just yourself. No distractions, no performances, no proofs of vitality. Just the accumulated weight of all your choices, good and bad.

When I finally stopped running, I discovered something surprising: I actually like the person I became. Not love, necessarily. There are plenty of things I'd do differently if I could. But like. Respect, even. This person who ran a restaurant for 18 years, who raised kids, who made mistakes and occasionally got things right — he's okay. He doesn't need to prove anything by taking up pottery or booking a trip to Bali.

The pressure to constantly evolve, to never settle, to always be reaching for more — it assumes that who we are right now isn't enough. But what if it is? What if the work isn't to become someone new but to finally accept who we already are?

I think about those years in the restaurant, always planning the next special, the next renovation, the next improvement. It kept me from asking whether I was happy with what I'd already built. Now, at 62, I'm finally brave enough to stop improving and start appreciating.

Some people find that same authenticity extends to the kitchen too — not following trends, just cooking and eating in ways that actually feel right. Speaking of going deeper on that, VegOut Magazine's free February issue touches on exactly that kind of intentional living, if you're curious.

Final words

Yesterday, someone asked me what I was doing to "keep growing" in retirement. I told them I was learning to be still. They looked at me like I'd admitted to giving up. Maybe a few years ago, that look would have sent me scrambling to sign up for something, anything, to prove my vitality.

But not anymore. I've earned the right to know what I want and don't want. To choose familiar comforts over forced adventures. To value depth over breadth. Some people need novelty to feel alive. I need authenticity. And authentically, genuinely, unapologetically — I'm done pretending otherwise.