If your goal is to thrive in your 70s, say goodbye to these 9 self-sabotaging habits

Last week, I ran into a former colleague at the farmer's market. She'd retired the same year I did, seven years ago.

While I was sampling honey and chatting with vendors about their heirloom tomatoes, she stood hunched in the corner, clutching her list like a life raft. "I hardly leave the house anymore," she whispered. "What's the point? Everything interesting is behind me."

As I watched her shuffle away, I realized we'd started from the same place, but somewhere along the way, I'd chosen a different path. The difference? I'd learned to recognize and release the habits that were keeping me small.

1) Believing it's too late to learn something new

Have you ever caught yourself saying "I'm too old for that"? I said it for years, until last spring when my 8-year-old granddaughter asked me to join her coding club. My first instinct was to laugh it off. Computer programming at 72? But something in her eyes made me pause.

Three months later, we built a simple game together where a cartoon cat chases butterflies. Was it perfect? Hardly. Did my brain protest every step? Absolutely. But watching her beam with pride as she showed her friends what "Grandma coded" was worth every frustrated evening.

The myth that our brains become rigid after a certain age is just that—a myth. Research shows neuroplasticity continues throughout our lives. Every new skill, whether it's learning to make sourdough starter or understanding how Instagram works, creates fresh neural pathways.

When I finally tackled Spanish at 69 (after three decades of promising myself I would), I discovered my brain was hungry for the challenge. Sure, I'll never sound like a native speaker, but last month I helped a lost tourist find the bus station, entirely in Spanish.

The look of relief on her face was worth more than perfect pronunciation ever could be.

2) Postponing joy until "someday"

I spent forty years keeping a bottle of French perfume "for special occasions." It sat on my dresser, unopened, through birthdays, anniversaries, even my daughter's wedding. When I finally opened it after my 70th birthday, half of it had evaporated.

The scent of wasted opportunity was stronger than any perfume.

That bottle taught me everything about the danger of deferred happiness. Now, I burn the good candles while reading the newspaper.

I wear my grandmother's pearl necklace to yoga class. I don't save the expensive coffee for guests; I brew it for myself on random Tuesday mornings when the light hits the kitchen just right.

This shift isn't about being reckless or wasteful. It's about recognizing that every day we wake up at this age is special enough.

After losing three close friends in the past two years, I understand that the perfect moment we're waiting for might never come. Joy isn't meant to be preserved; it's meant to be consumed fresh.

3) Trying to handle everything alone

"I've got it" used to be my catchphrase.

When my husband's dementia progressed and he needed round-the-clock care, I insisted I could manage. When the roof leaked and the car needed new tires in the same week, I figured I'd find a way. When grief knocked me flat after his death, I locked the door and tried to weather it solo.

Pride is expensive at any age, but after 70, it becomes unaffordable. My wake-up call came when I fainted in the grocery store, dehydrated and exhausted from trying to be everyone's rock while crumbling inside.

The kindness of strangers that day—the store manager who called my daughter, the elderly man who sat with me until she arrived—taught me that accepting help isn't weakness.

Now, I've joined a meal-sharing group where we take turns cooking for each other.

When my arthritis flares, I ask my neighbor to walk my dog. When sadness visits (and it still does), I call my sister instead of pretending everything's fine. Vulnerability, I've learned, is just another word for courage.

4) Neglecting your body's basic needs

For decades, I treated my body like a rental car—pushing it hard, ignoring warning lights, assuming I could trade it in when it broke down.

Spoiler alert: You can't. By 65, my knees were shot, my back screamed daily, and I couldn't climb stairs without stopping halfway.

The rehabilitation after knee replacement surgery became my education in body respect. Physical therapy taught me to listen to what my joints were saying. Gentle movement became my new religion.

Now, I swim three mornings a week—not to lose weight or compete, but because the water holds me like a friend. I stretch every evening while watching the news, honoring muscles that have carried me through seven decades.

Sleep hygiene sounds boring until insomnia teaches you its value. After years of scrolling through my phone until midnight, I discovered that blue light was sabotaging my rest.

Now, I have a wind-down ritual: Chamomile tea, lavender lotion, and a paperback book. My body rewards this respect with energy I haven't felt in years.

5) Living in isolation

Widowhood can be a prison of your own making. After James died, I convinced myself that nobody wanted to hear about my grief, that I was too sad to be good company, that staying home was easier than facing a world that had moved on without him.

For months, my only conversations were with grocery clerks and telemarketers.

The path out of isolation started small. First, just walking to the mailbox when neighbors were outside. Then accepting an invitation to book club, even though I hadn't finished the book.

Finally, signing up for a pottery class at the community center where I knew no one. That class saved me. There's something about working with clay—messy, unpredictable, forgiving—that makes conversation flow easier.

Connection at our age requires intention. It won't happen accidentally anymore. You have to text first, suggest lunch, show up at the senior center's game night even when you'd rather watch TV. But every small effort compounds.

That pottery class led to coffee dates, which led to a hiking group, which led to the rich social life I have now at 73.

6) Being afraid to set boundaries

Can we talk about the myth that grandmothers should be available 24/7? Or that retired people have "nothing but time"?

For sixty years, I said yes to everything, terrified that saying no would make me selfish, unwanted, unloved. This led to exhaustion, resentment, and relationships built on obligation rather than joy.

Learning to set boundaries in my seventies felt like learning a new language.

"No, I can't babysit every weekend, but I'd love to have a special Wednesday afternoon with the kids." "I care about you, but I need to end this conversation when it becomes negative." "That doesn't work for me" became my new favorite sentence—no explanation required.

The pushback was real. Some people got angry. A few relationships ended. But the ones that survived became stronger, built on mutual respect rather than assumption. My time, energy, and peace are finite resources now. Boundaries help me spend them wisely.

7) Defining yourself by what you've lost

At every doctor's appointment, they ask: "Retired teacher, widow, any surgeries?" As if my identity could be summarized by what I used to do, who I used to love, and what parts of me have been removed or replaced.

For too long, I accepted this narrative, introducing myself through my losses.

But here's what those medical forms don't ask: Who are you becoming? What brings you joy now? What new dreams are stirring?

At 73, I'm not just a retired teacher—I'm a developing writer, a terrible but enthusiastic ukulele player, a grandmother who knows all the words to contemporary pop songs (thank you, carpool duty).

I'm not just a widow—I'm a woman learning to love her own company, discovering who she is when she's not defined by partnership.

Yes, I've lost things. We all have by this age. But focusing on loss is like driving while staring in the rearview mirror—you'll miss everything ahead of you.

8) Waiting for permission to take up space

When did I become invisible? Somewhere around 68, I noticed servers addressing my younger dining companions, doctors explaining my condition to my adult daughter instead of me, people stepping in front of me as if I weren't there.

At first, I accepted this erasure, even contributed to it by dressing in beige, speaking softly, apologizing for existing.

Then I bought a red coat. Bright, bold, impossible-to-ignore red. The first time I wore it, people noticed me.

Not just the coat—me. I started speaking louder, not aggressively, but with the confidence of someone who has earned her voice through seven decades of living.

I stopped prefacing my opinions with "This might be silly, but..." I claimed my spot in the pool during water aerobics instead of hovering at the edges.

Taking up space at 73 means being the woman who sends her soup back when it's cold, who asks the young man to repeat himself when he mumbles, who wears purple lipstick to the dentist because it makes her happy.

We've earned our place in this world. The least we can do is occupy it fully.

9) Believing your best stories are behind you

"Remember when?" used to be my favorite way to start a sentence.

Remember when the kids were young? Remember when we traveled to Paris? Remember when life was exciting? I was so busy curating the museum of my past that I forgot I was still living.

The shift happened when I started saying "yes" to new experiences instead of filtering everything through old ones. Yes to the murder mystery dinner party, even though I knew no one.

Yes to the volunteer position teaching citizenship classes, even though I'd never done it before. Yes to online dating at 71 (that's a story for another post).

Every day offers fresh material. Yesterday, I had a fascinating conversation with my Uber driver about cryptocurrency. Last week, I tried Vietnamese food for the first time and discovered I love pho.

Next month, I'm taking my first solo trip to Seattle to see the grandchild I video-chat with weekly but have never held.

Final thoughts

That colleague I met at the farmer's market? I called her last week, invited her to join my walking group. She said she'd think about it. Maybe she will, maybe she won't.

But I've learned that thriving in your seventies isn't about converting everyone to your way of thinking.

It's about recognizing the habits that keep you stuck and having the courage to let them go, one by one, until what remains is a life that feels expansive rather than diminishing, full of possibility rather than regret.

The choice, as always, is ours to make.