We're still here, still beginning again each morning, still discovering that what breaks us open often lets more light in.
A recent survey found that nearly 87% of adults over 60 say the things they feared most about aging never materialized the way they expected. The real difficulties were almost always something else entirely. Something they hadn't thought to worry about. Meanwhile, the catastrophes they'd rehearsed in their minds for decades turned out to be survivable.
That finding didn't surprise me. At 28, holding divorce papers while my son had a fever, I thought that was rock bottom. At 52, waiting for biopsy results that thankfully came back benign, I was certain that was my breaking point. But here I am at 70, and I've discovered something profound: every single thing I thought would destroy me has instead revealed how much I can endure.
The catalog of fears that never came true
Do you remember being young and making lists of everything you were afraid might happen? Mine was extensive. I feared being left (happened at 28). I feared poverty (food stamps kept us alive for two years). I feared my body failing (two knee replacements by 67). I feared losing love (buried my second husband at 68). I feared professional irrelevance (forced retirement ended my teaching career).
Yet here's the strange truth: none of these experiences broke me the way I imagined they would.
When my first husband walked out, leaving me with two toddlers and an unfinished degree, I spent months convinced we wouldn't survive. But we did more than survive. I finished my degree while working nights, went on to teach high school English for 32 years, and raised two children who now call me every Sunday without fail. The catastrophe I thought would end us became the beginning of discovering my own strength.
The body keeps its own record of survival. My knees, which gave out after decades of standing in front of classrooms, forced me into early retirement. I grieved that loss deeply. Who was I if not the teacher who made teenagers actually enjoy Shakespeare? But retirement opened doors I never knew existed. Now I volunteer at the women's shelter, teaching resume writing to women whose eyes hold the same fear mine once did. Every other Saturday, I take my grandchildren to the library, continuing my mission to raise readers, just with more patience and better cookies in my purse.
The unexpected gifts of growing older
Virginia Woolf wrote that "growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others." At 70, I've lost the illusion that I can control outcomes, that youth equals value, that bodies should work perfectly to be worthy of respect. But I've gained something far more valuable: the knowledge that I can adapt to anything.
I hold a pen differently now, but I still write in my gratitude journal every evening. My bifocals reveal every wrinkle clearly, but they also let me see my grandchildren's faces when they discover something new in a book. My body requires two hours of gentle stretching each morning to cooperate, but it still carries me on walks where I notice things I was too busy to see at 30.
The young woman who panicked about turning 40 didn't know that 70 would bring the confidence to wear whatever feels comfortable, to speak truth without apologizing, to choose friends who nourish rather than drain. She didn't know that the shame about her divorce would transform into compassion for other women navigating impossible choices. She couldn't imagine that invisibility—that thing women fear so much about aging—would become a kind of freedom, releasing her from the exhausting performance of trying to be everything to everyone.
The truth about resilience
People talk about resilience like it's a quality you either have or you don't, but I think it's more like a muscle that strengthens with use. When you survive your first real breaking, you think you'll never be whole again. But then you are, just differently shaped. Then the next breaking comes, and the next, and each time you're certain this is the one that will finish you. But it doesn't.
My knees gave out, so I learned to swim. Teaching ended, so I found new ways to educate. Each adaptation required grieving what was lost before embracing what remained. There's no skipping the grief part. I tried. It just waits for you, patient as winter.
What nobody tells you about getting older is that you stop being afraid of the wrong things. I used to fear wrinkles; now I fear wasting time on people who drain my energy. I used to fear being alone; now I cherish my morning solitude. I used to fear judgment; now I wear comfortable shoes and speak my mind in meetings and refuse to apologize for taking up space.
Final thoughts
This morning I woke early, before anyone else was up. I made coffee, carried it out to the garden, and sat among the roses I planted thirty years ago. They've survived drought, neglect, one catastrophic freeze, and a grandchild who once tried to "help" by pulling up everything that wasn't a flower. They're blooming again. A few of the stems are crooked now, bent from old damage, but they hold their petals up just the same.
I finished my coffee and went inside to stretch before the day began.
