At sixty, she signed up for singing lessons despite decades of self-doubt, discovering that the real gift of aging isn't wisdom or wrinkles—it's finally becoming brave enough to stop apologizing for who you are.
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When I turned sixty, I signed up for singing lessons. Not because I harbored secret dreams of performing on stage, but because I'd spent decades telling myself I couldn't carry a tune. The first time I walked into that studio, my hands were shaking like a teenager's before a first date. My voice cracked on every high note, and I wanted to bolt for the door. But something Stevie Nicks once said kept echoing in my mind: "Time makes you bolder."
Six years later, I belt out show tunes in my kitchen without a trace of self-consciousness, and last month, I even sang at my friend's retirement party. Time didn't just make me older; it made me brave enough to stop caring what anyone thinks.
The beautiful paradox of aging
There's something wonderfully paradoxical about getting older. While society keeps telling us that youth equals confidence, I've found the opposite to be true. Every year that passes seems to chip away at the armor of self-doubt I spent my younger years carefully constructing. When I was thirty, I wouldn't leave the house without perfect makeup. At forty, I agonized over every word in parent-teacher conferences, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Now? I grocery shop in my gardening clothes and speak my mind at book club without rehearsing my opinions first.
This isn't about becoming careless or letting yourself go. It's about finally understanding that most people are too busy worrying about their own perceived flaws to notice yours. Time teaches you this lesson gently but persistently, like water wearing down stone. You wake up one day and realize you've stopped apologizing for taking up space in the world.
Why boldness comes with the territory
Think about it: what's the worst that can happen when you're sixty-seven and decide to take up salsa dancing? Someone might laugh? So what? You've survived heartbreak, loss, professional setbacks, and that unfortunate perm in the eighties. A little laughter won't kill you. In fact, you might even laugh along.
The truth is, time gives you perspective that youth simply cannot provide. You've seen enough plot twists in your own life story to know that today's mortifying moment becomes tomorrow's funny anecdote. Remember when getting rejected for a job felt like the end of the world? Now you know there's always another opportunity, often a better one, waiting around the corner.
I think about my breast cancer scare at fifty-two. Sitting in that sterile waiting room, wearing nothing but a paper gown and my fear, I made a promise to myself: if the results came back clear, I would stop postponing joy. When they did, thankfully, I kept that promise. I booked the trip to Italy I'd been putting off. I told people I loved them without waiting for the "right" moment. I stopped saving my good china for special occasions. Every morning became special enough.
The freedom that comes from running out of time
Does that sound morbid? It shouldn't. Acknowledging that our time is finite is actually the most liberating thing you can do. When you're twenty-five, you think you have endless years to become the person you want to be. You'll learn French next year. You'll apologize to your sister next month. You'll start that novel when things calm down at work.
But time has a way of teaching you that "someday" is a luxury you can't afford. This knowledge doesn't paralyze you; it mobilizes you. It makes you bolder because you finally understand that the clock is ticking, and not in a scary way, but in a way that says: "What are you waiting for?"
Last year, I wrote about finding purpose after retirement, and so many readers shared stories about things they'd started in their sixties and seventies: businesses, relationships, artistic pursuits. One woman learned to swim at seventy-three. Another started a nonprofit at sixty-eight. These aren't people who suddenly became fearless. They're people who realized that fear is a terrible reason not to do something.
Embracing the messy middle
Here's what nobody tells you about becoming bolder with age: it's not a smooth progression. Some days, I feel invincible, ready to take on the world. Other days, I second-guess myself over something as simple as sending a text message. The difference is that now I recognize these fluctuations as normal, not as character flaws.
When I started writing at sixty-six, after my friend practically pushed me to share my stories, I spent weeks staring at blank pages, convinced I had nothing worthwhile to say. Who was I to think anyone would want to read my thoughts? But then I remembered all those years teaching high school English, watching teenagers pour their hearts onto paper, brave enough to be vulnerable. If they could do it at sixteen, surely I could manage it at sixty-six.
The boldness that comes with time isn't about becoming a different person. It's about finally becoming yourself, without apology or explanation. It's about wearing purple if you want to wear purple, saying no without providing elaborate excuses, and yes, taking singing lessons even if you sound like a rusty gate.
Final thoughts
Stevie Nicks was right, of course. Time does make you bolder. Not because you stop caring about anything, but because you finally start caring about the right things. Every morning, I wake at 5:30 and spend an hour in silence with my tea and journal, not because I'm disciplined, but because I'm finally bold enough to claim that time for myself without guilt.
So whatever it is you're waiting to do until you feel "ready" or "brave enough," consider this: boldness isn't something you achieve. It's something time gifts you, one small act of courage at a time. Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. And trust that with each passing year, you'll grow a little bolder, a little more yourself, a little more willing to sing out loud, off-key and all.
