5 things I do for my mental health in my 50s that I didn’t do in my 30s

Somewhere between my thirties and my fifties, my definition of “mental health” shifted from “don’t crash” to “feel strong enough to carry joy.”

In my thirties, I thought productivity hacks, hustle, and a good espresso would carry me. In my fifties, I want calm focus, relationships that aren’t an afterthought, and a nervous system that can handle life at full flavor.

I still love the kitchen metaphors. Great services aren’t just about what hits the pass; they’re about mise en place, pacing, and recovery. Mental health is the same.

Here are 5 things I do now that I didn’t do in my thirties—small practices that keep the whole system steady.

1. I book therapy like I book the gym

In my thirties, I treated therapy like a fire extinguisher: break glass, make the appointment, promise I’ll “check in” later. Later rarely came.

Now I run a standing cadence—four sessions, twice a year—no crisis required. It’s a mental MOT. I keep a running note of topics (patterns I’m noticing, relationships that need repair, a belief that’s outlived its usefulness), and I bring that list in like prep. We tune what’s working, cut what isn’t, and I leave with two or three practices to run for the quarter.

As the American Psychological Association often points out, structured approaches like cognitive behavioral therapy can give you tools you can reuse when life inevitably tilts. Mindfulness-based programs are similar: they don’t just solve problems, they teach skills—attention, reframing, regulation—that stick.

The biggest change isn’t the hour on the couch; it’s the stance. I don’t wait to explode. I maintain.

How I make it easy: I pre-book the block, I tell a friend I’m doing it (accountability), and I treat any resistance as a sign I’m exactly where I should be.

2. I train my body for my brain

In my thirties, workouts were vanity metrics and numbers on a barbell.

In my fifties, I lift to stabilize mood, I walk to clear rumination, and I keep my joints happy so I can keep doing the things I love—cooking long dinners, traveling, playing the long game.

The evidence is strong that physical activity protects mental health.

A large analysis published in JAMA Psychiatry reports that people who move more are less likely to develop depression, and other major reviews show a consistent association across ages. Even modest weekly exercise can help. 

I run a simple template:

• Three strength sessions a week (push, pull, legs), 40–50 minutes each. Nothing heroic; just progressive tension and good form.

• Daily zone-2 walks (the pace where I can hold a conversation).

• Mobility “snacks” between tasks—hips, thoracic spine, ankles.

On bad days, I do half. Half beats zero. On great days, I finish with a farmer’s carry and let my nervous system remember what steady feels like.

3. I protect sleep like revenue

In my thirties, I treated sleep like a soft optional. If a deck or a dinner ran long, bedtime lost.

My brain paid the bill the next day.

Now sleep is the anchor habit. I guard it the way a good restaurant guards margins—because everything downstream depends on it: mood regulation, impulse control, patience, decision quality.

The physiology is simple and unforgiving: poor sleep makes emotional storms harder to weather and nudges anxiety and low mood.

That’s why national sleep agencies frame sleep as a pillar of mental and physical health, not a luxury. NHLBI, NIH+1

My rules (surprisingly not fussy):

• Same wind-down window nightly. Kitchen closed, lights down, slow serotonin activities (paper pages, light stretching, hot shower).

• Cool, dark room. (If my feet are cold, socks on—that distal-to-proximal temperature trick gets me to sleep faster.)

• Caffeine cut-off by early afternoon; alcohol cap at one drink and never inside two hours of bed. My thirties-self thought wine relaxed me; my fifties-self can see the next-day mood volatility for what it is.

• “Tomorrow template.” I scribble the three bullets for the morning so my brain doesn’t hold a meeting at 2 a.m.

When life is chaotic, I shorten the routine, not the principle. Even a 20-minute wind-down beats doom-scrolling until my eyes burn.

4. I treat attention like a scarce ingredient

In my thirties, I tried to out-tab my stress. If I could just read one more article, check one more feed, reply to one more message… peace would arrive. You know how that story ends.

In my fifties, I design for fewer inputs and better outputs. I learned the hard way that attention is the stock everything’s simmering in; if it’s muddy, nothing tastes right.

I follow sleep-medicine-style hygiene for my information diet:

• Daily news window. Twenty minutes, once. Long-form over feed.

• Phone friction. No social apps on the first screen, grayscale during work blocks, notifications off by default.

• Two “deep” blocks most weekdays—90 minutes with one task, door closed, timer on.

• Micro-resets between contexts—three calm breaths or a 90-second stroll outside—so my nervous system can downshift.

Mindfulness helps here. The APA’s overview of mindfulness research notes benefits for stress reduction and emotion regulation; you don’t need a cushion and incense to claim them. I use short, repeatable practices: a five-minute body scan before work, a box-breathing set when tension spikes, a single-task meal with my phone in another room. 

I’m not chasing “perfect focus.” I’m building recoverability — the ability to notice I’ve drifted and come back kindly. That one skill makes the rest of my day less brittle.

5. I prioritize people like my life depends on it (because it does)

In my thirties, friendships had to fit between ambition and logistics. I loved my people; I just didn’t plan for them.

In my fifties, I treat connection as non-negotiable infrastructure. Not out of sentiment, but out of evidence and experience.

The decades-long Harvard Study of Adult Development keeps finding the same thing: relationships are a powerful driver of well-being across the lifespan. And the U.S. Surgeon General has been blunt—loneliness and isolation aren’t just uncomfortable. They raise risks for depression, anxiety, cardiovascular disease, stroke, even premature death. 

That looks like:

• Standing dinners (Sunday pasta, open invite). Whoever shows up, shows up. I cook big, we stay late, phones stay in a bowl.

• A “care list.” Five names I check in on weekly. If I haven’t heard from them by Friday, I ping first.

• Service that gets me out of myself. Mentoring a younger cook, volunteering at a community kitchen. Nothing balances my mind like being useful.

When I hold connection as a practice, not a mood, my inner weather stabilizes. It’s the most reliable antidepressant I’ve found that doesn’t come in a bottle—and it pairs beautifully with the ones that do, if you need them.

A few lessons I had to learn the slow way

• Food is information. I’m not chasing perfection, just steady signals: mostly whole foods, enough protein, plants at every meal, fermented friends (yogurt, kimchi, sauerkraut) for my gut. It’s basic, it works, and it makes my brain less spiky.

• Boundaries beat bravery. I used to think I needed to be stronger to handle more. Now I set clearer edges so I don’t have to. “I can’t make that” is a full sentence.

• Joy counts as recovery. In my thirties, “recovery” meant collapsing. In my fifties, it’s hiking, reading non-fiction in a café, or tasting menus I save up for because they make my brain light up. Hedonic joys and eudaimonic meaning aren’t enemies; I plate both.

• Self-talk matters. I wouldn’t berate a junior cook for missing a step — I’d teach them the system. Same with me. Kind instruction beats cruel motivation every time.

• Quit earlier. Not the big things—the micro mistakes. If a plan isn’t working, I cut it and choose a smaller action I can actually finish.

None of this is flashy. That’s why it works. The glamorous stuff fades when the room gets loud. What lasts is the routine—the way you stock the pantry, the way you reset the line, the way you end the night.

Bottom line

My thirties ran on intensity. My fifties run on intention.

I still work hard, I still love a good hustle, and I still geek out over a perfect espresso. The difference is that I build my days like a great service: prep the basics, control the heat, check the plates, close down clean.

Therapy on cadence, training for mood, sleep as a pillar, attention by design, and relationships in bold on the calendar—those five choices have given me a steadier mind than any hack I used to chase.

And when the inevitable hard day comes, I’m not scrambling for a miracle. I’m just running the system that keeps me well.