Sixty in a Sea of Thirty

You know what’s funny about turning sixty? Suddenly, everywhere you go, you’re surrounded by… youth. Twenties. Thirties. Even forties. I know I don't look my age. I often start sentences with "I know I don't look it but I'm "____". I've had to start reckoning with the idea that I'm rapidly approaching the time when that disclaimer will no longer be necessary.

They travel in packs, these creatures—like caffeinated gazelles. Running late, running apps, running their mouths, and somehow also running marathons?

And there I am… sixty. The lone oak in a grove of saplings.

Now don’t get me wrong—being the oldest one in the room has its perks. I’ve stopped worrying if my jeans are “in fashion.” Because when you’ve lived through button fly Levi's, bell bottoms, skinny jeans, and mom jeans, you just know...wait long enough, and they’ll all come back around.

But here’s the trick:

In my twenties, I thought every decision was life or death. What job to take. Who to date. What shade of lipstick wouldn’t make me look like a washed-out raccoon.(Answer: none. They all did.)

In my thirties, it was survival: kids, bills, career—trying to be all things to all people.

And now? At sixty? I am gloriously, radically free.

I watch these young ones panic over texts “He didn’t put an emoji, does that mean he hates me?” Meanwhile, I’m over here thinking "Honey, if he’s not bringing soup when you’re sick you don’t need him."

They agonize “Should I move to Denver, or Brooklyn, or Bali?” And I say "Move wherever you want! The rent will crush you everywhere equally."

And oh, the drama.

They treat heartbreak like it’s terminal. Like the world is ending because someone ghosted them after three dates. Three dates! At sixty, I think if a man ghosted me I'd send him flowers and a thank-you note. Because silence? My darling—that’s a gift.

But I’ll be honest… sometimes I feel it. The ache in the knees when I climb stairs. The little sigh when the music is too loud and I just want… quiet. The moment at a party when someone says, “Wow, I hope I look that good at your age,” and I have to resist the urge to smack them.

Because yes, I’m older.

And sometimes invisible.

And sometimes lonely in a crowd of all this bright, shiny, nervous energy.

But I’ll tell you a secret—I wouldn’t go back. Not for a second. Not to be twenty again with all that doubt. Not to be thirty again with all that pressure. Not to be forty, still trying to prove myself. Not even to be fifty and afraid of being sixty.

Sixty is knowing I don’t need permission.

Sixty is wearing red lipstick because I like it not because a magazine told me it’s “my season.”

Sixty is dancing barefoot at a wedding and not caring who films it.

Sixty is laughing louder, sleeping deeper, and letting go of people, things, grudges—that never really fit me anyway.

So yes, I feel old sometimes.

But I also feel free. Free like the ocean feels free while the young ones are still drops of rain—falling fast, not yet knowing where they’ll land.

So when you see me in the middle of your crowd don’t mistake my quiet for weakness. Don’t mistake my laughter for naivety. I am sixty. I am not behind you though I will have you back. And while I am still beside you I have a view you don't have yet. Because I am ahead, clearing the path and waving you forward.

And with a little planning and some inspiration and a lot of luck you'll get here too.