I’m 63 now. That sentence still catches me off guard when I say it out loud. Not because I’m trying to hide it - hell, I’ve earned every one of those years - but because part of me mentally still feels 30. Maybe 40 on the tough days.

Getting older is strange like that. You don’t wake up one morning with a new label. It sneaks up slowly - one gray hair, one forgotten name, one new ache at a time. And then suddenly, people start calling you “sir” more than you’d like, and you realize the kids talking about "the old days" mean the ‘90s.

There’s a shift that happens around this age. You start to care a lot less about proving things and a lot more about being present. You think less about chasing and more about savoring. Time feels faster, so you start paying more attention to how you spend it.

One of the biggest surprises about being 63 is how much it simplifies your priorities. In your twenties and thirties, it’s all about accumulation - stuff, experiences, recognition. You think you need to build an empire, or at least a decent reputation. But now? Now I want more mornings with coffee on the porch and fewer hours spent trying to please people I don’t even like.

I’ve let go of a lot over the years. Some of it needed to go - old grudges, bad habits, the idea that life should look a certain way by a certain age. And I’ve held onto what matters: a few solid people, a good sense of humor, and the ability to surprise myself now and then.

There’s a freedom in getting older that no one talks about enough. We hear a lot about the downsides - the slower metabolism, the changing face in the mirror, the way doctors start speaking to you in a slightly condescending tone. But there’s also this incredible lightness. You stop apologizing so much. You say no more often. You know who you are and what you value. And for once, that feels like enough.

I don’t need to be the fastest, the smartest, or the most impressive person in the room. I just need to be the most me. That used to sound like a self-help cliche, but now it just feels like the truth.

Of course, it’s not all peace and clarity. Some days, getting older is just plain hard. The body complains more. Sleep gets weird. The losses hit deeper. Friends move, drift, or pass on. The world moves faster than you do sometimes, and it’s easy to feel left behind.

And then there’s the invisibility. It creeps in quietly. You walk into a store and no one notices. You make a comment in a group and it floats by. Aging can sometimes feel like fading, and that’s a hard thing to reckon with, especially if you’ve spent much of your life being useful, needed, or heard. Eh - I just get louder!

But here’s the thing: when you stop chasing relevance, you start noticing joy. The small kind. The kind that doesn’t post well on social media. The kind that sits quietly in ordinary moments: watching your dog stretch in the morning, hearing a song you loved in high school, having a really good cup of tea.

At 63, you start to measure life in quality, not quantity. You know that not all minutes are created equal. A quiet Sunday with friends can mean more than an entire year of hustle. A heartfelt conversation can stay with you longer than any raise or promotion.

You also stop lying to yourself as much. There’s no time for it. You get honest about what you want, what you don’t, and what you’re no longer willing to tolerate. And if you’re lucky, you find people who appreciate you not despite your rough edges, but because of them.

Relationships change, too. You care less about impressing and more about connecting. You’re not looking for perfect people anymore - just real ones. The friends I have now are the ones who’ve seen me at my worst and stuck around. We talk less often, but better. Less noise, more meaning.

Looking back, I spent a lot of time worrying about things that never came to pass. Jobs I didn’t get, people who didn’t like me, goals I thought I had to meet. I wish I could tell my younger self to calm down, to trust the process, to not be in such a rush. But I probably wouldn’t have listened.

Now, I try to be more patient with myself. To rest when I’m tired. To listen more. To be present, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially then. That’s where the growth still happens. Yes, even now.

I’m not done becoming. That’s the secret. You don’t reach a point where you’ve arrived. You just keep unfolding, layer by layer, year by year. And if you do it right, you get a little wiser, a little kinder, and a lot more real.

So no, I don’t wish I were young again. I just wish I’d known back then what I know now: that it all goes faster than you think, and most of it isn’t worth worrying about.

People think getting older means winding down. Slowing up. Coasting. But I still have a lot to do. A lot I want to try, fix, build, say, explore. My curiosity didn’t retire when I turned 60. If anything, it sharpened. I’ve finally got the time, the nerve, and the clarity to put it to use.

I’ve started writing more. Nothing fancy. Just thoughts like these - what I’ve learned, what I’ve unlearned, what I want to pass on. I’ve realized that if you don’t tell your own story, someone else will. And they’ll probably get it wrong. So I write. Even if no one reads it. Even if I’m just talking to myself. It matters.

There are places I haven’t seen yet. Not bucket list stuff. I’m not interested in climbing Everest or zip-lining through a rainforest. I want to walk through small towns I’ve never heard of. Sit in a quiet cafe in a place where no one knows my name. Watch the sun rise somewhere I’ve never been before. Let the world surprise me, gently.

And there are people I haven’t met yet. That surprises me too. You’d think by now I’d be all set on relationships, but no. There are still connections to be made. New friends to stumble into. Strangers who might become important. Conversations that haven’t happened yet but will change me.

There are parts of myself I still haven’t explored. Things I was too scared or too busy to look at when I was younger. Now I have the space - and the guts - to face them. Not everything will be pretty, but it’ll be real. And real beats perfect every time.

I also have things I need to fix. Mistakes I made. People I hurt. Things I should’ve said but didn’t. I’m not carrying around guilt - I’ve made peace with a lot - but I still believe in repair. In reaching back, when I can, and making things a little more whole. It’s not too late. It’s not over.

I think a lot about legacy now, but not in the grand, dramatic sense. I’m not trying to be remembered as a hero. I just want the people I care about to feel that I showed up for them. That I made them laugh. That I listened. That I paid attention.

There’s something really grounding about reaching this age and still being hungry - not for status or stuff, but for meaning. For growth. For connection. For newness. Not everything has to be fast or flashy. I’m happy to move at my own pace. But I’m not done moving.

And I don’t want to be comfortable all the time. I want to be challenged. I want to be surprised. I want to be wrong sometimes and learn something new. I want to keep getting better at being human.

I’m still here. Still learning. Still laughing at my own jokes. And that’s not nothing.