The Gift of Aging: Lessons from My Parents' 175 Years
A dear friend once told me that everything worth knowing can be learned from the aged and the dying. Last week, as we gathered to celebrate my mother's 85th and father's 90th birthdays—milestones that will arrive within six months of each other—I understood the depth of that wisdom in ways I never had before.
My brother and his family, my sons and their girlfriends, Andy and I spent a weekend together at a gorgeous estate. We weren't just celebrating years lived; we were witnessing a masterclass in how to actually live them.
The Quiet Rebellion of Possibility
My parents raised my brother and me in a home where everything felt possible. Not because they promised us fairy tales, but because they lived as if possibility was a practice, not a fantasy.
I never—not once—heard them speak about the "impending doom" of aging. Never heard my mother say she was "too old" for something that brought her joy. They played tennis, their most beloved sport, well into their 80s. My mother still does. They skied into their 70s, and when they stopped, it wasn't with resignation but with the practical wisdom of people who know how to pivot, not surrender.
They still travel, though the adventures have shifted—shorter, closer to home, but no less intentional. Last month: a fishing trip to Vermont. Because why not?
They take art classes, writing workshops, film studies. They devour books on music, gardening, and all kinds of literature. Their friend circles span generations—people in their 30s, 40s, 60s, 80s. Some of my own friends have "adopted" them, scheduling brunch dates to show off their beloved gardens, swapping stories and wisdom over coffee.
They find their spirituality and volunteer at their synagogue. They engage with their community. They remain curious about everything and everyone they encounter.
And through it all, I watch them love each other with a tenderness that takes my breath away. After all these decades together, their love has no shame, no judgment—just a full embracing of imperfection and care. It's the kind of love that doesn't demand perfection because it understands that acceptance is far more powerful than critique.
What They've Taught Me (And What I'm Still Learning)
Be curious, always and forever. About people, experiences, adventures. Curiosity is the antidote to stagnation. It's what keeps you engaged with life rather than merely enduring it.
Try everything—even if it seems silly, embarrassing, or wildly different. You'll have a million stories. You'll discover parts of yourself you didn't know existed. You'll never run out of things to talk about because you never stopped exploring.
You are never too old to learn, to try, to pursue what gives you joy. Age is not a barrier unless you decide it is. The question isn't "Am I too old?" but "Do I want to?"
Modify, don't quit. As you get older, adapt what you do in ways that allow you to keep doing what you love. Can't play tennis the same way? Play differently. Can't travel as far? Travel closer. The practice isn't about maintaining the same intensity—it's about maintaining the same intentionality.
Take care of the one body you have. Be realistic, but keep moving. Keep doing. Your body isn't the enemy of your spirit; it's the vessel that allows you to experience everything worth experiencing.
Aging is beautiful—embrace it. Never let a number get in the way of living. The alternative to aging isn't staying young; it's not being here at all.
Keep friends of all ages. As you get older and some friends get sick or pass, you'll need that community. Surround yourself with people at different life stages—they'll challenge you, inspire you, remind you that life is always unfolding in new ways.
Build community because isolation strips joy and vitality. Loneliness isn't just uncomfortable; it's dangerous. Connection is what keeps us alive in the ways that matter most.
There is nothing more important than loving friends and family. Spend time with them. Not someday—now. They are the source of life itself. Not your achievements. Not your resume. Not the perfect house or the impressive title. Them.
Love what you do, but know when to let go gracefully. My parents didn't cling to tennis or skiing past the point where it served them. They recognized that holding on too tightly can rob you of the joy of what comes next. Sometimes wisdom is knowing when to shift, not just how to persist.
Honor matters more than comfort. I learned this from watching my parents risk relationships, money, and opportunities to protect their values. Integrity isn't a luxury—it's the whole game. And it's worth everything you might lose to keep it intact.
The Unvarnished Truth
I'm so incredibly blessed to have had nearly five decades of watching them age with grace and joy. But let me be clear: it hasn't been perfect. There's been pain, heartbreak, disappointment. A million things have gone sideways over the years.
Through them, I've learned how to navigate discomfort and adversity. How to handle conflict. How to practice forgiveness—both giving it and accepting it. How to tell the truth even when it costs you something. How to celebrate a perfectly imperfect life without apologizing for its messiness.
Because here's what they've shown me, more powerfully than any book or guru or breakthrough moment ever could:
Love is the source of life and vitality. Not money. Not possessions. Not achievements or recognition or the external validation we chase. The love for others, for family, for friends, for community—that's what nourishes the soul. That's what makes a life rich beyond measure.
As I watched them this past weekend—laughing, playing, fully present with the people they love—I realized something profound: They're not teaching me how to age well. They're teaching me how to live fully, at any age.
And that's the real gift they've given me. Not a roadmap for turning 85 or 90, but a blueprint for being truly alive at 25, 45, 65, and beyond.
The question isn't how many years we get. It's what we do with them. How courageously we love. How curiously we explore. How intentionally we show up. How gracefully we adapt. How fiercely we protect what matters.
My parents are teaching me that aging isn't something to fear or fight—it's something to embrace as the privilege it is. Every wrinkle, every limitation, every adjustment is evidence of a life fully lived. And that's the most beautiful rebellion of all.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for showing me that the best is yet to come—no matter what the calendar says.
