“When I look back on my life, I want to see that I didn’t try to age gracefully…I aged mischievously, hilariously, and with plenty of stories to tell.”
I love this quote and I am not sure where I found it. It has been in a book of favourites that I have collected over time, and I read it the other day. And I started thinking out loud.
Somewhere along the way, many of us were handed a very specific instruction manual for aging – especially women. The role of an older woman was defined by how she blended in without being the center of attention. At least, that is what my own grandmother said and modeled. Be polite. Be quiet. Be dignified. Don’t take up too much space. Don’t laugh too loud. Don’t wear that. Don’t say that. And above all else, age gracefully into a proper “woman of a certain age.”
But what if being graceful isn’t the goal? What if the real point of aging in not to disappear softly into the background, but to arrive more fully…messier, braver, more honest, and more alive than before?
Aging mischievously doesn’t mean being reckless or irresponsible. I think it means being curious. It means saying yes to joy without first asking or waiting for permission. It’s the willingness to try something new even if I might look foolish. Especially if I might look foolish! Because I often do! Because laughter, real belly-aching laughter, is a powerful declaration that I am still very much in the game of life, of living in high gear, full steam ahead!
To age hilariously is to stop editing myself so harshly. It’s sharing the stories that didn’t go as planned. The times I tripped, failed, fell in love with the wrong thing, changed my mind, or laughed at exactly the wrong moment. Humour becomes a form of wisdom when we stop pretending that we’ve got everything all figured out. It softens regret. It reframes disappointment. It turns “what was I thinking?” into “well, that made for a great story.”
And stories…those are the real treasures we carry forward. Not the perfect photos. Not the wrinkled skin. Not the carefully curated image of a life well-behaved. Stories are the proof that I have lived. That I risked something. That I said yes when fear was telling me to say no. That I followed joy even when it felt impractical, inconvenient or overdue.
There is a quiet rebellion in choosing joy at this stage of life. In dancing when no one is watching – or even if they are! In choosing the bold color. In booking a trip. In starting “the project”, something totally new but intriguing. In laughing with friends and family until my cheeks hurt and my mascara is running down my cheeks and my stomach muscles are tighter than any exercise I do ever! These moments do not subtract from my wisdom: they deepen it.
Aging mischievously is also about freedom. The freedom that comes when I finally stop trying to be everything for everyone else. When we realize we don’t owe the world our exhaustion or our silence. We owe ourselves a life that feels like ours.
So, I guess that perhaps the invitation isn’t to age gracefully at all.
Perhaps it is to age boldy. Curiously. Loudly when needed. Softly when desired. To collect stories instead of approval. To value joy over perfection. To look back one day and smile, not because we did everything “right, but because we truly lived out loud! After all, a life filled with laughter, mischief, and stories worth telling sounds like a legacy worth leaving. That’s how I plan on aging and I am enjoying the journey.
Just thinking out loud…
