Gloria Steinem was right about women growing radical as they age. But we have enough radical people doing damage. We need women who are deeply radical.

My mother has spent years letting go of a lifetime of accumulated things. As her children watch clocks, wall hangings and other treasures find new homes, I’m thinking about what we really need to keep—and what we can safely let go.

At the end of a beautiful summer day, I found myself carefully packing away my sun shelter. It was a small reminder that the season—and my time with these grandchildren—is passing. I am not taking any of it for granted.

Sometimes we don't understand our own story until we tell it to someone else. A conversation about my faith journey helped me see something I had missed for years—and changed how I understand discernment.

Sometimes we stop doing things long before we actually need to. Today, 228 stairs reminded me to question what I’ve quietly decided I can no longer do.

There was a time when I could have told you exactly what you needed to update your wardrobe. Not anymore. These days, my criteria are necessity and comfort. There is surprising freedom in no longer needing clothes for every version of yourself—or keeping up with what the retail giants say is “in.”

There is no falling. There is no behind. At almost 68, I’m pushing back against the cultural story that tells us we should always be moving forward, accomplishing more, and keeping pace. What if aging invites us to step out of the race and live in harmony with our whole system?

The older I get, the more often people tell me I look like Margaret Atwood. It makes me laugh, but it also makes me wonder what it is we recognize in older women—and what I hope people will see when they look at me.

A documentary about Mary Oliver reminded me that a meaningful life doesn’t have to be complicated. She walked, she observed, she wrote—and she stayed committed to her craft. Perhaps she would encourage me to do the same with this 68-writing project.

For ten years, I’ve used the term The Third Act in my work. But Peter Laslett’s idea of The Third Age has me thinking differently about this stage of life—and what becomes possible when we stop seeing it as a prelude to decline.

A 30-year-old blow dryer, a trip to Costco, and an unexpected conversation about death remind me just how uncomfortable we are with talking about mortality—even when we’re simply acknowledging that we won’t be here forever.

Thirty years ago, I was balancing young children, work, church and family—and mostly feeling like I was failing at everything. Reading those old journals now, I can see how much I’ve changed. The things I struggle with haven’t necessarily disappeared. What has changed is how I relate to them. Somewhere along the way, I came home to myself.

What happens when a 100-year-old woman and a woman in her 60s walk together every week for three years? I’m finding out through Merilyn Simonds’ Walking with Beth, a memoir about friendship, aging, longevity, creativity, and the stories we carry with us. I’ve only just begun reading it, but already I’m quoting it in conversation—and my daughter has asked to borrow it.

I can know that appearance isn't ultimately important and still care deeply about how I look. Maybe aging isn't about stopping caring. Maybe it's about learning to hold the tension between what matters deeply and what still matters to us.

My favourite stationery store just sent out the pre-order for 2027 planners. I use a Traveler’s Notebook, and the inserts come all the way from Japan. Placing my order in August for a notebook that will arrive in October and hold the plans for next year feels, strangely enough, like an act of faith.

I still like to plan. But something is shifting in how I think about the future. I’m learning to hold the tension between what’s next and what’s now—and to pay more attention to what needs my attention today.

I’m still ordering a planner for 2027. But I have learned to use a pencil.

We all have messages about the ‘default body.’ When our bodies don’t measure up, especially our older bodies, we can feel shame.

After stepping down from a role that seemed perfect on paper, I found myself asking a deeper question: What am I supposed to be doing with this one wild and precious life? This summer, I'm exploring what elderhood means in a culture that doesn't always know what to do with aging—and what it looks like to step up to the work that is truly ours to do.