Getting older comes with some unexpected sound effects. A little groan here, a sigh there. I’ve started wondering if I’m simply developing a habit—or becoming the Maria Sharapova of my generation.

As I get older, my daily maintenance list seems to grow. But what happens when a beautiful day at the beach asks me to let some of those routines go? Maybe part of growing wiser is learning what can wait—and what is truly important.

As we age, what happens to all the stuff we accumulate? A reflection on clutter, consumerism, buying less, and the legacy we leave for our children.

What do we call the Divine when the words we inherited no longer fit? Sometimes finding new language for our spiritual lives is part of finding our way into a deeper relationship with Mystery.

After decades of dreading Sunday mornings as “the pastor’s wife,” I now experience Sunday as my favourite day of the week. Eight years after leaving organized religion, I’m discovering what spiritual freedom feels like when I stop outsourcing my understanding of God.

Some friendships are built over decades, one conversation, one adventure, one road trip at a time. They become part of the scaffolding that holds us as we move through our lives—and perhaps become even more important as we age.

It’s not how I feel that gives me the data that I am an older adult. It’s how other people treat me.

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.