Learning to Age Better

For me, learning to age better began when I was fifteen. My dad died of a heart attack at fifty-three and I was devastated. For six months, I barely left the house. When I finally emerged, I felt like a frightened young animal cautiously venturing from its den.

It was easier and more natural for me to sneak across the railroad tracks and fish the Ohio River than to go to school. Eventually, friends told me my name had come over the intercom: “Drop from roll.” “Oh well,” I thought. “This is all I can do right now. Maybe I’ll make up for it later.”

Life went on. As a young adult, I wasn’t particularly in touch with my emotions—or much else, for that matter. But some portion of my attention always seemed turned inward. I was puzzled and conflicted, searching for something I couldn’t identify. Daily life felt like a fog, and I was looking for a flashlight.

In my anxious and clueless immaturity, I watched other people for signs of decline. Maybe I was looking to learn whether death gave advance notice before striking like lightning.

In my twenties, I landed a job as a police officer with a local municipality. The training included a fitness, or fit-for-duty, component, and it quickly became clear how badly out of shape I was. So, I began working out.

Over time, my life shifted from frequenting clubs and bars to frequenting gyms, fitness clinics, and 5Ks. At that time, I didn’t think of it as learning how to age. I was simply becoming stronger and more capable. Then the steel industry collapsed, municipal jobs followed, and towns shriveled.

I went back to school, earned a biology degree, and eventually became a biologist. That job included mandatory wildland firefighting duties. Each year I had to pass a field test and receive medical certification for arduous duty.

By then, maintaining my conditioning had become a priority. In wildfire situations, fitness was not cosmetic. It helped make me a strong, reliable, and trustworthy frontline team member when circumstances could become life-threatening.

Then, at forty, the past suddenly caught up with me. Because of my family history, the doctor would not sign my medical clearance without a treadmill stress test. My mind took over: Does this mean I have thirteen years?

The fear and anxiety that had quietly influenced my thinking since my teenage years came rushing to the surface. I was a different person by then, but those feelings had hardly changed.

Sensing my nervousness, Dr. Smith came to the treadmill stress test himself. Afterward, he told me I was in fine condition. I didn’t have many questions for him. My mind had never really looked beyond the test.

Then he said something that disrupted forty years of automatic thinking: “Your dad’s heart attack is not your prophecy. If you live differently than your father, it is likely you will live longer and stronger. In fact, you have already done so up to this point.” 

For the first time, I recognized something that now seems obvious: I am not powerless in the face of aging.

That realization changed the direction of my efforts. Until then, I had exercised mostly to preserve what I had. Now I began to wonder whether I could influence what came next. Could my choices affect my trajectory? My experience suggested they could.

I began paying closer attention to the connection between behavior and outcome. I combined what I knew from the practical side of fitness with what I was learning from biology, physiology, books, and medical journals.I became a practitioner-scientist of sorts. My laboratory was my body—and also the stream, the track, the trail, and the gym.

At first, the idea was still somewhat foggy. But evidence accumulated. I could see and feel that what I did mattered. I didn’t have one word for that experience then.

Now I do. It’s Agency

Agency is the recognition that our choices and actions can influence what happens next.

For me, it began with small pieces of evidence. Do something intentional. Notice a result. That result makes another intentional choice seem possible. Over time, those small choices accumulate.

Agency may always have been there, but for much of my life it was latent—obscured by fear and fog. Once recognized and acted upon, even in small ways, it began to expand.

The body adapts to the stress of exercise. In my experience, something similar can happen psychologically. When we repeatedly do things that are difficult, unfamiliar, or contrary to the expectations society places on aging, we can become more open and responsive to challenge.

We see evidence that we are capable.

And when we see and feel that evidence, we may become more willing to commit ourselves to ways of living that support our active participation in aging.

That is important because agency does not have to begin with a dramatic transformation. It can begin with something very small.

• Take a five-minute walk.
• Take the stairs.
• Park farther from the door.
• Carry your own groceries.
• Get down on the floor—and practice getting back up.
• Move more often during the day.

Thirty minutes of exercise is valuable, but it does not erase the effects of spending most of the remaining day sitting. Regular exercise matters, and so does reducing the amount of time we spend sedentary. Harvard Health offers a useful overview of the risks associated with prolonged sitting.

The important part is not where you begin. It is recognizing that you can begin.

My father’s heart attack shaped the way I thought about aging for decades. For a long time, I lived as though decline might be waiting for me somewhere ahead, unavoidable and predetermined.

Dr. Smith helped me see something different. My father’s story was part of mine. But it did not have to be my prophecy.

What I did next mattered.

Sources and further reading for Learning to Age Better

Think exercise, movement and reducing overall sedentary behavior.  https://www.health.harvard.edu/pain/the-dangers-of-sitting

Categorized in: Art of Aging