I’ve entered a strange stage of life where I find myself constantly reflecting on ageing—and realising that time moves unforgivingly fast. I notice how easily we rush through our days without paying attention to the little things, which often mean more than anything else. I see how strong, capable people eventually reach a point where they become dependent on us—the carers.
Looking back, I thought I was learning well from my experiences, but the truth is that what ageing taught me about living is far more than I expected. It’s about slowing down, embracing small choices, and recognising the courage it takes to ask for help.
Slowing Down Isn’t Missing Out
Living where I work means patience is tested in unexpected ways. For example, it can take half an hour just to walk down the street, pick up the daily newspaper, and collect the mail. Or half an hour simply to do up a single button.
I once worked with a couple. After the gentleman’s wife went out for the day, he enjoyed going to the local Waitrose to pick up dinner. The trip always took ages. And although it sounds like I’m moaning, in my mind I often thought of all the things I could be getting done instead—laundry, cleaning, small chores. Yet there I was, walking at a snail’s pace to Waitrose.
At some point, though, something shifted. I began to enjoy those walks. Not because we often stopped for a coffee at Costa (though that’s a little addiction of mine—massive understatement!), but because I started noticing things I would usually miss.
We passed gardens clearly cared for with love, thought, and patience. We greeted locals with a wave or a word, building tiny but meaningful human connections. The gentleman would share stories about moving to the area with his wife and how it looked back then.
One day it clicked: slowing down isn’t just about not being able to move quickly—it’s a lesson in how to really live. In fact, slowing down was one of the most significant lessons that ageing taught me about living.
Learning to Ask for Help (And Realising It’s Okay)
I’ve been independent since my teenage years, so asking for help has never come easily. For some reason, it embarrasses me. If I can’t manage something myself, I feel like I’ve failed or that I’m somehow “less.” Rationally, I know this is nonsense, but feelings don’t always follow logic.
I also held a stereotype in my head—that men are always strong and capable, that there’s nothing they can’t do.
One gentleman I worked with, a former gardener in his mid-seventies, challenged that belief. After a fall, his confidence wavered. Though he was still fairly independent, small tasks—like putting on socks or fastening buttons—became struggles. Yet he was reluctant to ask for help.
It’s humbling to see strong, capable people reach a point where they need support. Every instinct told me to step in, but I held back—not out of indifference, but out of respect for the independence he still had. I waited nearby, patient, until he chose to ask.
And when he finally did, it wasn’t just about getting the task done—it built a connection. We both felt valuable, and valued.
That experience taught me that true strength isn’t about doing everything alone. It’s about the courage to admit when you need help. Asking doesn’t take away dignity—it creates space for genuine connection. And that’s another part of what ageing taught me about living.
The Little Things Matter More Than You Think
I’ll be honest—my back goes up whenever I read a newsletter reminding carers to “pack lightly.” Yes, I know it’s a job, and we’re expected to be practical. But those memos often forget that we carers are human too, with our own small preferences and needs. I’m not asking to bring an entire wardrobe, but to have the choice feels important—it’s part of dignity.
It’s the same for the people we care for. Mrs. M insists on wearing tights even in the heat—that’s her choice. Mr. J likes his tea strong—two tea bags, just a drop of milk. These preferences might seem trivial, but they aren’t. They’re essential. They’re what make life feel full, personal, and dignified.
Dignity lives in the little things: choosing your own clothes, deciding how you take your tea, being listened to when you share your thoughts. Those daily choices shape our sense of self.
And this, too, is part of what ageing taught me about living: never underestimate the power of small, everyday choices.
What This All Means for How I Live Now
I am still a work in progress. But I’d like to think I’ve learned the art of listening—not just waiting for my turn to speak, but truly hearing what someone wants to say.
To my surprise, I’ve even found joy in routines I once considered boring.
The greatest revelation has been this: it doesn’t matter how fast or slow I go, or how much I achieve. What matters is how I treat people. How much attention do I give to the little, everyday moments? How much joy can I find in the ordinary details that make up most of our lives?
And perhaps the simplest but most powerful truth is this: what ageing taught me about living is not about growing old, but about learning how to truly live.
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