The story we tell ourselves is the story we live—and it can be rewritten.
Recently, in an aerobics class, dancing with forty other people—mostly women—I flashed back to the 1980s and dancing with my friend in nightclubs.
I lived in San Diego then, and we’d meet early, dance for a few hours, and leave right as the drinkers arrived.
Now I’m twice as old as I was then. And standing there in that class, I thought: my forty-year-old self would be proud of me. Still dancing. Maybe not for as long. Maybe not in nightclubs. But still moving.
The thought made me laugh out loud with joy. No one looked at me as if I were crazy. They were smiling too. Dancing together. Still moving.
And it struck me that one day my future self might thank me, too—for not counting age as a factor in doing what I still love to do.
The Story We Tell Ourselves
Not just dancing.
But still, and always, talking about perception and how it shapes our lives. Still trying to make a difference.
In my twenties, I worried that what I had to say didn’t hold any weight, that people would think I was too young to know anything. I was more afraid of age then than I am now.
Or maybe more afraid of offending someone, when all I wanted was to point out something that seemed obvious to me.
But the more life I lived—making mistakes, figuring things out—the more certain I became of this: the story we tell ourselves is the story we live.
And most importantly, that story can be rewritten.
I suppose I could worry now that I’m too old for people to listen.
Instead, I ask myself a better question: “What good can I do today?” Because I can. And so can you.
Every day we dedicate to doing something that makes a difference—to ourselves and to others—is a good day. That’s what we’re here to do. Make a difference.
Keep our promises. Enjoy the gift of life.
Lessons From the Brave Blue Jays
Years ago, while I was sitting outside eating peanuts and finishing the writing of Living in Grace, blue jays landed right beside my computer and took the peanuts. It was the beginning of my fascination with birds. They were so brave. They simply took what they needed.
I hoped that, like those jays taking my peanuts, people would one day take the words I was writing and use them for food.
Nature always has lessons for us, if we’re paying attention.
It gives and receives in equal measure. It doesn’t hoard, and it doesn’t blame. No matter what season it’s in, it always has something to share.
This summer I watched baby birds chasing their parents, still begging to be fed, while the parents tried desperately to get away.
It reminded me how easily we fall into the habit of not learning what we need to learn in order to thrive—how tempting it is to keep being fed rather than to grow.
I also noticed that gardening in the height of summer isn’t as much fun as it is in spring and fall. And I wondered if that’s what we do with ideas.
It’s fun to start something, and satisfying to finish. But the maintenance in between? Not so much. And yet maintenance is exactly what keeps the garden—and our lives—flourishing.
Every Season Has Something to Give
So no matter your age, from one to over a hundred, you have something to share that only you can share. Something to teach that only you can teach.
Age is a number, and it has no power unless we give it power.
Each season of life holds its own perfect way to give and receive.
So when you catch yourself telling the story that you are your limitations, tell a different story instead.
You won’t only help yourself. You’ll stop passing along the stories that spread limitation, and start passing along the ones that spread possibility.
One of the deep secrets of life is that all that is really worth doing is what we do for others. -Lewis Carroll
