I’m in Vancouver, BC, celebrating my 60th birthday with two dear friends. It’s the first of several celebrations—not just marking a milestone, but the end of a whirlwind stretch of transition and busyness. Life demanded courage. And I, being a coward, fought it hard—and fruitlessly, of course. Life always gets its way.
One perk of aging? You learn you won’t spontaneously combust when life hurls a big-ass curveball—no matter how certain you are that you will.
Last night, from our Vancouver Island Airbnb, my friends Suba (52) and Gail (69) and I found ourselves deep in conversation about birthdays, aging, and all the gritty, gorgeous realities of growing older.
“Well, it beats the alternative,” I joked. “My dad used to say, ‘No one gets out of this alive.’”
“Aging definitely has its challenges,” said Gail. “As women, we need to talk about it more. These days, I actually have to think about getting out of the bathtub.”
I nodded. “I can’t tell if I’m getting wiser or just more tired. But I’m way more selective with my time. It’s like: yes, yes, no, no, oh hell no.”
“That’s a gift of aging,” Suba offered, ever the optimist.
As the sun slipped behind West Vancouver, we lobbed stories and insights back and forth—“can’t freaking sleep” countered with “hard-won wisdom”—and made our own list of aging’s hazards and benefits:
Hazards:
Grumpiness, resistance to change, know-it-all tendencies, self-absorption, lethargy, loneliness, grief.
Physical Realities:
Saggy skin, urgent bladders, insomnia, fatigue, meno-pots, hot flashes, brittle bones, memory lapses, and the indignity of chin hairs.
Benefits:
Self-acceptance, sharper boundaries, deeper compassion, spiritual growth, resilience, courage, humor, and—most gloriously—less caring what anyone thinks.
“Don’t forget JOMO!” Suba added.
“JOMO?”
“It’s the oppposite of FOMO! The joy of missing out,” she said. “When you finally stop doing things just to avoid missing something. You’re not reacting anymore—you’re choosing.”
“Like curling up with a book instead of hitting the club,” I nodded.
“Exactly.”
“Or maybe we’re just too tired,” Gail laughed.
We all cracked up—fatigue had topped our list, after all.
“It just takes more effort now,” Gail added. “What used to be automatic? Now it’s a damn event.”
“And then there’s the ‘big skin,’” I offered. My friend Linda swears her body’s the same size, but her skin’s too big. “It doesn’t fit anymore—it just sags.”
We went on: dry skin, dry hair, dry… other parts. But we agreed—while inconvenient, the physical stuff isn’t insurmountable. What we eat, how we move, how we think—it all matters.
We don’t get to choose whether we age. But we do get to choose how.
And just in case we needed proof, the next morning we met Elizabeth Robertson.
Exploring our Horseshoe Bay neighborhood, Gail and I stumbled onto a dirt trail—far better than the shoulderless bike path we’d started on. It wound through the woods with wildflowers, stunning views, and blessed quiet.
At a fork in the trail, we asked an older woman walking ahead which way to go.
“You can go right to Whyte Lake,” she said, giving us a quick once-over. “About four kilometers, then another two and a half up to the lake.” Hands on hips. Waiting.
“Or go left—up to the street. My house is down there,” she added, pointing. “I walk this trail every day.”
“Which way are you going?” I asked.
“To the lake. I’ll walk with you.”
That’s how we met Elizabeth Robertson. And let me tell you: Elizabeth was a talker.
We learned a lot in a short time. The wild blackberries would soon be ripe—she’d be back with a bucket around her neck to get the good ones.
And that it rarely snowed in Horseshoe Bay, though it did in nearby Cypress, a ski community.
When she said, “I just hope there’s enough snow to ski this season,” it gave me pause.
“Is this a bike trail too?” Gail asked.
“Nope. Just people. And dogs,” she huffed. “A few weeks ago, four off-leash dogs jumped on an elderly woman—” she stressed the word as if to exclude herself.
“Bowled her right over. I think she broke bones. Idiot owners.”
“I walk this trail every day,” she said as she walked ahead. “You see people. And it keeps me in shape.”
She stops and turns to face us, “Did I mention I’m 84? Look at these!” yanking up her pants to show off calves of steel.
We both nodded approvingly.
She went on, “I went skiing at Cypress last winter. It was the first time in years—My husband had been sick and I couldn’t leave him. After he passed, I called up my girlfriend and said, ‘Let’s go.'”
“And then?” she grinned. “Halfway down the mountain, my quads seized. I just fell. Couldn’t get up. Had to be sledded down by the ski patrol.”
“Oh no,” said Gail.
“Oh yes,” Elizabeth laughed. “The ski patrol guy was very good-looking.”
She now does wall squats to prep for next season. “I’ve skied since I was three,” she explained. “I guess I took it for granted.”
She told us her life story: born in Newfoundland, she moved to Vancouver after the war. Her father—a physician—was transferred. She grew up to become a nurse, then a teacher, and eventually, the Director of Nursing at the University of Vancouver, BC.
“That must have been interesting.” I said.
“Well, it was,” Elizabeth replied, “but nursing students and teachers, unlike other college departments, worked during the Summer break doing internships at the hospital. I didn’t like it that we had to work while the rest of the teachers were playing ping pong, so I complained about it and eventually I got it changed.”
She kept walking, but didn’t stop talking.
But when a few colleagues and I tried to take three months off to go to Kathmandu, my boss just lost it. ‘You can’t do that!’ he blustered. ‘You can’t just take three months off! That’s preposterous!’
So I went home, wrote my resignation letter, dropped it on his desk the next morning, and booked my trip.”
“Did your coworkers go?”
“Nope. It’s hard to get people to leap. But I did. And I have no regrets.”
How did you decide to go to Kathmandu?” I asked.
“Well, there was a travel department at the University. I went in there, looked at a pamphlet about Kathmandu, and that was it. I went. But you can still book those kinds of trips online! Look it up! You can go!”
She said it with the enthusiasm and authority of any good teacher. I made a mental note of the web address she’d mentioned. Her energy was contagious.
I looked at her then, more closely. Her face was soft and lined, with the faintest mustache above her lip. Her gray hair was cut short, unceremoniously, like a helmet. Her arms were freckled with age spots, her busy hands uneven and overly knuckled. I marveled at her upright posture, her brisk pace, and her ability to tell a story without pausing. She was quick, astute, and funny.
Kathmandu was just the beginning. Since then, she’s trekked and biked her way across Africa, Asia, and Europe. Elizabeth Robertson has lived an adventurous life—entirely of her own choosing.
When we told her we were going “forest bathing” the next day, she stared at us blankly.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a meditative walk in nature. You commune with the forest,” I explained.
She looked around, gesturing, “You’re in a forest now. There’s a tree—go hug it!” she cackled.
Gail shot me a glance—did she really just say that?—but Elizabeth kept on, undeterred.
And honestly? That was fine. She embodied everything we’d celebrated the night before: humor, courage, vitality, and zero apology.
Elizabeth hadn’t shrunk with age—she’d expanded. Bold. Curious. Engaged. Overflowing with stories, unbothered by what anyone thought.
“When I get home,” she announced, “it’ll be 4 o’clock. Time for the BBC British Kennel Dog Show. I watch it every day. I love it.”
I smiled. No FOMO for Elizabeth Robertson. She was thriving in her JOMO era.
We hugged her goodbye, inspired—and slightly winded. She was, if I’m honest, a bit exhausting.
Then again, maybe I’m just getting older.
