I’m 35 years old.
That sentence feels heavier than it should.
I’m young by any reasonable measure. I can train hard. I can work long hours and learn new skills. Yet, changes are noticeable now in ways they weren’t before. Recovery has slowed. Stress leaves marks. Sleep is no longer optional. The body has started sending invoices instead of warnings.
This isn’t panic. It’s awareness.
And awareness hurts.
Most people talk about aging as if it begins at some distant, dramatic point—when things “really” fall apart. But the truth is quieter. Aging doesn’t arrive all at once. It seeps in. Little by little. So slowly that one day you realize you’ve been watching yourself change for years.
That watching is the painful part.
The physical changes are real, but they aren’t the deepest wound. The deeper pain comes from witnessing yourself move away from who you used to be while still feeling like that person on the inside. There’s grief in that. Unspoken grief. The kind that doesn’t announce itself, so it turns into tension instead.
Some people flow with this naturally. Others wrestle it for years. Some never stop fighting at all.
I’m still learning.
What I’ve started to understand—slowly, imperfectly—is that the suffering isn’t caused by aging itself. It’s caused by resistance. By clinging to an identity that was built for a different phase of life.
Youth lives on momentum. It forgives carelessness. It absorbs stress quietly and, lets you borrow energy from tomorrow without asking for payment. At some point, that credit line closes. Not cruelly. Just honestly.
The mistake is thinking this means decline.
The older wisdom traditions never framed aging as decay. They framed it as refinement. A shift from raw force to precision. From speed to judgment. From expansion to depth.
Time doesn’t just take things away. It sharpens whatever you allow it to work on.
But sharpening hurts. Friction is unavoidable.
What makes it unbearable is trying to drag a younger version of yourself forward instead of letting him finish his work and step aside with dignity. We don’t struggle because we’re getting older. We struggle because we haven’t graduated.
There’s a strange relief that comes when you stop arguing with time.
Not resignation. Alignment.
When you stop demanding that your body behave like it used to, you start listening to what it’s telling you now. When you stop trying to stay young, you discover something better: clarity. The kind that only comes after illusions wear off.
Pleasure gets quieter, but deeper. Discipline stops being about domination and becomes stewardship. You train not to prove something, but to remain capable. You rest not out of laziness, but respect.
This is not something you “figure out” once and move on from. It’s a skill. One you practice daily. Some days you do it well. Other days you relapse into old comparisons, old anxieties, old fear.
That doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human.
I’m still assimilating how to relax into the moment without rehearsing loss in advance. Still learning how to appreciate what works instead of obsessing over what will eventually fade. Still learning how to live fully while knowing—clearly—that nothing is permanent.
This isn’t comfort. It’s orientation.
A good life isn’t long or short. It’s well-aimed.
Aging hurts most when your identity is built on things time must take. It hurts least when your identity is built on things time refines.
This is a work in progress for me. Something I’m forging slowly, deliberately, without shortcuts. Not to escape aging—but to age well. Consciously. Awake. Present.
If this resonates, you’re not late. You’re not broken. You’re right on time.
“This is a line of thought I’ll return to.”