At 63 years old, I thought I’d be coasting. You know, wearing linen pants, drinking tea in the garden, maybe mentoring a few confused Millennials and dispensing wisdom like some sort of crow’s-footed oracle.

But no. Instead, I’m squinting at new software, trying to remember if I’ve already told someone the story about the frozen dinner, and asking Google things like “how to fake confidence in a meeting without getting heart palpitations.”

I changed jobs recently. A whole new industry. New systems, new people, new acronyms I pretend to understand (someone said “SQF” the other day and I nodded like they had just recited Shakespeare). It’s exciting. It’s fulfilling. It’s also terrifying. Because no one tells you that reinvention at this age is a mix of exhilaration and a touch of oh dear God what have I done.

Let me be clear: I love my new job. I love learning. I love that my brain still works hard enough to get sore like a muscle after leg day. But growth at 63 is a different beast. It’s not about finding yourself—it’s about refining yourself. Shaving off the old expectations. Shedding the skin of who you thought you had to be. Stretching—carefully, because joints.

There are days I feel like a 20-year-old with ambition. There are other days I feel like a 93-year-old who just wants a nap and to be left alone with her soup. It’s called balance. Look it up.

And then there’s the emotional side. The identity shift. The mental rerouting that happens when your “what I do” is suddenly different after decades of being a certain version of you. It’s like walking around in shoes that almost fit. They’re your size, but your feet are different now. You walk anyway. You’ll break them in.

People like to say things like “you’re never too old to change,” which is true, but let’s not romanticize it. Change at this age comes with back pain, forgotten passwords, and wondering whether you’ve updated your emergency contact yet. But it also comes with perspective. With knowing what matters. With understanding that it’s okay to mess up—as long as you learn, laugh, and don’t email the entire company by accident (again).

So here I am. Sixty-three. Still growing. Still laughing. Still occasionally crying in the breakroom but calling it “hydrating.” Reinvention doesn’t have to be dramatic. Sometimes, it’s as subtle as taking a different route to work, trying something new, or saying yes when your brain screams “absolutely not.”
I’m still loading. Still learning. And honestly? That feels pretty damn good.