I remember the day I first noticed the gray hair at my temples. Standing in my bathroom, the morning light streaming through the window, I leaned closer to the mirror. It wasn’t just the hair—my face had changed too. Lines had appeared where smooth skin once was, like tributaries branching from the corners of my eyes.

Time doesn’t announce its changes with fanfare. They arrive quietly, like a shifting tide that slowly reshapes the shoreline.

Each year adds another layer to who I am. My knees now crack when I climb stairs. My eyes squint at restaurant menus in dim lighting. My energy peaks and wanes at different hours than before. These aren’t just inconveniences—they’re messages from my body, asking for new accommodations.

I’ve learned to map these changes like a cartographer studies unfamiliar terrain. This morning, I woke up stiff after yesterday’s hike—not the soreness of my twenties that disappeared by noon, but a persistent reminder that recovery takes longer now. I’ve started stretching before bed, a ritual my younger self would have dismissed.

Sometimes accepting these changes feels like saying goodbye to old friends. I remember running five miles without preparation. I remember reading late into the night without eye strain. I remember eating spicy food without consequences. Those versions of me now live in memory.

The book series I’m crafting still burns bright in my imagination, but I’ve had to adapt how I bring these worlds to life. Where once I could hunch over my desk for hours, pencil flying across paper as chapters took shape, now I work in measured intervals. The familiar weight of the pencil between my fingers—a sensation I’ve loved since childhood—now leaves my joints stiff and tender after too long. When I transfer these handwritten pages to my computer, the typing brings its own discomfort, a dull ache that spreads across my knuckles like a slow tide. And sitting—what I once did without thought—has become its own challenge. My body signals its protests through a stiffening back and tingling legs when I remain too long in my writing chair. I’ve learned to listen to these signals, standing to stretch when needed, alternating between handwritten passages and typing sessions, preserving both my creative momentum and my physical wellbeing.

I think of this work as leaving supplies along a trail for a future traveler—myself, a few years from now. Each healthy meal, each meaningful conversation, each dollar saved, each new skill learned becomes a cache of resources for that future self. When he arrives at these stations, tired and weathered from his journey, he’ll find what he needs.

This isn’t just practical preparation, though. The harder work happens inside, as I integrate each new limitation and capability into my sense of who I am. The mirror reflects someone both familiar and strange, and reconciling these images takes patience.

Growing older brings wisdom and perspective—the sweet fruits of experience. But it also brings rust and wear to once-reliable machinery. My memory sometimes misfires. My back occasionally rebels.

We can maintain these mechanisms, oil the gears, replace what parts we can. Regular movement keeps joints flexible. Mental challenges sharpen cognition. Social connections sustain emotional health.

But this maintenance isn’t automatic. It requires attention and intention, and first acknowledging that maintenance is even necessary—perhaps the most difficult step of all.