At 60, I’ve Stopped Waiting
This year I turned 60.
It’s a sentence that still feels a little surreal to write because, in my mind, I’m still somewhere around 42… until I catch my reflection in a store window.
People keep asking me how it feels. I smile because I know what they’re really asking.
“Does it bother you?”
“Do you feel old?”
The truth? Not really.
If anything, I feel more like myself than I ever have. That doesn’t mean life has become easier. Quite the opposite. The older I get, the more I realize that a meaningful life isn’t a life without struggle. It’s a life where you’ve learned what is worth struggling for.
A couple of months ago, I celebrated this milestone by running 60 kilometres with friends. Most people celebrate turning 60 with dinner and cake. Apparently, I thought running 60 kilometres sounded like a perfectly reasonable idea. To be fair… there was celebrations afterwards!
People often ask me why I run. The answer has changed over the years. I no longer run to prove anything. I run because movement reminds me that I am alive. I run because friendship has become more important than finishing times.
And after seven marathons, I’ve learned that running has very little to do with your legs and almost everything to do with your mind.
Marathon training has taught me that the voice in my head can be both my greatest critic and my greatest coach. It has taught me that strength isn’t found when everything feels easy. It’s found in the quiet decision to take one more step when your mind is trying to convince you to stop.
Somewhere around kilometre forty—when the conversation in your head becomes much louder than the cheering around you—I realized the run wasn’t really about running. It was about the life that brought me there.
Sixty years, three daughters, four grandchildren who remind me daily that silence is overrated, snacks are serious business, and the best conversations begin with, “Grandma… watch this!”
Eleven months ago, my father moved in with my husband and me. Like so many people in this season of life, I sometimes find myself standing between generations, trying to be fully present for both.
My days are full. No, they are beautifully full, and sometimes overwhelmingly full.
For a while, I caught myself answering almost every question the same way.
“How are you?”
“Busy.”
“What have you been up to?”
“Busy.”
“Need another coffee?”
“Probably… I’m busy.”
It became my favourite word.
Until one afternoon, I noticed something. Every time I said it, my shoulders tightened, my breathing became shallow, and my nervous system responded as though my life was happening to me instead of being lived by me.
That awareness stopped me. Not because my schedule suddenly changed, because it didn’t.
My calendar still looks like a game of Tetris designed by a caffeinated squirrel. There is still a private practice I love. There are still long runs that challenge me. There are still grandchildren to cuddle, stories to read, and little hands reaching for mine.
There is still family, friendship, laundry, grocery shopping, and a dishwasher that somehow needs emptying every single day. (I’m still waiting for science to solve that mystery.)
Life didn’t become less full, but something inside me shifted. Instead of saying
“I’m so busy,” I began saying “My days are full of what I’ve chosen.”
Those words changed something. Not because life became less demanding, but because they reminded me that the life I’ve created reflects what I value.
Presence.
Connection.
Movement.
Purpose.
Love.
Growth.
And yes… sometimes complete and beautiful chaos. As a psychotherapist, people sometimes imagine that because I spend my days helping others navigate life, I must have mastered it myself.
I haven’t.
I still have moments when my inner critic gets a little too loud. I still notice tension in my body. I still have to remind myself to slow down, breathe deeply, and practice the very things I encourage others to practice.
The difference now is that I’ve stopped expecting myself to be perfect. I’ve become more interested in being present than performing. More interested in living my values than living up to expectations. More interested in coming home to myself than becoming someone else.
I’ve also stopped waiting. I’ve stopped waiting until life feels less messy before deciding it’s beautiful. I’ve stopped waiting until my calendar has more white space before giving myself permission to rest. I’ve stopped waiting until I get everything “right” before believing I’m enough.
And perhaps that’s what sixty feels like.
Not arriving.
Not finishing.
Just finally trusting myself enough to enjoy the journey.
If these sixty years have taught me anything, it is this: Coming home to yourself isn’t a destination, it’s a practice. It’s found in the boundaries we honour, the pauses we allow ourselves, the courage to change our minds, and the grace to forgive ourselves.
It’s also in the willingness to notice when we’ve wandered too far from who we really are—and the compassion to simply begin again.
I don’t know exactly what this next decade will hold, none of us do. But I know how I want to live it.
With curiosity.
With courage.
With movement.
With laughter.
With people I love.
With room to rest.
With deep gratitude for the beautifully full life I’ve been given and with a quiet promise to myself…
Here’s to the next decade…
Still learning.
Still laughing.
Still running.
Still returning to what is real.
— Carmen