Still Becoming

Notes on ageing, creativity, and caring less about what doesn’t matter

There’s a story we’re told about getting older. That by the time you reach your sixties, you’re meant to be winding down. Stepping back. Retiring. Not just from work, but from relevance.

The subtle (or not so subtle) message is that your most interesting years are behind you. That your energy should be smaller. Quieter. More contained.

I don’t feel that at all. (I mean, some mornings I might, as I work my hip into full stride. But no, no I don’t feel that at all.)

Winter on the shores of Lake Ontario.

If anything, I feel like something is opening.

I feel less interested in proving myself and more interested in choosing myself. Less attached to how things look from the outside, and far more curious about what actually feels good, honest, and alive from the inside.

There’s a clarity that comes with time. A stripping away of what never really fit in the first place. I notice how little patience I have now for things that drain me, and how much more room I’m making for what restores me.

Sure, some things look different now. I’m not chasing the same markers of success. I’m not necessarily making more money. Sometimes I’m making less, sometimes barely any (yikes!). But that’s a whole other conversation about running a small business, and one for another day.

My days are feeling richer.

They’re filled with more things I actually want to do.
With writing that feels true.
With creating because I want to, not because I’m supposed to.

You might assume a creative person like me would have plenty of hobbies. And that’s true, I do. But I haven’t given them much space in the last ten years.

The last time I sewed something was in the depths of 2020 (unless hemming a pair of pants counts). This past Christmas, I encouraged myself to set aside time to make some small, Christmassy crafts, and I found so much joy doing so. And this weekend at the cottage, I made sure to pack my knitting. A baby blanket for no baby in particular, mostly because it felt like a project I might actually finish.

None of it is for productivity. Although I’ll admit I almost always have a fleeting thought like, could I sell these? That’s the curse of being entrepreneurial. I’ve been like that since well before I reached the double digits.

Now I’m leaving space for my hobbies, just for the pleasure of making something slowly. I’m noticing how they quietly weave themselves into my days. Each small interest I return to seems to add something back to me. I feel more enriched, more present (and honestly, more interesting) than I ever did when I was chasing the clock and staying busy for the sake of being busy.

For the past four years, my mornings have begun with coffee and Wordle. From there, I move into work that feels more focused, creative, and my own. I have a clearer sense now of what matters, and what no longer does.

There’s also a surprising lightness in this season. Not because things are easy, but because I’m no longer carrying what isn’t mine to carry. A sense that I don’t have to explain myself as much anymore. I don’t have to justify my choices, my pace, or my priorities.

And maybe the best part?

I care far less about what other people think,
and far more about what actually matters between us.

That freedom didn’t arrive overnight. It came slowly. Earned, I feel, through years of second-guessing, overthinking, and trying to get it right. Now it feels like a gift I finally know how to accept.

So yes, I don’t feel like I’m on the way out.

Wintery walk through Sandbanks Provincial Park.

I feel like I’ve arrived somewhere that feels like mine.

Not the beginning in a loud, ambitious sense. But the beginning of living more honestly. More gently. More on my own terms.

With more room for what’s real.
More attention to what’s shared.

If this is what the next chapter looks like, I’m not bracing for it.

I’m welcoming it.

From my morning to yours,

Nancy xx