People often ask, “What’s the point?” But the answer shifts with time and age. At 60, I’ve come to realize that I now think in terms of “last times.”
The last time I might go on a date.
The last time I’ll hike 20 kilometers.
The last time I’ll feel confident wearing a sleeveless top.

A growing list of “lasts” fills my mind these days. It’s scary. It’s painful. I know that too much rumination is unhealthy for the soul, yet it’s hard to suppress. Like any human being, these thoughts slip in when I least expect them.

I also find myself seeing the world with what I call “farewell eyes,” looking at things as if I may never do them again, as if the opportunities have quietly slipped away. Autumn is coming, and with it, a loneliness and sadness that echo this season of my life.

Even my closet tells a story. It’s hard to let go of certain clothes, the ones I bought for special occasions that never arrived, or the ones that belonged to a younger version of me. Parting with them feels like a ritual, a symbolic closing of a chapter that once held so much hope and concern about how I appeared to others.

I don’t dare to look too far ahead. What lies there feels like a slow loss, loss of abilities, loss of relevance, loss of the self I used to know. Aging can feel like slowly drowning, becoming a second thought. Yes, I still have hopes, but they’re smaller now, more realistic.
Hopes to see my family and friends.
Hopes for a fun day next week.
Hopes that sadness won’t overwhelm me.

And yet, in the midst of this, I’ve also noticed something beautiful. I appreciate the small things more than ever: a flower on a walk, a piece of music, a fleeting moment of peace that arrives like a gift. Joyful moments still arise, and I’m deeply grateful for them, no longer taking them for granted.

So I’ll keep looking for those small, beautiful moments. I’ll keep fighting the shadows that whisper about loss. Because even now, life offers unexpected glimpses of beauty, and those are worth holding on to.