Let’s get one thing straight: I’m 55. I know this because every algorithm on the planet now thinks I need collagen, magnesium, memory support, and a one-way ticket to a 55+ “active adult community.”

But here’s the thing: I don’t feel 55.

Not just in a “young at heart” kind of way. I mean I still feel sharp, energized, and completely connected to who I’ve always been, just with a bit more clarity and a lot less tolerance for nonsense.

I’m not on medications. I haven’t had a hot flash in over a decade, though yes, I used to get them, way back in my late 30s, before I changed how I ate and started to take better care of my body. Since then? Nothing. No flashes, no fog, no drama.

I move every day. I walk, I cycle, I train, and I’m still trying to perfect the deadlift after all these years. I don’t train the way I did in my 40s, not because I can’t, but because I’ve shifted into a rhythm that supports the rest of my life. Movement is still a core part of who I am. I just don’t feel like breaking myself to prove a point.

Just last week, I was walking with a group and ended up chatting with a woman I hadn’t met before. I mentioned I was 55, and her jaw dropped, she said she thought I was in my mid-40s. I won’t lie, that felt really good. Not because I’m trying to pass for younger, but because it reminded me that how we carry ourselves, how we live, really shows.

But here’s where it gets complicated: even with all that strength, energy, and clarity, I still get caught off guard when I look in the mirror. The gray hair is coming in faster these days, and if I’m being honest, I don’t love it. I don’t feel like “embracing the silver goddess within.” Most days, I just wonder when it happened and why it keeps happening so quickly.

And now, suddenly, every time I drive through town, there’s a new banner for a “vibrant 55+ active adult community.” Apparently, because I’ve hit a certain number, I’m supposed to relocate to a beige building with a putting green and a pickleball court.

And don’t get me started on the pickleball. Everyone keeps telling me I have to play. As if I’ve been promoted to a sport that requires less movement. I still play tennis. I like tennis. I don’t want to switch to another game just because someone else decided that’s what women in their 50s are supposed to do.

The strangest part of midlife is this disconnect between how I feel and how I’m perceived. I’m not in denial about my age, I just don’t think it defines me. I’m not chasing youth. I’m just living life on my terms. I don’t need to move into a pre-approved community to stay active, and I don’t need to be told which sports, clothes, or hair color are now “appropriate.”

Some days I feel powerful. Other days, the mirror wins. But I always come back to this: I’ve built this version of myself intentionally, through effort, discipline, rest, curiosity, and a refusal to accept the narrative that aging is about decline.

So yes, I’m 55. But I’m also fully present, still learning, still evolving, and still incredibly uninterested in being sorted into a demographic box labeled “done.”

If you’re here too, still active, still opinionated, still not ready to trade your life in for a condo with shuffleboard—welcome. You’re not too old. You’re just too real to be reduced to a stereotype.

Tell me—what age do you feel? And what are you refusing to give up just because the world thinks you should?

Join me this year and beyond as I share my personal journey of embracing the physical, emotional, and spiritual challenges that come with aging. Together, we’ll explore the complexities of growing older and discover the beauty in every step of the process with a slice of humour.

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