Moses was a man of profound contradictions-loyal yet fallible, gentle yet fierce, passionate and loving. Guided by God, he carried out everything he was called to do, even as his humanity carried him through triumph and failure,

I have a secret crush on Moses. It is said he died at the age of 120 and yet in this psalm he wrote about living to the age of 70 and with a little more strength 80 would be amazing. I imagine he had no idea how much more of life there could be beyond 80.

Aging is a curious companion.

It arrives quietly at first. A number. A birthday. Seventy. Then another year passes, and the world begins to treat you differently. If you’re not careful, you may begin to treat yourself differently too.

I turned seventy a few years ago and wondered, almost in a whisper, Is this the narrowing? The slowing down? The gentle retreat from becoming?

What I discovered surprised me.

One can never underestimate the unexpected joys of turning seventy and beyond.

In these past years, something inside me has shifted — steadily, quietly, but profoundly. My thinking has softened. My sense of self has strengthened. I no longer feel the need to prove myself. I feel far more interested in understanding — myself, others, and the world as it is.

I have begun doing things I never imagined at this stage of life.

I have travelled around the world alone — alone, but never lonely. I walk through unfamiliar cities with a calm confidence that eluded me decades ago. There is something about truly knowing who you are that makes solitude expansive rather than empty.

I chose to study again. To train as a museum guide. To immerse myself in history, memory, and the responsibility of telling stories that matter. To help give voice to objects that carry human lives within them.

As a semi-retired psychotherapist, I feel freer than I ever expected — free to learn, to question, to engage more deeply with identity, belonging, and integrity in a complicated world. Rather than withdrawing with age, I feel called to show up more fully.

One of the most profound changes has been the practice of gratitude.

Every morning, without fail, I offer a thankful prayer for another day. There are moments when memory falters, when I forget why I walked into a room — yet I do not forget to give thanks. I give thanks that I am still here. That I still matter. That I may still be of use.

That small act, repeated daily, has reshaped my inner life.

Travel has changed me too. I move through the world now with a quiet joy and acceptance. I speak easily to strangers. I listen more deeply. And when I encounter hostility, I notice something new: I can choose dignity over argument and walk away with my peace intact. That feels like a deeper kind of strength.

And then there are my five grandchildren.

They are pure light. In them I see continuity, resilience, and possibility. They remind me that life is not a closing chapter, but an unfolding story.

So yes, I am in my seventies.

But I am still curious. Still studying. Still surprised. Still growing into parts of myself I had not yet met.

There is more ahead of me than I once imagined — not in years perhaps, but in depth.

And for that reason, I know, that as long as this curious companion walks beside me, I’ll gladly go wherever it wishes to take me.