I’m 55 years old, on the cusp of 56, and I feel like I’m standing in two worlds at once. In my mind, I’m still in my thirties—maybe late twenties on a good day. But when I look in the mirror or feel the way my body moves, I can’t deny the truth: youth has packed its bags and left the building.

I don’t have the tiny waist I once did. I’m no longer a size 6. My hair isn’t long and luxurious anymore, and my skin doesn’t glow like it used to. My back and hips don’t hold me up with the same ease, my knees are protesting daily, and my energy disappears faster than I’d like. My vision is fading, my hearing is slipping, and I walk into rooms forgetting why I’m there. Sometimes, I tell a story and lose my train of thought mid-sentence. The younger me would never have believed this was coming.

I’m grieving.

Not grieving my self—my mind, my spirit, my humor, or my essence—but grieving the body that once let me move through life with ease. The one that ran in heels, danced all night, climbed mountains without a second thought, and could pull together a day full of errands and still have energy left to go out at night. That body is gone, and I miss her.

I know people love to say things like:

“Age is just a number.”

“You’re only as old as you feel.”

“It beats the alternative.”

And sure, I get it. But those sayings feel like quick band-aids on a much deeper wound. Because the truth is, I’ve never been this old before. I don’t know how to carry the weight of it yet. I’m trying to figure out who I am now in this changed body, and it’s harder than I expected.

Yes, I could focus on wisdom. On all I’ve learned. On the fact that inside, I still feel vibrant and capable and full of ideas. And some days, that’s enough. But most days, my body pulls me back to reality: you can’t do everything you used to.

So, is it superficial to grieve this? Or is it something deeper, even profound?

I think it’s both. Grieving youth isn’t just about looks, or size, or energy. It’s about saying goodbye to the version of myself who moved through life effortlessly. It’s about learning to accept the trade-off—wisdom and perspective in exchange for aches, fatigue, and softness where firmness once lived.

Here’s the truth I’ve landed on: I don’t have to like it. But I do have to accept it. People live, hopefully grow old, and eventually, we die. The body ages even while the spirit stays young. Somewhere in that messy middle is where I am—learning to honor who I was, while still embracing who I’m becoming.

And maybe that’s the real work of this stage of life: to let yourself grieve what’s gone, without letting it rob you of the joy that’s still here.