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The Hills We Die On. Or Not

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On a recent road trip, I listened to the audio version of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, a book I read and loved ten years ago. It’s a good one to revisit. 
Gilbert writes of her childhood crippling fears about pretty much everything. In response to her mother’s unshakeable faith in her strength and abilities, Elizabeth would do almost anything to prove she was, in fact, enfeebled. She refused to thrive. For years.

One day, in adolescence, she woke up to the idea that defending her weakness was a really weird battle to be fighting. “Was this seriously the hill I wanted to die on?”

“Argue for your limitations and you get to keep them.”

The passage got my attention. 


My mother stepped off many hills throughout her life. Too many to name. Hills she could have allowed to limit her. It’s not fair of me to choose the one she did struggle with—and who wouldn’t—vision loss. She told me she couldn’t see—with her eyes—what I was describing in detail, encouraging her to pivot to seeing it in her mind, her heart, her memory. She led conversations with, “I can’t see.” “Why do you tell everyone you can’t see?” I asked. “Because people might think I see more than I can.” “What if they do?” I countered, to no response.

Thank goodness I don’t argue for my limitations. (Insert raucous laughter.) Okay, here are a few.


  • I can’t draw/play my ukulele. (Either take lessons and practice, practice, practice, or let it go.)
  • I’m lousy at making friends and nurturing relationships. (How can you be a better friend? Now go and do it.)
  • I can’t take care of this property. (Hire someone. Move. Let go of what you can’t do. Stop bitching. Above all, appreciate what you have while you have it.) [Aside: God love her, how many times did my mother say, “I just need to move.” Note to children: Say to me, “Let’s make that happen.” Accept no shit from my passive aggressiveness.]
  • I’m not good at anything. (Anything? Really? Make a list of what you are good at—not perfect, but good enough. Or do it for love, even if you aren’t good at it.)
  • I was a terrible caregiver to my mother. (You had shortcomings for sure, but did you ever stop trying? Forgive yourself.)


I enjoy good health at 73. I’m in no position to judge people who struggle. And I’m not judging. But I wonder, when the time comes—which it most certainly will—that my body weakens, how will I deal with it? Will simply deciding in advance that I’ll choose a positive response over a negative one, be enough? Where can I practice now?

I’ve been a hiker for the past decade plus. I’ve gotten good at it. Not female-elder-hiker-record-worthy good, just committed-day-hiker-on-modest-trails good. I got stronger and smarter over the years, as I gained the expertise that only comes from sticking with something. In the past couple years, though, I’ve begun to experience the decline that comes with elderhood. I’m listening to what my body is asking of me, and weighing my choices. 1. Quit hiking, or moderate my trail choices? 2. Stop hiking when I can’t do it solo, or join a hiking group? 3. Join a group now? 4. Grumble about aches and pains, or accept them—queue up ibuprofen and a heating pad. 


There are endless decisions to be made in the third act of life—at whatever age that comes. We can say “I can’t” and give up, or “I can” and keep going with altered abilities and expectations. And if vision loss is my hill, I hope I will be brave and lead, not with “I can’t,” but with “I can see it if you describe it to me.” 


Meanwhile, I do more yoga and get a monthly massage. I hope to be a hiking grandma for a few more years.

P.S. I saw the hiking grandma graphic on a t-shirt on a trail a few years ago. I never got the shirt, but I’ve had the graphic on my laptop for a long time, waiting to use it!

 

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Your turn! Are there, or have there been, limitations or fears you’ve clung to rather than find your way past them? Care to share? If you’ve overcome a tough one, how did you do it? Leave a comment below.

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Every single day you live, you make a difference in the world.
And you get to choose the difference that you make.
Jane Goodall (1934-2025)

 

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Over the Hill

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A few weeks ago, visiting my two young grandsons and their moms, I emerged from my bedroom for an outing wearing makeup, including tinted lip moisturizer. I rarely wear makeup, and it didn’t go unnoticed. “Why are you wearing lipstick, Gigi?” the nine-year-old asked. “Um, I guess so you won’t think I’m old,” I floundered. “You are old,” he replied.

I knew my grandsons—and anyone under the age of thirty (at least)—see me as old, with or without make-up. They accept that and would not have said so had I not appeared looking different. My mother always wore bright red lipstick (there are still several tubes in the bathroom cabinet), that was how I knew her and she looked odd without it. And when I caught a rare glimpse of her without her glasses in my young years, she didn’t look like herself. In the end, she wore neither lipstick nor glasses, giving in to her face being old and her vision unimprovable with corrective lens. Is that giving up or acceptance of what is? Is there a difference?

So why do I sometimes wear makeup? All I can come up with is that when  I look in the mirror, I don’t want to look old to my own eyes. I don’t feel old. I feel like forty or fifty, decades both difficult and empowering when I was learning to live my own life and truths. Now I want to look my inner age, at least to myself. Looking “old” scares me a bit, truth be told, especially after watching my mother’s transformation. It’s about fear, not vanity. It’s my own inner ageism.

I’m in the last third of life, there is no denying that and I am determined to live it mindfully. I’ve started reading The Inner Work of Age: Shifting from Role to Soul, by Connie Zweig, PhD, which addresses the issue of how we see ourselves as we age. 

I’m also reading Elderhood: Redefining Aging, Transforming Medicine, Reimagining Life, by Louise Aronson, which is more about how society views elderhood. The author tells of a med school professor who asked his class to quickly, without filtering, write down the words that come to mind when they hear the word “old.” And then to do the same when they hear the word “elder.” Try it! She continues in later chapters to talk about how medical professionals discount and disrespect elders. I think I’ve found a new passion.

Words like “over the hill” reinforce our inner stereotypes about aging. I recall telling my family, planning my fortieth birthday celebration, “no black, no ‘over the hill’ references.” Even then I knew my mind about that. Forty sounds so young at 70! Thirty years ago, I never gave a thought to being 70. But thirty years from now, if I’m still here, I will be the age my mother was when she died. And I think about it a lot.

But for now, I tell people I’m “restoryed,” not retired, which sounds too much like “done.” I’m not done by a long shot. I’m preparing for an epic road trip in October through California, planning to hike in eight of the state’s nine national parks. “Are you going by yourself?” I’ve been asked with incredulity. “Yes, yes I am.”