Grief, Aging, and the Strange Tenderness of Starting Over

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about how grief doesn’t stay behind when life moves forward. It packs itself neatly into the corners of every new chapter, like a familiar shadow that refuses to be left at the old house. When we moved to Aberdeen, I thought I was leaving certain things behind—old routines, old streets, old versions of myself. But grief, as it turns out, is a loyal traveler.

I feel it most when I think about Willow and Norbu. Losing them in the span of a few years carved out a quiet space inside me that I’m still learning how to live with. They were part of the rhythm of my days, the background music of home. Even now, in this new place with its towering trees and endless rain, I catch myself expecting to hear their paws on the floor or see them curled up in their favorite spots. Grief has a way of reminding you that love doesn’t disappear—it just changes shape.

And then there’s Lucy. Sweet, stubborn, 15‑year‑old Lucy, who has somehow become the anchor in all this shifting. She trots around our new yard like she’s giving us a tour of her property, and in her quiet, steady way, she reminds me that continuity is possible. That even when life rearranges itself, some threads remain unbroken.

Grief Has Been With Me Longer Than I Realized

The truth is, grief didn’t start with the dogs. It’s been with me since the 1980s, when I lost so many friends to AIDS that I stopped trying to count. Entire constellations of people—bright, funny, complicated souls—gone before they ever had the chance to grow old. I was in my twenties then, and I didn’t understand how those losses would echo through the decades. But they do. They always do.

And then I lost my dad and my grandparents, and in more recent years, I lost my brother. I lost my mother. Each loss reshaped me in ways I didn’t see coming. Grief softens you, whether you want it to or not. It rearranges your priorities. It clarifies what matters and what absolutely does not. It teaches you to hold people a little closer, even if only in memory.

Turning 65 in a World That Looks Different Than I Expected

Reaching 65 has been its own strange experience. There’s a tenderness to it that I didn’t anticipate. A kind of quiet astonishment. I’ve lived long enough to see my beard gray, my priorities shift, my life reinvent itself more than once. And yet, so many of the people I loved never got the chance to stand where I’m standing now.

There’s gratitude in that. And there’s guilt, too. Survivor’s guilt is a real thing, even decades later. Sometimes I look around at this new life—this house in the woods, this quiet town, this unexpected chapter—and I think, Why me? Why am I still here when so many aren’t?

I don’t have an answer. But I’m learning to let the question soften me rather than haunt me.

Claiming My Life, One Note at a Time

When I turned 65 at the end of November, I didn’t know how to mark the moment. It felt too big, too strange, too full of ghosts and gratitude. So I did the only thing that felt honest: I sang.

I recorded a one‑hour virtual concert—not because I thought the world needed it, but because I needed it. I needed to claim my voice, my presence, my aliveness. I needed to say, in my own way, “I’m still here.” Music has always been my way of praying, even when I’m not sure who or what I’m praying to.

When I was younger, I really believed religion held all the answers. It felt solid, certain, like a map someone else had already drawn for me. But the older I get, the more I see how human it all is—how many hands have shaped it, how many versions exist, each claiming to be the “right” one. There are over thirty thousand Christian denominations, and somehow every single one is convinced they’ve cracked the code. Somewhere along the way, the word Christian stopped feeling like something I could claim. In this age of polarization, it’s become so tangled and heavy that I don’t recognize myself in it anymore.

Grief as a Companion, Not an Enemy

What I’m learning—slowly, imperfectly—is that grief isn’t something to overcome. It’s something to walk with. It’s the reminder that I’ve loved deeply, that I’ve lived - not as fully as I wish because I always put limitations and criticisms on myself that I didn't deserve - but I’ve survived things I once thought would break me.

And maybe that’s the quiet gift of this season of life: realizing that grief and gratitude can sit at the same table. That aging is both a privilege and a reckoning. That starting over at 65 isn’t about erasing the past—it’s about carrying it with you in a way that honors what was and makes room for what’s still possible.

I’m still learning. I’m still becoming. And if you’re walking through your own season of change, I hope you know you’re not alone. Grief may travel with us, but so does love. So does memory. So does hope.