Starting Over at 65: What I’m Learning About Change

If you had asked me twenty years ago what life would look like at 65, I probably would’ve said something about stability. Predictability. A tidy little routine. Isn’t that the script we’re handed? By this age, we’re supposed to be “settled”—whatever that means. Settled in our homes, settled in our beliefs, settled in our communities, settled in our identities.

Instead, I’m out here at 65 doing the emotional equivalent of unpacking boxes labeled “Fragile: Handle With Care,” except half of them are mislabeled and the other half contain things I don’t remember owning.

Last fall, James and I packed up our life in West Sacramento and moved to Aberdeen, Washington. New state. New home. New community. New spiritual landscape. Nothing about this season feels “settled” in the traditional sense. It feels more like God picked up the snow globe of my life, gave it a good shake, and said, “Let’s see what happens.”

Why We Really Moved

There was also a quieter, heavier reason behind the move—one that sat in the background like a low hum. We could feel the country shifting in ways that made both of us uneasy. Not in a dramatic, end‑of‑the‑world way, but in a very practical, “we need to be safe… or at least safer” kind of way. I knew my job could disappear with one corporate reorganization, and the idea of being financially exposed in California felt like standing on a cliff edge during an earthquake.

So we made a choice. We looked at the map, took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s find somewhere quieter. Somewhere we can breathe. Somewhere we can hide if we need to.” Not hide in a bunker—just hide from the noise, the pressure, the feeling that the ground was shifting under our feet.

Aberdeen became our safety valve. Our quiet corner. Our “if everything goes sideways, at least we have trees” plan. And honestly, there’s something unintentionally funny about two middle‑aged men fleeing to the woods like we’re starring in a very gentle, very gay reboot of Little House on the Prairie, minus the covered wagons...plus a senior pittie who absolutely hates to walk in the rain.

The Myth of Settling Down

The funny thing is, I thought I was settled. I had routines. I had a church community that held me for 13 years. I had favorite grocery stores (God, I miss Nugget Market) and familiar back roads and a sense of who I was in that place.

Then suddenly I was standing on a Washington hillside, staring at a mid‑century house surrounded by trees so tall they looked like they were judging me. And I remember thinking, “I’m too old to be introducing myself to new neighbors. I barely like introducing myself to myself.”

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe “settling down” isn’t about staying put. Maybe it’s about settling into yourself—into your truth, your values, your voice. Maybe the place matters less than the person you’re becoming.

A Move That Became a Pilgrimage

I thought the move would be a logistical project: boxes, movers, address changes, the usual chaos. But it turned out to be something deeper. A kind of pilgrimage. Not the kind with maps and guidebooks, but the kind where you realize halfway through that you’re not just changing your surroundings—you’re changing your life.

There was excitement, of course. There was also grief. Leaving behind friends, routines, and the familiar ache of a place that had shaped me. And there was disorientation—the kind where you walk into your new grocery store and can’t find the peanut butter, and suddenly you’re questioning every decision you’ve ever made.

And then there was the stretch I jokingly call our “boutique homelessness phase.” We sold our house in West Sacramento before we had anything lined up in Washington, which meant we spent weeks living out of Airbnbs while we hunted for a place to land. It was equal parts adventure and exhaustion. One week we were in a cozy lake house with only one bathroom and ceilings I kept bumping my head on, and the next we were in a rental where the décor looked like my grandmother decorated it in 1955. Still, we were lucky. We found these genuinely lovely spots along the way—little pockets of calm while we tried to figure out where, exactly, our new life was supposed to begin.

But there was possibility, too. A quiet whisper that said, “You’re not done becoming.”

Lessons From the Land

What I didn’t expect was how much the environment here would become a teacher. The trees here are ancient and patient. They don’t rush. They don’t apologize. They just stand there, rooted and unapologetically themselves. I’m trying to learn from that.

The rain falls with a kind of steady insistence, like it’s reminding me that growth often happens in the quiet, unseen places. And the stillness—something I used to resist—has started to feel like an invitation.

One morning, I stepped outside and realized I could hear… nothing. No traffic. No leaf blowers. No neighbors arguing about recycling bins. Just quiet. An occasional crow called out breaking the silence. It was beautiful and unsettling, like the universe had muted itself so I could hear my own thoughts. I’m still deciding whether that was a blessing or a curse.

Becoming at Any Age

So here I am, learning to start over. Learning that change doesn’t stop just because you hit a certain birthday. Learning that “settling down” might actually mean settling into a deeper version of yourself. Learning that moving across states can be a spiritual practice if you let it be.

And maybe that’s the real gift of this season: realizing that it’s never too late to begin again, to reimagine your life, to follow the pull of something new—even when it surprises you.

If you’re in a season of change—whether chosen or forced—I hope you know this: you’re not behind. You’re not late. You’re not off‑script. You’re simply becoming, just like the rest of us.