Feeling Old. I Didn’t Think It Would Happen to Me.

Then I couldn’t start over in Berlin. My grandmother didn’t join our summer. And I found myself scheduling regular doctor appointments.

The First Time I Felt Old

I am old. Or is not that I am old old. I’m just getting older.

The first time I felt it was around this time last year. I was visiting Berlin. I passed by Café Cinema, a place I’d been to so many times when I lived there. And it hit me very suddenly: the young faces probably living Berlin as their new city for the first time. And my heart sank a bit.

I had already started over in this city twice. Probably all my firsts in this city are done for a lifetime. I won’t experience that young, fresh, new point of view again. I won’t spend nights clubbing until the sun rises anymore. I won’t leave my little studio just for a drink that turns into dinner that turns into a full night of random people and last-minute decisions.

I could still do all of this. But I’ve done it. And there’s no way to recreate those starry eyes full of wonder, arriving in a new city hoping to call it home. Because the city is no longer new anymore, I don’t long to call it home, and I’m not that young anymore - to trust a city can fix me.

My brother is. He’s twenty years younger, and he was with me as we entered Café Cinema. For him, the city was all new. And when we sat down to talk, he spoke with the same dreamy conviction about changing the world that I once had.

Somewhere along the way, I got a little more skeptical. (Some would say “less naive,” but that would diminish the ideas I had twenty years ago. And honestly, I think they were great.) I didn’t change the world - or even my life in the ways I imagined - because reality got in the way.

Choices had to be made.

I spent my 20s making all the less practical decisions, maximizing for exploration wherever I could. My 30s were for practical decisions, trying to win the game of money. I’m not winning, but I’m doing okay. Because where I focus, I make progress.

And that’s why it feels so heavy to realize: so many choices have already been made. So much of my life has already been lived. Could I have chosen other games to win?

But back to my brother, and that table we sat at. The way he spoke about changing the world. I hoped, - and I still hope -, that he never gets skeptical. That no one ever calls his dreams “naivety.” I hope he changes the world. Because he can.

---

We Carry Loss Like Medals

The second time I felt old was last summer. We have this tradition of a family reunion. Last summer, my grandmother didn’t join.

When someone doesn’t join, not because they can’t, but because they aren’t anymore, life feels both incredibly superficial and deeply precious, all at once.

And we keep going despite those losses.

Our hearts sink, full of holes and barely beating. We try to glue them, tape them, cement them, bury them with anything we can think of. But nothing quite works.

So we live on - with hearts that beat harder for happiness, that sink deeper in sadness, that beat more hollowly for love.

And as we grow older, we collect more and more holes.

There’s no remedy. We just go on, like soldiers returning from war, not with medals on our chest, but with holes in our hearts for having loved and lived.

Last summer, I looked around the table and saw all of us. I realized that every summer, we look different. The table looks different. Every summer is a photograph of a moment that will never be again.

We might reunite there - the ones who can, who are and belong. (Some boyfriends or girlfriends might come and go, leaving more holes behind.)

Every summer, we return with more wrinkles and more holes. Our hearts heavier and lighter, all at the same time.

And I felt a deep sadness because, despite all that, I was so tremendously happy. Happy to belong to the family I do. Happy for that moment in time.

I wanted to freeze it. To come back to it.

But that’s not possible. Because life is always moving. And just when you think you’ve reached some level of wisdom or clarity, life hands you a new challenge, and you feel unprepared again.

---

I Have A Doctor Now

Now, I feel older every now and then.

I feel old when my knee reminds me - three days after leg press day - that I used to run an hour every day at 23.

And probably because of other things I’ve done too, but I just can’t translate knee language well enough yet.

I feel old when I go to the gym, not really because I have a goal, but to avoid my doctor asking, “Have you been lifting weights?”
So I can say yes and avoid his disapproving gaze, telling me that, with my condition, I don’t really have an option not to do it.

I feel old because I have a condition.
And worse: I have a doctor I see diligently and go to all the follow-ups with.

I no longer find it funny to delay appointments until oblivion.

I feel old when I talk about health. Or disease for that matter. Because when I was young, those topics weren’t even a thing.

I feel old when my partner and I talk about longevity - not because we’re obsessed with biohacking, but because we’re both afraid of dying. I feel old because I’m terrified he might die. Terrified of losing the people I love.

That thought didn’t even cross my mind before. I used to think we were all immortal. I thought my grandmother was immortal. I didn’t really. But death wasn’t a friend to my mind back then.

I feel old because I no longer know where my real face ends and my brave face begins.

All those masks I wore day after day feel glued on now. Maybe I’ve become them. Maybe I’ve become brave.

But bravery wasn’t the only mask. And for the others… I’m not sure I’d be as proud to have become them too.

I feel old when I sit in a meeting room and people care too much about what I say. They take notes to remember it.

I remember when I was the one taking notes, trying not to forget what others were saying.

I remember when life felt like all possibilities and all overwhelm, all at once. When doors felt impossible to open - but I believed that if I focused, I could open at least one.

And I did.

Now, I still see possibilities, but I’ve also walked through so many doors already. I’ve seen what’s on the other side.

Those doors led me to the meeting rooms I sit in today. They shaped the words I say, those same words young people so diligently write down.

And sometimes I wonder: what if I’d opened a different door?

But I don’t waste too much time there.

Because I believe the way my life has been written is a beautiful story.

I have a heart full of holes, but just as many patches, held in place by the hands of people who love me.

I’ve grown skeptical, but I’m still an optimist who believes the young can do better. They can change the world.

At those summer tables, we now celebrate new babies arriving. So while we gather with more wrinkles, a new generation arrives to see the world in awe.

And maybe - just maybe - they’ll be the ones, years from now, arriving in Berlin believing that city can fix their life.

And maybe, years after that, they’ll realize: their life didn’t need fixing.
Their heart didn’t require glue.
Those doors were never really closed.