Like Red Wine

My iPad, like yours, does this thing. It takes photos stored on my devices (usually of my kids), puts them together in a slideshow, adds emotive music, and then gives it a timeless title. Usually this happens while I’m making patient notes and giving their nervous system some integration time. Every time it creates the same torrent of sadness, grief, and elation in me. Sadness because the pictures are a reminder of how quickly childhood passes. Grief because when they were little and I needed to be fully present, I couldn’t always be—and that time I’ll never get back again. Ever. Elation because the game of life is hard and often you feel like you’re losing, but to get to see the world through the perspective of your kids is a gift. I’m winning.

When the video has come to an end and the tumult of emotions has subsided, usually I ask myself the same question: where has the time gone? I can remember, sometime in high school, my dad saying, “You click your fingers and 20 years have passed.” Well, here I am clicking my fingers (on both hands) and realising that 27 years have passed since I left school. My mind lies and tells me I’m the same 18-year-old kid ready to charge into the world leading the Light Brigade; my body tells me the honest truth. It doesn’t shout. It simply whispers its subtle truths. I’ve got old.

Twenty years ago I was a professional rugby player. Two years ago I was still running ultra-trail marathons (testing my mental and physical extremes), and overnight my body said it had had enough. I had overspent my essence, creating an imbalance in the fire and water in my body. I had maxed out my credit card of life force. My soul was asking to be paid back, and its invoices were detailed. I struggle with my lower back. My shoulders hurt most mornings. My beard is greyer, and even with contact lenses my eyes don’t always work like they should. Sleep doesn’t settle so easily over my body. Adulting stress beats me more than I win.

Aging is inevitable; you can delay it (or attempt to), but eventually it overwhelms you. I have, however, anecdotally realised that mental growth is often inversely proportional to physical decay. As we age and our body begins to betray us, we reach an acceptance of who we are and the finality of our time here in this place. As a result, we actually have fewer f*cks to give to the world. We shed the things that no longer serve us or cost too much to maintain. Relationships, careers, beliefs, and values that are too heavy to carry we simply cast off. It’s a freeing and liberating experience (often not consciously) as we shift from fluid intelligence into more crystallised intelligence. Simply, we realise that life is short, things are final, and we become wise to the reality of the world. This realisation is freeing from the societal noise and pressure, leading to a more intentional life.

Perhaps aging isn’t a loss of youth but simply gaining a curated library of life’s best lessons. Getting older allows you to shed outdated assumptions and prioritise what truly matters. When you’re younger you haven’t developed a filter yet to distinguish which battles to fight, what advice to ignore, and where to invest your time. This filter—or selective wisdom—saves mental energy and allows deeper relationships with those closest to you as you invest in people and things that align with your core values.

The weariness in my eyes and lines on my midlife face might not be attractive to society, but maybe they should be looked at as a roadmap to freedom, not as something undesirable. Aging gifts you an opportunity to redefine your own standards of beauty and strength, ignoring society’s obsession with youthful aesthetics. I’m lucky to be married to a woman who gets hotter as she gets older. I don’t know how, but I got lucky. I also have a front-row seat to how Candice embraces her aging process, accepting the resilience and changes of her body with grace. This acceptance of her process is liberating and dismantles the need for external validation, allowing her to live more authentically. It’s amazing watching how others respond to this authenticity.

Getting older also breeds a deeper opportunity to understand the stories of the people around us. The layers of life (the joys, the losses, and the triumphs) that we accumulate as we age deepen our ability to connect with those around us. These layers form the rough edges of who we are, and we connect more through our rough edges than our smooth surfaces. The younger versions of ourselves tend to be egocentric, blocking true personal connection, but the softening of age builds an empathetic bridge to people across generations. This is a social superpower, creating deep connections and a legacy of kindness.

I started this piece with a story of how my children growing up has made me aware of my own aging process, so let me end it with a personal story. Last week Mila and I were hitting a foam tennis ball to each other. Being 8 years old, she doesn’t have full control of her tennis shots just yet. She kept apologising every time she hit the ball beyond my reach or if she fluffed a shot. Eventually I told her to stop saying sorry and apologising for trying. I explained that there’s nothing wrong with failing while you are learning. The glory is always in the attempt, not the result. (This sounds like an idea to be explored in another essay.) She looked at me for a second while I waited for what I had said to land. “OK,” she said, “but if I hit you in the balls then I am going to say sorry.” I stood there with a grin that stifled my laugh. Mila ran off to the bathroom and I went into the kitchen to laugh with Candice about the exchange I had just had.

Perhaps if it was earlier in my parenting journey I would have responded differently. Perhaps I would have succumbed to the dictates of society and reprimanded her for speaking like that. Perhaps a timeout would have been in order? Perhaps something would have been withheld as punishment for unacceptable behaviour. Instead I laughed—hard. I realise she’s constantly competing with two older brothers. Her language reflects the environment around her, and she is showing care and empathy in her own unique way. As I said earlier, to see life through the eyes of your kids is a gift. Getting older gives me a different perspective. A perspective that I enjoy. My body may be in decay, but for some reason in my (our) design it’s the gateway to acceptance and wisdom.

Travel well

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