Embracing Aging: Why I Own My Older Look Fearlessly

“When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.” ~African Proverb It's shortly after ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning. My damp boardshorts and blue tank top are drying rapidly under the intense heat of the South Indian sun. I feel vibrant and thrilled following my surfing sessio

“When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.” ~African Proverb

It's shortly after ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning. My damp boardshorts and blue tank top are drying rapidly under the intense heat of the South Indian sun. I feel vibrant and thrilled following my surfing session in the dreamlike, warm-as-a-bathtub waters of the Arabian Sea. Consistently riding waves has been my aspiration for the last couple of years, and now I'm achieving it. This is particularly remarkable since I never imagined I'd return to surfing.

The lingering trauma and fear from a surfing mishap a decade ago, which almost cost me my teeth, had been embedded deep in my body for years. As a result, my life's emphasis had pivoted away from athletic pursuits toward yoga practice.

Upon arriving in Kerala, India, my original plan was to immerse myself in an intensive ten-week study period with my Ashtanga yoga instructor before heading back to Rishikesh in Northern India, my previous base. However, a serendipitous invitation led me to this coastal town where I've resided for over two years now, largely due to the ongoing pandemic circumstances.

Fortuitously, this location offers excellent surfing conditions. My comeback to the sport has been deliberate and gradual, building confidence step by step.

For my fiftieth birthday, I gifted myself ten comprehensive surf lessons. I chose to approach it as a complete novice, enrolling in foundational classes to gently reintroduce myself to the board and regain my comfort level on the water.

During one of those sessions, an Indian man in his mid-thirties, who was also in the class, inquired directly, “How old are you?”

“Fifty,” I answered straightforwardly.

“I hope I'm still surfing at your age,” he responded.

He might have intended it as praise, but it landed awkwardly for me, prompting self-consciousness. I couldn't help but question why my age should even be relevant in that context.

Fast forward two years. I've progressively advanced from beginner status to an intermediate level surfer, honing my skills with persistence.

There I was, savoring a steaming chai from a small disposable cup alongside a bustling road in the fishing village, right after my morning surf. An elderly Indian man with graying hair approached and asked, “What is your age?”

“Fifty-two,” I told him.

His jaw literally dropped in astonishment, and he remarked, “I thought you were seventy. You have really bad skin.”

This exchange truly occurred, and unfortunately, it's not an isolated incident—similar comments have come my way multiple times.

Each time, I've permitted those words to deflate my spirits momentarily, like a sudden gust knocking the sails out of a boat.

I ponder in disbelief: How can it be that I appear seventy years old externally when internally, I feel more vital and energetic than I did at twenty-one?

Truthfully speaking, I wasn't blessed with superior skin genetics. Add to that my passion for sunlight and a lifetime mostly spent outdoors, and the result is skin resembling that of a rugged alligator—tough and weathered from exposure.

I used to fib about my age right up until my mid-forties, concealing what I perceived as a vulnerability.

On my forty-sixth birthday, when a woman inquired about my age, I claimed to be forty. She burst into laughter and countered, “Are you actually sixty?”

Yet, this particular chai vendor interaction ignited a rebellious spark within me, leading me to consider fibbing in the opposite direction entirely.

As I rode away on my Mahindra scooter from the chai stall, I mused, What if I begin telling these folks I'm eighty-five? The thought brought an immediate grin to my face and infused me with a sense of empowerment I hadn't felt in that moment before.

Rather than internalizing shame about my skin's condition, I resolved to flip the script and direct it back at them with confidence.

These days, I genuinely don't concern myself with their opinions—or anyone else's—regarding my appearance. I invest absolutely no effort into altering or enhancing how I look.

It simply holds no importance to me, because on the inside, I feel phenomenal, radiating health and joy.

I diligently practice the full, demanding intermediate series of Ashtanga yoga six days a week—a feat I once deemed utterly impossible in my forties, even in my boldest imaginations. On top of that, I surf daily, pushing my body and spirit to new heights.

The young Indian surfers in their twenties now offer enthusiastic fist pumps and exclaim, “You're genuinely surfing and nailing some massive waves these days!”

Notably, they've ceased inquiring about my age altogether, respecting my presence on the waves.

Challenging Societal Norms on Aging

I felt compelled to recount this personal journey because it stirred a profound reflection: Why do we, as a society, resist the natural process of aging so vehemently?

Why does possessing skin that visibly shows the passage of time evoke embarrassment or judgment?

Why am I unable to proudly display wrinkles, gray hair, and all the hallmarks of maturity without apology?

This is precisely what human bodies are designed to do—they evolve and age over time. It's an inevitable biological reality.

So, if aging is intrinsic to our existence, why are we pressured not to reflect our true age visually—or in my experience, even appear older than we are?

I've made a conscious choice to push back against this narrative and shift the cultural conversation.

I'm boldly declaring my age, securing my spot in the surf lineup without hesitation, and articulating my authentic perspective loud and clear.

We absolutely have permission—and the right—to age gracefully and unapologetically.

This mindset has liberated me in ways I never anticipated. Reflecting on my path, from overcoming that decade-old surfing trauma to reclaiming the waves, underscores how physical vitality transcends superficial appearances. The fear that once gripped me has dissolved through consistent practice and exposure, much like how repeated waves erode even the sturdiest rocks over time.

Living in this coastal haven has amplified my commitment to both yoga and surfing. The Ashtanga intermediate series demands precision, strength, and endurance—qualities I've cultivated patiently. Each sunrise session on the mat prepares my body for the ocean's unpredictability, fostering a synergy between discipline and freedom.

Those initial surf lessons as a 'beginner' were pivotal. They stripped away preconceptions, allowing me to rebuild from the ground up. No ego, just pure learning. The instructor's guidance, combined with the sea's rhythmic lessons, rebuilt my trust in my capabilities.

Interactions like the one with the mid-thirties surfer highlight cultural lenses on age. In many places, youth equates to prowess, but I've proven that narrative flawed. My progression to intermediate level—catching bigger waves, holding longer rides—speaks louder than any chronological number.

The chai-side remark was a turning point. Instead of shrinking, I expanded. Imagining myself at eighty-five surfing reframed aging as a badge of resilience. Humor became my shield, transforming potential insults into opportunities for levity and strength.

My sun-kissed, weathered skin tells stories of adventures: endless beach days, yoga retreats under tropical skies, and now, conquering waves anew. Genetics may not have gifted smoothness, but life has etched character. Why hide it? Each line narrates survival, joy, and persistence.

Past deceptions about age stemmed from insecurity, but no longer. Honesty feels empowering. At fifty-two, I move with more grace and power than in my twenties, when youthful energy was raw but unrefined.

The younger surfers' encouragement validates this. Their fist pumps aren't pity—they're genuine admiration for skill and tenacity. Age fades into irrelevance amid shared stoke on a perfect wave.

This story prompts broader questions. Society idolizes eternal youth through creams, filters, and procedures, yet aging is universal. Wrinkles map our laughs, worries, and wisdom. Gray hair signifies experience. Why pathologize the natural?

In claiming my place, I invite others to do the same. Surf lineups, yoga studios, life itself—space for all ages. We age, we adapt, we thrive. Let's normalize it, celebrate it, own it fully.