Be Flexible—Or Be a Menace to Yourself

Let’s be honest. Have you become that rigid old pain in the rear you used to roll your eyes at during Thanksgiving?

You know the one. That grumpy uncle who wouldn’t go to the doctor even when he was coughing up things that had no business being inside a human body. The aunt who insisted her 1984 Buick was “just fine” even though it only turned left and smelled like battery acid. The elder who snapped at anything that beeped, blinked, or had a “smart” screen—refusing to learn a blessed thing past the remote control.

Well. Take a long, slow look in the mirror, friend. If the stubborn mule in the room is you, then let’s have a talk.

Aging isn’t easy, and I say that as someone whose bones sound like bubble wrap on a cold morning. But there’s one thing that separates the folks who get through it with grace—and maybe even a little joy—from those who make everyone around them quietly hope they fall asleep during Jeopardy and don’t wake up: flexibility.

Not yoga-class flexibility, mind you. I’m talking about mental and emotional flexibility. The ability to say, “Okay, maybe I don’t know everything, and maybe I could try it a new way.”

Let’s start with doctors. Yes, they’re rushed. Yes, the waiting room is freezing. But refusing to go out of pride or fear doesn’t make you tough. It makes you vulnerable. Same goes for physical therapy. You’re not “too old to bounce back.” You’re too proud to try. And when that pride leads to a fall—and it will—you won’t be the one cleaning up the mess. That’ll fall to your kids, your spouse, or some tired social worker who deserves a medal.

Now let’s talk tech. I’m not asking you to become a TikTok wizard. But learn how to text. Figure out how to make a video call. Maybe even try that online portal thing your doctor’s office keeps mumbling about. If you don’t, you’re choosing to stay cut off—from your family, from care, from opportunities. And you don’t get to complain about loneliness if you’ve built your own brick wall.

And for the love of all things sacred, make a medical directive. Do you want machines keeping you alive? Do you want to be at home? Who should speak for you if you can’t? If your answer is “Oh, they’ll figure it out”—no, they won’t. They’ll argue. They’ll suffer. They’ll carry the guilt of guessing wrong. You can spare them that. You just have to be an adult and write it down.

Flexibility doesn’t mean giving up who you are. It means not becoming someone nobody wants to be around. You’ve still got choices—use them while they’re yours to make.

Because if you don’t choose change now, life will make the changes for you. And it won’t ask permission.