One of the ways I’ve decided to celebrate turning sixty is by crawling around on my hands and knees.

No, seriously.

As part of 60 Days to 60, I recently went to Boda Borg — a place where you work through a series of physical and mental quests. You solve puzzles, navigate obstacles, and try to figure out what you’re supposed to do before you run out of time. It was genuinely fun. I enjoyed the challenge, the problem-solving, and the experience of doing something I’d never done before.

My knees, however, had a different opinion.

I’d taken a fall a few weeks earlier — gravity still works, if you were curious — and crawling around on the floor wasn’t exactly comfortable. There I was, voluntarily putting myself through an activity that my body was making quite clear it wasn’t entirely on board with.

Welcome to almost sixty.

I’ve been enjoying this project. I’m getting out, trying new things, spending time with people, doing things I might otherwise have kept putting off. That’s exactly what I wanted. But something else has been going on alongside the enjoyment, and I want to be honest about it.

I’m becoming increasingly aware of my own physical limitations and mortality.

My parents are both dealing with declining health right now, and watching that happen is hard. I know where it eventually leads, even if I don’t know when or how. And knowing something is inevitable doesn’t necessarily make it easier to sit with. At the same time, I have some diagnostic testing coming up that’s brought questions about my own health a little closer to home. I’m not drawing conclusions — there are questions, and I’m taking steps to get answers. But the whole experience has made me more conscious of the fact that I’m getting older too.

And if I’m being honest, that scares me a little.

Not the number sixty itself. I’ve genuinely been looking forward to that milestone. It’s more what comes after. What will my life look like at seventy? Eighty? What will I still be able to do? Who will be around? What happens if I need help?

I’ve been widowed twice. I’ve raised my children, built friendships, created a life I genuinely enjoy, and I’m fortunate to have people I care about and who care about me. But I find myself wondering what aging alone might actually look like. Sometimes the question is practical — if something happened to me at home, how long would it take someone to notice? Other times it’s more personal. Who will be there for the ordinary details of a day? Who will notice when I’m not quite myself?

I’ve written before about the difference between being alone and feeling lonely. Being alone is a circumstance — it can be peaceful, even something we deliberately choose. Loneliness is a feeling, and it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with how many people are nearby. You can be lonely in a room full of people. You can be perfectly content on your own for an evening.

But lately I’ve been thinking about a third thing: worrying about being alone in the future. It’s possible to have a genuinely full life today and still wonder whether the people and support you have now will be there when you actually need them.

As we move toward the holidays, these kinds of questions can get louder. This time of year puts a lot of emphasis on togetherness — gatherings, traditions, images of people surrounded by those they love. And for many of us, that can also sharpen the awareness of who’s missing. An empty chair. A familiar voice absent from the conversation. A tradition that doesn’t feel quite the same without the person who helped make it special.

But lately I’ve been noticing something else. Alongside remembering the people who aren’t here anymore, I’m becoming more conscious of the people who are. My parents are still here, and I’m grateful for that. I also know that won’t always be true. So when I think about the holidays ahead, I’m not only remembering the people I’ve lost. I’m thinking about the people I still have, and wondering what these gatherings might look like in the years to come.

I don’t know what my own health will be like in five or ten years, or who I’ll be sharing the ordinary parts of my life with. And I find that uncertainty uncomfortable.

I’ve spent a lot of my life figuring things out, making plans, and finding ways forward. But there are some questions I can’t answer just because I want to. No amount of planning will tell me exactly what the years ahead will bring.

Maybe that’s what I’m having the hardest time accepting. Not simply that I’m getting older, but that I can’t know what getting older will mean for me.

Worrying about the future doesn’t tell me what’s actually going to happen — I know that. But there are things I can do now. I can keep building and maintaining the relationships that matter. I can pay attention to my health. I can have the practical conversations about getting older, even when they’re not particularly comfortable. And I can keep doing things that make my life enjoyable right now.

Not because staying busy makes the anxiety disappear. It doesn’t. But because I don’t want uncertainty about the future to keep me from participating in the present.

For now, I’m doing my best to live the life I have, with the people who are part of it, while acknowledging that I have real questions about what comes next.

Some days that means thinking seriously about the future. Other days, apparently, it means crawling around on my knees trying to solve a puzzle.

I’m hoping there’s still plenty of room for both.

Your Turn

Is there something about the future that’s been occupying your thoughts lately?

Maybe it’s your health, your relationships, your independence, or how your life might change in the years ahead.

You don’t need to have all the answers today. But is there one thing you could do now to take care of your future self?

It might be a conversation, a practical step, or simply maintaining a connection that matters to you.

The future is worth thinking about.

Just don’t let it crowd out the life you still have today.