I may be a little vain, and at this stage in life, I am entirely comfortable admitting it. My morning and evening routines now involve tools and techniques that would have seemed entirely foreign to me decades ago. I practice gua sha, use needle rollers, and engage in red light therapy, high frequency treatments, and targeted exfoliation. Over time, I have discovered that oils are my staunch allies, to the point where I likely own every variety available on the market.
Beyond topical treatments, my attention is constantly divided among skin health, hair vitality, vitamins, minerals, and amino acids. Then there is the physical regimen: yoga, calisthenics, walking, and, of course, a deeply scrutinized diet. When I actually sit down and list everything required to keep my body functioning and looking the way I want, the scope of it is slightly ridiculous. Healthy aging has quietly and steadily evolved into a part-time job.
Lately, that realization has sparked a broader question about where all the time and energy went—the abundant reserves I used to have for everything else in life.
I Don’t Remember Having to Work This Hard at It
When I was younger, the maintenance program was practically nonexistent. If I noticed I had gained a little weight, the corrective action was simple: I cut out the junk food. That was pretty much the extent of it.
I certainly did not spend mental energy thinking about how to maintain muscle mass. I did not possess a collection of specialized skincare devices, nor did I spend evenings researching amino acids. I never found myself wondering whether I was consuming enough protein or questioning what my hormones might be orchestrating behind the scenes. In those days, I could work all day, return home to tackle household chores, and still readily go out for the evening.
Looking back, I did not appreciate any of that effortless equilibrium because it was simply the baseline of normal. My body mostly took care of itself without requiring explicit instructions or constant supervision. Today, however, my physical self seems to have developed a rather extensive list of terms and conditions.
Weight is a distinct factor. Hormones are a factor. Maintaining muscle is a factor. Skin requires active management. Hair requires attention. Sleep is a delicate variable. Energy levels are most definitely a factor.
The truly frustrating part is that these elements do not exist in isolation. They are all intricately connected. Change one variable, and three others immediately register their disapproval.
Surely Someone Should Have Figured This Out by Now
This interconnected web of bodily changes is the aspect that genuinely boggles my mind. Women have been navigating the human experience for quite some time, and menopause is hardly a sudden, unforeseen development. Yet, there inevitably comes a point when the body begins shifting in several directions at once, and there appears to be no single, clear instruction manual for how one is supposed to manage it.
Instead of clarity, there is advice—an overwhelming, deafening volume of advice. We are handed endless recommendations on what to eat, how to move, what supplements to take, and how to sleep, all while we are expected to maintain our careers, manage households, care for families, sustain friendships, and live the rest of our active lives.
I do not believe that women of my age suffer from a shortage of things we are supposed to be doing. Rather, we face a distinct shortage of hours in the day.
Then There’s the Woman in the Mirror
Sometimes I catch a reflection in the mirror and do not immediately recognize the woman looking back at me. Pausing on that thought, I notice something significant about the language I just used: I said woman. That is a relatively new descriptor in my internal monologue.
For the vast majority of my life, somewhere deep inside my own consciousness, I still considered myself a girl. I cannot pinpoint the exact moment she transitioned into a woman, but apparently, it happened somewhere around the age of 60. I am still getting accustomed to her presence.
I would love to claim that I have reached an enlightened age where I no longer care about being attractive, but that simply is not true. I still like looking good. I want my hair to look appealing, my skin to radiate health, and my clothes to fit in a way that pleases me. When someone tells me I am beautiful, I enjoy that validation as well.
I do not believe there is any moral failing in admitting that desire. However, there is a fundamental shift occurring now that was never part of the equation during my youth. I am no longer thinking exclusively about how I look today; I am actively calculating how much of myself I can preserve for tomorrow.
Because I’ve Started Looking Around
That shift in perspective happens because I have started looking around my peer group. I see people my own age who appear significantly older than I feel. In some cases, they struggle with physical tasks that I still take completely for granted.
That observation invariably grabs my attention. It is not born of judgment, because I understand that bodies and life circumstances vary widely, and none of us maintains total control over our physical destinies.
Even so, seeing the divergence makes aging much less theoretical. The age of 60 does not look one particular way, nor do 70 or 80. There can be an enormous, striking difference in how people experience those decades.
I do not know precisely how much control I possess over which version of aging I ultimately experience—probably far less than I would prefer. But I do know that I refuse to waste whatever influence I do hold. I want to preserve what I can, for as long as I can.
That objective is the true underlying purpose of all this modern maintenance. And perhaps that is where the time and energy I once took for granted have truly migrated. Between walking, yoga, calisthenics, dietary vigilance, and my surprisingly well-equipped personal beauty department, I am still remarkably productive. I have simply added myself to the permanent roster of things I am maintaining.
Food Is Part of the Maintenance Too
My relationship with food has undergone a parallel transformation. When I was younger, eating better was an entirely reactive measure. If I ate too much junk food, I stopped. If my jeans started feeling tight, I cleaned up my diet for a few days.
Now, I demand more from my food. I want meals that offer a tangible return on investment. I want to eat healthfully, but I also want dinner to be an experience I genuinely look forward to at the end of a long day.
Some of my favored recipes involve a lengthy list of ingredients, a fact I readily acknowledge. Yet I have learned that there is a profound difference between a dish that requires many ingredients and a dish that requires hard labor. Many of those components are simply herbs, spices, garlic, or citrus—additions that take mere seconds to incorporate but elevate a meal from merely acceptable to something deeply satisfying.
Then there are recipes that achieve greatness through sheer simplicity. A prime example is my crock pot chicken and dumplings, a dish that requires minimal effort while delivering immense comfort.
After making it recently, eating dinner, and putting the remainder away, an amusing realization hit me later that night while I was brushing my teeth. I found myself thinking about the leftover chicken waiting in the refrigerator, and I felt genuinely excited. I was not merely pleased that tomorrow’s dinner was already handled; I was actually eager to eat it again.
That reaction amused me because I have never traditionally considered myself a leftover person. Apparently, my self-assessment required an update. I do not dislike leftovers; rather, I dislike leftovers that lack flavor and appeal.
I have since started cooking with leftovers intentionally. If I am going to invest time in creating something exceptional, logic dictates making enough to enjoy it more than once. Considering the sheer amount of time I now dedicate to maintaining everything else in my life, having tomorrow’s dinner waiting patiently in the refrigerator feels like one small logistical victory where everything alignment is precisely right.
Recipe: Crock Pot Chicken and Dumplings
For those interested in replicating that culinary success, the process is straightforward.
The preparation begins by combining one 10.5-ounce can of cream of chicken soup, one 32-ounce carton of sodium-free chicken broth, two chicken breasts, two cups of frozen mixed vegetables, a half cup of diced medium onion, one teaspoon of garlic powder, and one teaspoon of onion powder directly into a crockpot. The mixture is stirred gently, and two teaspoons of butter are placed on top.
The dish is covered and cooked on the low setting for six hours. Afterward, the chicken breasts are removed, shredded using two forks, and returned to the crockpot. Half of an eight-ounce roll of refrigerated biscuits is cut into quarters, added to the mixture, and gently stirred to submerge them in the broth before covering and cooking for an additional hour.
To accompany the meal, a side of green beans is prepared. Two cups of fresh green beans are steamed, then tossed into a skillet with one teaspoon of olive oil heated over medium. They are sautéed for five to seven minutes until tender, and seasoned with a light pinch of salt and black pepper if desired.
The warm chicken and dumplings are ladled into bowls and served with the green beans on top, offering a comforting, nourishing meal that requires minimal evening effort.
