I am not afraid of growing old. Let the wrinkles come—I will wear them like medals, proof that I have laughed, cried, and lived deeply. Let my skin loosen and fold like pages in a well-loved book. Let my hair silver and shine, a crown earned by years of stories.
I do not fear the quiet. Solitude is no stranger; I have learned to make peace with my own company. I have sat in stillness and found strength there. I know how to rest in the silence without being swallowed by it.
But what unsettles me is something else—fate. That unpredictable force that sometimes tucks you in at night like a loving hand and other times leaves you standing in the rain, forgotten and cold.
I do not want to become a burden—a sigh of exhaustion behind closed doors. I do not want my presence to feel heavy in the room or my name to be whispered in tones of weariness. I do not want my dependence to become someone else’s silent sacrifice.
I want to be like the wind—restless, moving, always dancing forward. I want my old age to be a poem of resilience, a morning brewed with memories, a sunset painted with hope. I want to keep learning, keep loving, keep discovering—never stagnant, never finished.
I do not fear aging. I fear being boxed in by a life I didn’t choose—a life that shrinks instead of expands.
So I will keep walking forward, not clinging to what was, but embracing what still can be.
And if the day comes when my steps falter and I lean on others more than I would like, I will offer my gratitude freely, never forgetting that love is not a burden—it’s a gift.
To those who carry others with patience and tenderness—you are the quiet heroes of this world. Thank you
Holmes
