We live immersed in a very negative reality about what the passage of time itself means: aging is presented as an enemy. We are constantly exposed to narratives that tell us that growing older is a kind of abyss that disconnects us from others, even from ourselves and from who we are: it is a loss, a deterioration, an ending. Film, advertising, and even certain strands of public discourse have constructed a deeply distorted image of what it means to live many years. We have learned to fear old age. How could we not, if everything we are told about it is so negative? It is understandable, without a doubt. By force of repetition, the negative narrative becomes an imposed reality. What I ask myself is: what if we are believing descriptions of what aging is and means that are not real? What if the problem were not aging itself, but the way we are understanding it?
In Howl’s Moving Castle (a novel by Diana W. Jones, though better known for its 2004 film adaptation by Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli), the protagonist (Sophie) is transformed into an eighty-year-old woman by a curse. I find this example useful because, in a children’s novel, aging appears as punishment, as a sentence. But it also functions as a powerful metaphor: Sophie does not grow old only because of the spell, but because she is trapped in a life she does not want—isolated, without purpose, without bonds.
That negative myth remains very present among adults as well. Old age as an ending, as a limit, as a loss of self. We fail to realize that many of the things we attribute to age have far more to do with the conditions in which we live, with the way society itself functions, or with a lack of opportunities, than with the passage of time as such. Much of what we fear is not age itself, but what we believe it signifies. It is not so much the wrinkle reflected in the mirror at home, but the fear of how it will be judged by the eyes of others.
Undoubtedly, we are facing an unprecedented demographic change, yet we continue to speak of “older people” (“the others”) as if they were a homogeneous, distant group, almost a separate category, far removed from us. Some people on social media even build a “digital identity,” a form of popularity, by demonizing this group (as extractive, no less). We struggle to imagine that one day—if we are lucky—we too will be there, we too will be part of that group. Does that mean we will be condemned to that homogeneity? Will I disappear into the group of “the others” as I age? Will I, by definition, become an extractive being when I retire? I still think of Taro Aso and his harsh criticism of older people for living “too long,” a criticism he forgets to apply to himself as he continues to age.
This symbolic distance from “the others” has real effects: it prevents us from seeing the diversity within old age and legitimizes policies based on the idea that older people are a burden. Meanwhile, we postpone any conversation about how we want to live that stage of life. We prepare for other milestones of the life course—to work, to have children, to be adults—except for aging, as if these were atomized and disconnected spaces. As if those who produced and contributed to the public coffers and to the construction of the country and society were no longer part of it, as if they now got in the way and their contribution to what exists today were forgotten. As if, once detached from work, we were no longer worthy of belonging to the whole.
This largely explains (though not exclusively) the existential void that follows retirement. We have organized our lives around work. And when work disappears, we do not know what to do with time or, above all, with identity. Socializing becomes difficult because we have never practiced it without the structure of work, without obligation. We didn’t have time! And suddenly, a kind of suspended time appears, which, although it could become an opportunity and a reconnection with oneself, turns into emptiness. Into the absence of the self.
The question is not only what we will do “when we retire,” but how we plan to build a meaningful life beyond employment. Where do we cultivate friendships? What spaces allow us to feel that we belong? How do we imagine a day that does not revolve around producing? In some of my work, I have tried to delve into the importance of cultivating relationships before the labor structure disappears. But perhaps wanting it is not enough to make it real.
I want to insist on this. Relationships matter. They are probably one of the most important aspects of living a full life. But how much real time do work—and everyday inequalities—leave us to build community? To have friendships at eighty, one must have had opportunities to build them at forty, fifty, sixty. That is why I insist (and repeat myself) that it is not enough to wish for this sociability in order to be able to develop it, to carry it out.
As I said in a recent post, aging well is not only an individual responsibility. We talk a lot about habits: exercising, eating well, staying active. But we talk very little about context. Aging well also means having emotional stability, not living in poverty, having access to transportation, adequate housing, spaces to participate, and support networks. And friendships, meaning and purpose, a sense of belonging and integration into the complex social fabric of which we are not merely nominally a part. Insisting on reducing quality aging to an individual matter is profoundly unfair. You cannot “age well” if the entire surrounding structure pushes in the opposite direction.
Along these lines, let us remember once again that aging is not an event marked by a magical threshold; it is a process. Longevity is an achievement, but it will not feel like one if we are not capable, as a society, of turning it into a collective opportunity: involving older people in decision-making, strengthening their presence in public life, rethinking environments, cities, services, and ways of living together. Extending life is meaningless if, first, we are not incorporating “good years,” with physical and economic well-being and health, and if, second, we are not able to adapt society to this new temporal reality.
The shared responsibility is to build societies in which living more years is synonymous with living them well.
