I think the whole idea of living a very long life gets misunderstood, especially when people see how much time, money, and energy I put into eating right, staying active, and generally trying to take care of myself. At 69, most folks assume I’m chasing some mythical finish line—trying to squeeze out a few extra years no matter what it takes. The funny part is, that’s not it at all. I’m not doing any of this to live longer.
I’ve already had a very full, blessed, and frankly lucky life. I’ve raised a family, built things, broken things, fixed things, learned the hard way more times than I can count, and collected enough stories to bore my grandchildren for decades. If the clock stopped tomorrow, I wouldn’t feel cheated. That changes how you look at longevity.
What I’m after is quality, not quantity. I want good mornings, not just more of them. I want to wake up without feeling like I was hit by a truck, move through my day without a bottle of pills rattling in my pocket, and still have enough energy left to enjoy the people I love. That’s the prize for me.
And here’s the part that really centers it for me. How long I live is in God’s hands anyway. Always has been. There’s nothing I can do to change that. I can’t negotiate it, hack it, or out-supplement it. But do I want to feel good until that day comes? You bet I do. That part I actually have control over. How I eat, how I move, how I manage stress, how I show up each day—that’s my responsibility, and I take it seriously.
The irony is that at 69, physically and mentally, I feel better than I did in my forties. Back then I was overweight, dealing with chronic back issues, and collecting diagnoses like trading cards. I had more “years ahead of me” on paper, but I wasn’t really living them very well. Now I’m lighter, stronger, clearer-headed, and a whole lot more tuned in to what my body is actually telling me. If that doesn’t confuse the actuarial tables, nothing will.
Where it really gets interesting is when I try to explain this to my doctor. He’s a good guy, well-meaning, smart, and very committed to his craft. But he’s spent his entire professional life chasing numbers. Lab numbers. Chart numbers. Benchmark numbers. If a number is outside the little green box, the reflex is to fix it—with a prescription—regardless of what that fix does to the rest of the system. Side effects are treated like an acceptable tax for “better labs.”
I try to explain that I care less about perfect numbers and more about how I actually feel and function. That conversation usually gets me the same look you’d give someone who says they don’t check their credit score because they pay cash. Polite, but deeply concerned.
The funny part is, I’m pretty sure I could outlast him on a treadmill any day of the week. I don’t mean that as a knock on him; it’s just reality. I move. I lift. I walk. I eat like an adult who reads labels. And while I’m not trying to turn this into a competition, I wouldn’t be shocked if I end up living longer than he does—even though he’s in his fifties and I’m pushing seventy. Life has a strange sense of humor that way.
But longevity for its own sake doesn’t impress me. I have zero interest in being 98 years old with a body that technically still works while my mind is gone—sitting in a nursing home not recognizing my kids or my grandkids. That’s not winning. That’s just existing longer.
And that’s really the point. Longevity isn’t something you can spreadsheet into submission. You can’t medicate your way into meaning. Living well is about resilience, adaptability, and enjoying the ride while you’re on it—not white-knuckling the steering wheel trying to control every possible outcome.
If living a very long life means spending the last twenty years tired, medicated, restricted, and afraid to do anything that raises an eyebrow on a chart, I’ll pass. But if taking care of myself lets me stay sharp, mobile, curious, and engaged for however long I’m here, then that’s a trade I’ll make every time.
I’m not trying to add years to my life. I’m trying to add life to my years. The rest is up to God—and I’m perfectly at peace with that.
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