Growing Old Disgracefully

02/08/2025

One month before her 95th birthday, Patricia Routledge wrote something that still gently echoes:*

**“I’ll be turning 95 this coming Monday. In my younger years, I was often filled with worry — worry that I wasn’t quite good enough, that no one would cast me again, that I wouldn’t live up to my mother’s hopes. But these days begin in peace, and end in gratitude.”**

My life didn’t quite take shape until my forties. I had worked steadily — on provincial stages, in radio plays, in West End productions — but I often felt adrift, as though I was searching for a home within myself that I hadn’t quite found.

At 50, I accepted a television role that many would later associate me with — Hyacinth Bucket, of Keeping Up Appearances. I thought it would be a small part in a little series. I never imagined that it would take me into people’s living rooms and hearts around the world. And truthfully, that role taught me to accept my own quirks. It healed something in me.

At 60, I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could sing opera in its native language. I also learned how to live alone without feeling lonely. I read poetry aloud each evening, not to perfect my diction, but to quiet my soul.

At 70, I returned to the Shakespearean stage — something I once believed I had aged out of. But this time, I had nothing to prove. I stood on those boards with stillness, and audiences felt that. I was no longer performing. I was simply being.

At 80, I took up watercolor painting. I painted flowers from my garden, old hats from my youth, and faces I remembered from the London Underground. Each painting was a quiet memory made visible.

Now, at 95, I write letters by hand. I’m learning to bake rye bread. I still breathe deeply every morning. I still adore laughter — though I no longer try to make anyone laugh. I love the quiet more than ever.

**I’m writing this to tell you something simple:**

**Growing older is not the closing act. It can be the most exquisite chapter — if you let yourself bloom again.**

Let these years ahead be your *treasure years*.
You don’t need to be famous. You don’t need to be flawless.
You only need to show up — fully — for the life that is still yours.

*With love and gentleness,*
— Patricia Routledge

26/07/2025

Oh so true 😂😂😂

20/07/2025

19/07/2025

A month before her passing in 2017, Louise L. Hay wrote something that still resonates deeply:

“I’ll be turning 90 this Saturday. My younger years were filled with fear, but now my days are filled with trust and confidence.

My life didn’t really start to make sense until my mid-40s. At 50, I began writing—on a very small scale. My first year, I earned just \$42. At 55, I ventured into the world of computers, which terrified me, but I took classes and overcame my fears. Today, I own three computers and travel everywhere with my iPad and iPhone. At 60, I planted my first garden. Around that time, I joined kids’ art classes and started painting. In my 70s and 80s, I became even more creative, and my life just kept getting richer and more fulfilling.

I still write, give talks, and teach by example. I’m always reading, learning, and growing. I run a successful publishing company and two nonprofits. I’m an avid organic gardener and grow most of my own food. I love people and parties, have many loving friends, and have traveled the world. I still paint and take classes. My life has become a treasure trove of experiences.

I want to encourage you to consciously shape your later years and realize that they can be the most rewarding chapter of your life. Your future is always bright, no matter your age. Let these years become your treasure years.”

With love,
Louise Hay

19/06/2025

Couldn’t agree more 😂😂😂

29/05/2025

😂😂😂

23/05/2025

On my 60th birthday, I wore a red dress hoping for compliments — instead, my husband’s words brought me to tears.

I prepared for that day like a young girl going to prom.
A month in advance, I chose a beautiful red dress — soft pleats, just below the knee.
Not provocative, but striking.
I hadn’t worn bold colors in years.
But this time, I wanted to feel alive.
Like a woman, not just a grandma or a housewife.

I got my hair done, hired a stylist, sprayed on my favorite perfume — the one he used to gift me.
The table was set: salads, cake, the grandkids laughing with balloons.
Jazz playing softly in the background. Red roses in the vase.

He walked in, kicked off his shoes, glanced at me and said coldly:
“Where are you going dressed like that? You’re not going on stage. It’s not age-appropriate.”

I stood there in the center of the room, smile frozen.
“I thought… I looked nice,” I whispered.
He shrugged and walked past me. No kiss. No warmth.

I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.
Mascara running.
Sixty years old… and all I wanted was a kind word.
Not expensive gifts — just a look that said:
“You’re still the love of my life.”

But his eyes were indifferent. As if I were just part of the furniture.

We’ve been together 40 years.
We’ve survived children, debts, illnesses.
I carried it all.
He rarely spoke gently — I blamed stress, hoped one day he’d change.

But the years went by.
And I became invisible.

That night, I wiped my tears.
Changed out of my dress into a gray sweater and jeans.
Lit the candles. Smiled for the grandkids.
Pretended nothing was broken.

Later, when everyone had left, I cleaned the table.
He was on the couch watching football.

“You didn’t even wish me a happy birthday,” I said quietly.

“I gave you a blender. What more do you want?” he replied, eyes on the screen.

“Maybe… not that,” I said softly and walked away.

The next morning, I woke up early.
On the kitchen table was a note: “Went to mom’s. Be back later.”

I stood in front of the mirror, wearing that red dress again.
And for the first time in years, I saw her — me.
Alive. Beautiful. Still here.

I poured myself coffee, opened my laptop, and started looking at trips to Italy.

Why not?
I’m not old.
I’m free.
And I deserve more than a broken blender and silence. 💕

03/05/2025

🙄😔🙃

18/04/2025

🤣🤣🤣

11/04/2025

😂😂