Aging

From a biological standpoint, our decline quietly begins in our 30s. It may not be apparent until our 40s or 50s, but once we've peaked, the journey downward is steady and unavoidable. This is simply the reality of life and death—a truth we mostly choose to ignore or deny.

The "why" is straightforward. Like every other living organism, we develop to maturity, reproduce, and then gradually fade. It's the universal circle of life. From a cosmic perspective, this is our only biological purpose. There's nothing inherently tragic or unjust about this process. The only real obstacles are our collective ego as a species—convinced we're special and entitled to immortality—and our individual egos that recoil from death as a blow to our identity.

We live in an era obsessed with longevity, biohacking, and attempts at immortality, desperately clawing against nature’s inevitable design. But extending our lives is essentially an ego-driven grasp at continued relevance. Stoicism teaches us to embrace nature's order, recognizing that fighting the uncontrollable only leads to suffering. True peace comes from aligning our expectations with reality.

Yet there's genuine value in prioritizing healthspan—the quality of our active years—over mere lifespan. Focusing on healthspan means emphasizing vitality, mobility, cognitive sharpness, and meaningful engagement with life. This approach doesn't fight aging so much as honor the potential richness of the years we naturally have.

I've struggled to accept aging at every turn, often believing I look better now than in my 30s or 40s—and perhaps there's truth to that, thanks to good genes, careful lifestyle choices, and genuine effort. Yet, nature’s process remains undefeated, and for all our efforts, it will ultimately prevail. Certainly, we can optimize the years we have left, but denying the reality of our trajectory requires a significant dose of cognitive dissonance.

I'm watching my friends age around me. People who've always been fit are inevitably showing signs of decline—bodies softening and sagging despite rigorous workouts; faces marked by lines despite creams and treatments; ailments and injuries slowly creeping in despite endless doctors, supplements, or spiritual retreats.

Unfortunately, I haven't maintained my aggressive exercise routine in over a year. An elbow injury, aggravated by surfing and yoga, forced me into rest and reflection. I still paddle, foil, ski, and hike, but I've crossed a threshold into a deeper awareness of subtle bodily limits. I've relentlessly pushed myself without much thought to long-term consequences. Thankfully, I've avoided major injury, but now I'm acutely conscious of sensitivities in my elbow, back, shoulders, and knees. Moving forward, balance must guide my choices.

Yet, I know my remaining active years—years when I can paddle, surf, ski, box, climb—are limited. These activities fill my life with a richness that feels essential. Next week, I'll return to the trail for five days of backpacking in Colorado’s Weminuche Wilderness. I haven't trekked in a couple of years, and while I'm certain it will challenge my body, it will undoubtedly nourish my soul. Nothing compares to breathing mountain air, soaking in lunar landscapes, and dipping into alpine lakes.

As I embark on this adventure, I feel gratitude for still being able, apprehension about potential suffering, and a powerful motivation born from the awareness that one day, these activities will be beyond my reach. The Stoics remind us that accepting our mortality frees us to fully embrace the present. So, while I recognize there's no ego-driven universal purpose to our existence, my personal philosophy is clear: Keep doing it until you genuinely can't anymore.