Who Have You Been, and Who Do You Continue to Be?
I don’t make a habit of forgetting my age, nor do I often catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and say, “who is that interesting older lady?” That rarely happens. But there does seem to be a disconnect between my inner, felt sense of myself and my outward appearance, as well as what’s happening inside my body.
When older people ask themselves “who am I,” they don’t usually answer that question by referring to their gray hair, their slow, uneven gait, or their arthritic joints. Or to issues with their lungs, liver, kidneys, or colon.
An 80-something man I used to know once said, “You just stay yourself all the way through.” Another older fellow told me he still felt 17, which struck me as improbable. But like the late Pope Francis—a wonderful role model for empathy, tolerance and solidarity—I feel compelled to say, “Who am I to judge?”
However, I’m not like my 80-something friend, who felt he was essentially unchanged since childhood. Nor do I feel frozen in time, like the other man I mentioned whose life peaked at age 17.
Most of us are combinations of change and continuity. If you’re lucky enough to have lived a long life, you’ve surely gone through periods of growth and of stasis; love and loss; happiness, setbacks, and outright misery. I’ll speak for myself and say that I’ve experienced all of these and more.
Change
There’s an old saw that has happily gone by the wayside: the idea that people don’t change once they reach adulthood. The science of personality change—explained wonderfully by Olga Khazan in her recently published book on that topic—has shown that we can and do change, especially if we put in the requisite effort.
But whether we try to change or not, I believe we change over time in spite of our desire to hold on to who we’ve always been, like my 80-something gentleman. Or to cling to some youthful image of ourselves that we’ve carried close to our hearts for decades.
I recently found confirmation of that claim by reading my old journals, some dating back to the 1970s, in which I whined, agonized, and endlessly analyzed the roots of my unhappiness. I sometimes expressed pride in my accomplishments as well, recording them in self-congratulatory detail, just in case I’d require an ego boost during some future phase of misery and angst.
Without subjecting you, dear reader, to the gruesome details, I’ll simply say that every period of my life has been marked by change relative to what went before.
Continuity
Speaking of my journal habit, I’ve been facilitating a journaling workshop through my neighborhood association for older adults, and the group has been working on the very theme under discussion here: change vs. continuity.
Even in the midst of flux, we can discern larger patterns that seem to answer the question posed above: Who am I? Who have I been, and who do I continue to be?
Were you always a good student? Have you always been neat and organized? Do you still dislike the same foods you avoided as a child? Are you still easygoing—or, by contrast, difficult and temperamental? How about your politics, religious sensibility, sexual proclivities? Your taste in reading? Your capacity for friendship?
One member of the journaling group overcame an addiction, so change is her middle name.
Yet another member just went through cancer treatment. I’m in awe of her resilience. Her ability to bounce back. And her determination to thrive, despite her ordeal.
But one member of the journal writing workshop insisted that she hasn’t changed at all.
Even I, a changeable creature if there ever was one, see evidence of continuity in my life history: a certain inborn musicality, for example, along with a rebellious streak and a hypersensitive nervous system.
Our inner and outer identity as we age
I still feel there’s a mismatch between my sense of who I am and the person I see in the mirror. If my inner sense of self matched my body and its discontents, it would be rigid and and intensely self-conscious. I’d peer into the depths of my psyche and find someone who has changed so radically over the years as to be unrecognizable. Someone, well, old. Someone full of dread as the ravages of age threaten to compromise her quality of life.
But that is not how I experience older age at all. Most of the inner changes I’ve experienced have been surprisingly positive.
According to the 2024 World Happiness Report, there’s a “positivity effect” that comes with ageing, even though our health may deteriorate and our social circles shrink. How can that be?
I’ve come across numerous explanations for what social scientists call the “paradox of ageing,” but the one that resonates with me most compellingly has to do with our growing awareness of being mortal. What younger people dread—what keeps them up at night—is actually happiness-inducing for many of us oldsters.
Dr. Laura Carstensen, Director of the Stanford Center on Longevity, put it succinctly: “When we realize that we don't have all the time in the world, we see our priorities more clearly.”
No longer worrying myself to death about finding a romantic partner, climbing some putative ladder to success, or keeping up with the Joneses, I can live on my own terms. Spend time with those I love most. Go to a concert by myself (unthinkable when I was younger). Work hard and smart, and take breaks as needed. Engage in amazingly rewarding conversations, even with strangers.
So that disconnect I mentioned between my inner and outer sense of myself be damned. Sure, ageing isn’t for sissies. But it’s also not for complainers and pessimists. Change will surely mark my life as it always has. But I’ll also continue to be that bold, hypersensitive, musical, quasi-religious, cerebral maniac I’ve been since age 17.