11/12/2024
Just a heads up that this is a long one today. I am doing my yearly reflection a little early this year.
On Aging, Identity, and Finding My Place in a Foreign Land
I never really knew what 70 would feel like, but I can tell you that it wasn’t what I expected. Growing up, I watched my parents and grandmothers grow older, each navigating their 70s, 80s, and even 90s. My grandfathers didn’t fare as well—they passed earlier, long before their later years could unfold. I lost both my parents by the time I was 60, which, in some ways, feels like a stark contrast to the timeline of my father, who lost his own father at 41. But that’s the thing about aging: there’s no clear template. Everyone’s journey is unique, shaped by circumstances, choices, and a lot of things outside our control.
As I’ve entered my own later years, I’ve realized that I don’t have many aging role models—at least not ones who reflect my experiences. The advice I see online is often too general, too focused on maintaining physical health or “staying active,” and doesn’t address the deeper, more existential questions I have about aging. There’s very little guidance out there for those of us who have lived outside the conventional norms, and sometimes it feels like my aging experience doesn’t align with mainstream ideas of what growing older should look like.
One of the things I’ve come to understand is how much my life as a "minority," despite being white, has influenced my experience of aging. When you’re living in a place where your race isn’t the majority, you see yourself—and your aging process—through a very different lens. I’ve spent most of my adult life in communities that were predominantly Asian—first in Hawaii, and now in Thailand. While I’ve always been treated with kindness and respect, I’m keenly aware that, in many ways, I’m an outsider. The cultural norms, expectations, and ways of thinking about aging are different from what I might have encountered had I stayed in the United States or elsewhere in the West.
This is a complicated feeling. As a white person living in these communities, I’m constantly aware of my difference. I’m not fully part of the cultural fabric in the same way someone born and raised here would be. There’s a subtle, but constant, awareness that my experiences are shaped by being "other." I’ve often wondered how much this sense of being an outsider influences how I view aging, how I feel about my place in society, and even how I process loss, memory, and change. It’s not just about feeling different from the dominant culture—it’s about being in a space where there are different expectations for what it means to age, where age itself is viewed through a different cultural lens.
On top of this, I moved to a foreign country when I was 23. I wasn’t one of those retirees who packed up and moved to Thailand or Hawaii later in life to "enjoy my golden years." Instead, I was a young adult, building a life from scratch in a completely different culture. Because of that, the things I might have experienced as a younger person in the States—like the gradual shifts in identity and life stages that come with getting older—were never the same for me. In many ways, I skipped over a shared American experience, the one that would have shaped my understanding of how to age in that context. Instead, I’ve lived in countries where the idea of retirement, of aging, and of generational roles is vastly different.
This shift has meant fewer shared experiences with people around me who are also aging. Many of the people I know here in Thailand—whether expats or locals—have either not lived in other countries or they’re at different stages of their lives. The people who moved here later in life have their own narratives, ones shaped by their own time and culture. But I arrived young, when everything was still unfolding. My relationships are often built around the present rather than the shared history of growing up or aging together. In this sense, it feels like there’s a gap—a gap that only widens as I get older. I’m not sharing that collective journey into retirement with anyone who has walked a similar path.
I often think about the older people I knew in my family—my parents, my grandparents—and wonder how their experiences of aging would have been different if they had lived in a place like Thailand. I imagine it would have been an entirely different experience for them, just as it’s been for me. And that, in itself, makes me feel like my own aging journey is a bit of an anomaly. My sense of identity has been shaped by the fluidity of cultures I’ve lived in, but that fluidity also means I’m often trying to reconcile my own sense of self with the aging models available to me. There’s no easy reference point.
In addition to that, I got married in Thailand, later in life—when I was 43—to my wife, who was 23 at the time. We chose a different path, one that was less conventional and more oriented toward an active, healthy lifestyle, free from the traditional expectations of family and children. No kids, no grandchildren to think about—just the two of us, living our lives in ways that keep us physically fit and mentally engaged. While this lifestyle has offered us incredible freedom and flexibility, it’s also further distanced us from the conventional experiences of many people my age. In some ways, we’re not just out of sync with the expectations of my parents’ generation, but even with those of others who are aging today. We don’t have the same family dynamics, the same generational ties that bind, and that’s made it harder to relate to others as I age.
There’s a sense that we’ve opted out of the traditional framework—one where retirement is often spent with children and grandchildren, and where aging is marked by certain societal milestones. Instead, we’ve created our own version of what it means to grow older, but it’s not a version that always has a clear community or set of role models to follow. In some ways, I envy those who have a clear trajectory, who are surrounded by family and familiar generational expectations. But I also recognize that my wife and I have chosen a different way of living that allows us to remain engaged with the world in a more personal, flexible way.
For those who have lived in the U.S. or in more traditional societies, it might be easier to find role models, people who can help make sense of the inevitable shifts that come with aging. But for me, that doesn’t exist. The world I’ve inhabited—first in Hawaii, now in Thailand—hasn’t provided that same sense of continuity. The transition to 70, or any other age, doesn’t come with a community of people who are walking the same path, dealing with the same generational shifts, or adjusting to the same societal pressures.
In many ways, it feels like I’ve lived in a series of parallel worlds—one shaped by Western ideas and another shaped by Eastern influences—both of which have offered unique perspectives but also left me feeling somewhat untethered from any one community. And so, I continue my search for insight, often finding glimpses in podcasts or the rare conversation with someone who, like me, has spent a large part of their life navigating between cultures.
As I approach my 70s, I realize that part of this journey is not just about finding ways to stay healthy or active. It’s about navigating the complex web of identity, belonging, and the continuous process of redefining what aging means when the norms I’ve known have always been in flux. There’s no roadmap, no easy answers. But that, too, is part of the journey. And perhaps, in the end, it’s about embracing the unknown, even as we grow older, and finding ways to make peace with the fact that aging, like everything else in life, is a deeply personal experience.
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