It's just past ten in the morning on a Tuesday, and the South Indian sun is beating down. My damp boardshorts and blue tank top are drying in what feels like seconds. I’m buzzing, alive and exhilarated after a surf session in the impossibly blue, bathtub-warm Arabian Sea. Catching waves consistently has been a two-year goal, and I’m actually doing it. It’s pretty amazing, especially considering I never thought I’d surf again.
For years, the phantom ache and fear from a decade-old surfing accident—one that nearly cost me my teeth—kept me firmly on dry land. My focus shifted entirely from sports to yoga. When I first landed in Kerala, India, my plan was a ten-week intensive Ashtanga yoga study, followed by a return to Rishikesh. But a serendipitous invitation led me to this coastal town, where I've now been for over two years, thanks to the pandemic. And as luck would have it, there’s excellent surf right here.
Reclaiming the Waves and My Age
My return to surfing has been a gradual, deliberate process. For my fiftieth birthday, I gifted myself ten surf lessons. I decided the best approach was to start from scratch, taking basic lessons to ease back onto the board and rebuild my confidence. It felt like learning to walk again, but with the ocean’s rhythm guiding me.
During one of those early lessons, an Indian man, probably in his mid-thirties, casually asked, “How old are you?”
“Fifty,” I replied.
“I hope I’m still surfing at your age,” he said. I suspect he meant it as a compliment, but it landed with a thud of self-consciousness. Why did my age even matter in this context?
Fast forward two years. I’ve slowly progressed from beginner to intermediate. This morning, after my surf, I was sipping a hot chai from a Dixie cup on the side of a bustling fishing village road. An older Indian gentleman with distinguished grey hair approached and asked, “What is your age?”
“Fifty-two,” I answered.
His jaw literally dropped. “I thought you were seventy,” he blurted out. “You have really bad skin.”
Yes, that really happened. And it’s not the first time. Each instance has knocked the wind out of my sails, leaving me bewildered. How could I look seventy when I feel more vibrant than I did at twenty-one? It’s true, good skin genetics aren't my strong suit. Add to that a lifelong love of the sun and spending most of my time outdoors, and my skin tells a story of exposure—perhaps a story others misinterpret.
Challenging Society's Expectations
For years, I’d been evasive about my age, often shaving off a few years. On my forty-sixth birthday, a woman asked my age, and I said forty. She laughed, then asked if I was sixty. But this chai encounter sparked a different kind of rebellion. A mischievous thought crossed my mind as I rode away on my scooter: *What if I start telling these men I’m eighty-five?* The idea made me smile, and an unexpected sense of empowerment washed over me. Instead of feeling shame about my skin, I decided to own it, to hand it right back to them.
I’ve realized I no longer care what others think about my appearance. I invest zero energy into looking younger. It simply doesn't matter to me because, on the inside, I feel absolutely incredible. I practice the challenging intermediate series of Ashtanga yoga six days a week—something I never imagined possible in my forties—and I surf almost every day. The younger Indian surf guys, who once seemed to judge, now offer fist bumps, exclaiming, “You’re really surfing and catching some big waves now!” And, perhaps most tellingly, they’ve stopped asking about my age.
This experience felt like a call to share. It made me question why we feel we’re not allowed to age. Why is it considered an embarrassment to have skin that shows the passage of time? Why can't we embrace wrinkles and grey hair and own them with pride? This is the natural process of the body. So why are we conditioned to believe we shouldn't look our age, or even, as in my case, potentially older?
Consider the pressure we face daily. From advertisements showcasing impossibly smooth skin to social media filters that erase every line, the message is clear: aging is a failure. We see celebrities undergo extreme procedures to maintain a youthful facade, reinforcing the idea that youth is the ultimate currency. But this relentless pursuit of eternal youth often comes at the cost of genuine self-acceptance and inner peace. It’s a battle that’s ultimately unwinnable and deeply exhausting.
I’ve decided to take a stand, to turn the tide. I’m claiming my age, my place in the lineup, and voicing my truth. We are allowed to age. We are allowed to show the stories etched on our skin. This isn’t about defiance; it’s about reclaiming a natural, beautiful part of life that society has taught us to fear. It’s about recognizing that true vitality comes from living fully, not from chasing an illusion of perpetual youth. The real beauty lies in embracing the journey, wrinkles and all, and understanding that our worth isn't tied to how young we look, but how vibrantly we live.
