Yesterday, I found myself sitting in the pews at Sacred Heart in Ocean Beach. It was a typical service, until seven small children and two moms walked in and sat right in front of me.
They were young – somewhere between the ages of three and six – and for the next 40 minutes, I couldn’t look away.
I watched them interact without saying a single word. They were quiet and respectful of the space, but there was an unmistakable, palpable joy emanating from them. It wasn’t a loud or disruptive energy; it was a quiet, luminous freshness. They were fully present, fully engaged, and entirely devoid of the cynicism or heavyheartedness that so often characterizes our adult lives.
As I watched them, a thought hit me with the force of a wakeup call: What happened to us?
I looked at these kids, then I looked at myself, and I started thinking about my friends. We used to be like that. We used to approach the world with that same raw, unfiltered excitement. Somewhere along the line – through the pressures of career, the weight of responsibilities, and the wear and tear of time – we traded that spark for something else.
We grew rigid. We became skeptics. We let the “old man” in.
Watching those children was a mirror, and I didn’t love the reflection. I realized in that moment that I don’t want to be a grumpy old man. I don’t want to lose that sense of wonder, and I certainly don’t want to be defined by the stiffness of my routines or the weight of my past experiences.
The truth is, there is no biological or universal law that says we have to get rigid and grumpy as we age. We often mistake maturity for cynicism, and “being an adult” for losing our capacity to be delighted.
But seeing those children reminded me that the capacity for joy isn’t something we lose; it’s something we set aside. It’s a muscle that atrophies if we don’t use it, but it’s never truly gone.
I’m making a commitment to myself to bring back that freshness of spirit. I want to look at the world with the same curiosity those children had. I want to choose presence over performance and wonder over worry.
We have the power to decide how we show up, regardless of the number of candles on our birthday cakes. We don’t have to let the “old man” in. We can choose to be the people who bring that light into the room, who find joy in the quiet moments, and who refuse to let the world steal our spark.
So, here is my reminder – to myself, and perhaps to you: Keep the joy. Protect the wonder. The world is heavy enough; don’t add to it by letting your spirit get old before its time.
Practical Ways to Keep the “Old Man” Out
Wonder isn’t something you wait around to feel again – it’s something you practice. Here are a few small, doable things that help keep the door shut on the “old man”:
- Notice something new on a route you’ve walked a hundred times. A crack in the sidewalk, a flower pushing through concrete, the way light hits a building at a certain hour. Curiosity is the antidote to rigidity, and it starts with actually looking.
- Ask “why” like a four year-old. Not to be annoying, but to stay curious. When was the last time you followed a question down the rabbit hole just because you wanted to know – not because it was productive?
- Stop glorifying the complaint. Commiserating can feel like connection, but cynicism is contagious. Pay attention to how much of your conversation is built around what’s wrong, and try swapping one complaint for something that genuinely delighted you today.
- Say yes to things that don’t have a point. A silly game. A walk with no destination. A song you turn up too loud in the car. Joy rarely survives a cost-benefit analysis – so stop running one.
- Go outside and get small. Stand near the ocean, under a big sky, or beneath an old tree. Remind yourself the world is vast and you are part of it, not weighed down by it.
- Let yourself be a beginner again. Try something you’re bad at – badly. Draw. Sing. Skate. Build something. The “old man” hates looking foolish; wonder requires it.
- Stop predicting disappointment. We brace for letdowns that never come, and in doing so, we miss the actual moment. Let things be as good as they are without rehearsing for them to go wrong.
- Surround yourself with people who haven’t given up. Notice who drains your spark and who feeds it, and spend more time with the latter.
- Protect your sense of play. Play isn’t childish; it’s how we stay alive. Whether it’s a sport, an instrument, a hobby, or wrestling with your dog – make room for it.
- Be around kids when you can. Joy is contagious. Volunteer, coach, spend time with the younger generation, or just watch the ones in front of you at church. They’ll remind you what presence looks like.
None of this is about pretending the world isn’t hard. It’s about refusing to let the hardness calcify you. The “old man” doesn’t move in all at once – he slips in through the cracks of routine, resignation, and reasonable expectations. The good news? Those are cracks you can patch, one small choice at a time.
The question isn’t whether you’ll age. You will. The question is whether you’ll age into wonder or into weariness.
What is one thing you’ve done recently that helped you reconnect with your own sense of childlike wonder?
