Even when I was young, in my mid-twenties and not knowing anything yet, I felt awe in the presence of “older” women.

When I was 27, I had the great good fortune (I knew it was good, but didn’t know how good it was because I hadn’t had children and didn’t know how sacred the time and space to write was or what a giftl it was to have someone cook all my meals and make my bed every day), to spend five weeks at the Banff Centre for the Arts. Five whole weeks to write! To have not one, not two, but three poetry mentors to take my writing seriously, to help me learn craft, to offer a sense of spaciousness in the work! To hike! To swim! To spend these weeks in the company of other poets!

And even though I didn’t know anything then, I knew somehow that these other poets, particularly the four or five “older” women who were part of the studio program, had something that I, as yet, did not. They were up for adventure (one was writing about her time spent in the Arctic), they were unapologetic in their seeking, they were open to improving and learning new things, and they seemed entirely at home in themselves. They just were. I knew, somehow, that that’s who I wanted to be when I grew up.

Almost two decades later, now that I am nearing 43, I no longer think of these women as “old.” They were between 35-65 and had just entered or had been dwelling for a while in this space of being age calls us into. Given that I’ve recently been treated by a dentist and a resident surgeon both of whom looked to be 13, I can also now see that our perceptions of “old” do in fact shift with our own age!.

Its About How to Be

And rather than rail against my own advancing years, I’ve actually found them liberating. I think a lot of us do. Years have a way of bringing experience and learning. When we hit forty, suddenly we no longer gasping for air under the sea of young children, or the shoulds we’ve been expecting out of our careers, our social status, the perfection of our houses. We begin to recognize our own patterns and deficits, and we can see all of our messy stories as narratives that have shaped us into who we are—the good and the ugly. We begin to see things and ourselves as they are.

Sometimes (ok, oftentimes for me), we don’t like what we see. But now we might have more capacity to grope out into the darkness and see what we can find there. Often, we find other people who have dwelt in the darkness and can help us us draw maps to walk out of it.

As one of my yoga student/teachers said to me, when we hit 40, or 50, or 60, “it’s no longer about what to be, but how to be.” Yes.

Other Humans Can Equal Bridges Across Chasms

In learning how to be, we need real, physical, embodied people to help us. I’m so filled with thanks for the therapist I’ve found and for the existential check-ins we have, for counsellors in times past, for my own yoga teacher and for the teachings of yoga, for my teachers that join me in yoga each week. I’m especially grateful for these humans and their presence because I spend most of my work day in the digital space.

And although I have been known to rail on about the perils of the digital world (did you know there is such a thing as email apnea?), it can also be a profoundly educational and healing tool. I absorb so much teaching from podcasts about the nature of being, daily poems read into my ears from Tracey K. Smith,, weekly meditations by Susan Piver… the list goes on (and on). This richness is something that wasn’t available to us even 10-15 years ago.

These voices feel like bridges strung across chasms. They make me feel like I’m a part of what’s good in humanity. They make me feel like parts of me are not the monsters or aliens I thought they were. These voices have made me feel less alone.

This is the crux: together these voices and the real, physical presence of people in my life have made me less lonely. In doing so, they’ve allowed me to feel the heavy weight of protective armour I’ve spent many years dressing up in to get through each day.

Extra Armour Not Required

Don’t get me wrong; in many ways, I quite like my armour. It requires no change or work from me. It’s weight keeps me comfortably pulled down. Many days I’d like to order more of it through the convenience and non-human interaction of Amazon.

But doing so won’t let me get any closer to learning how to be. To come into myself the way those women poets had. Why? Because we need, as I heard on a podcast the other day, a soft underbelly in order to change and grow.

Showing a soft underbelly often feels vulnerable—I’ve been feeling that over the last few weeks as I’ve been writing and sharing these thoughts. Yet all of the people for whom I am most grateful have shown me their own soft underbellies. They’ve said yes, this hurts. Yes, there is darkness. Yes, I too have faults and insecurities and maybe life hasn’t turned out how I thought. Yes, there is also abundance. Yes, we’ll find a path together.

In the last few years, my husband has found himself in a leadership position at work, and last week he attended workshop on physician wellness. The presenter, bless them, said that one of the best questions you can ask someone is are you lonely?

It’s true—if I ask you are you lonely, I am opening a door between your heart and mine. I am cutting through the surface question of how are you doing? and its conditioned response of “I’m fine.” I’m letting you know that you don’t need to give me a pat response, that I actually really care, and that you can answer yes. I’m letting you know that we are both human. That I, too, know what loneliness is. That my underbelly is soft. That I might not be able to fix anything, but that I am listening and holding your hand in the dark as we both learn how to be.