Running Up That Hill

I'll never forget the first time I watched my dad struggle to get out of a chair.

I remember wondering, When did this start?

Of course, it hadn't started that day. It had been happening almost invisibly for years. Strength disappearing a little at a time. Balance becoming less certain. I had simply noticed it for the first time.

Even once he'd managed to stagger to his feet, he looked so unsteady I thought he was going to fall.

That moment has stayed with me ever since.

These days we're all talking about longevity.

We measure our biological age. We count our steps. We eat more protein. We wear watches that tell us how well we've slept, and apps that reassure us we're two years younger than our passport suggests.

But I've realised I'm asking a slightly different question.

I'm not particularly interested in living longer.

I'm interested in staying free.

Because the opposite of ageing isn't youth.

It's freedom.

Freedom is walking into the sea because it looks irresistible.

It's taking the long way round just because you can.

It's deciding to explore the old streets instead of waiting in the café.

It's getting down onto the floor with a child and not wondering how you're going to get back up again.

It's carrying your own bag.

It's dancing for as long as you're enjoying the music.

It's still being the person who says, "Yes, let's do that."

The thing that worries me about growing older has very little to do with wrinkles.

(Although, if we're being honest, I'm not completely indifferent.)

I don't spend much time thinking about grey hair or birthdays ending in increasingly alarming numbers.

What genuinely frightens me is the thought of my world becoming smaller.

Of quietly beginning sentences with:

"I can't really..."

I can't walk that far.

I can't get down there.

I can't manage the stairs.

"You go on without me."

Those five words break my heart.

Because they don't simply describe what the body can no longer do.

They describe the life that slowly stops being lived.

Movement has always been important to me, but never more than it is now.

It's not a punishment.

I'm not trying to earn dessert.

I move because it feels wonderful.

I love cycling for the sheer joy of moving through the landscape under my own steam.

I love stepping into cold water and suddenly every nerve ending remembers it's alive. (maybe a bit of an exaggeration 🤣)

I love walking to the top of a hill and discovering the view was worth the sweat and the steps.

I even love those mornings when yoga feels creaky at first and then, somewhere around twenty minutes in, my body remembers itself.

Movement doesn't just keep me fit.

It makes me feel gloriously alive.

Yoga is one of the ways I practise freedom.

It's not about impossible postures.

It's about ordinary ones.

Can I balance on one leg?

Can I turn and look over my shoulder?

Can I squat down?

Can I stand back up without making the sort of noise that suggests I may never move again?

Those ordinary movements are easy to overlook precisely because they're ordinary.

Until one day they aren't.

I don't know how long I'll live.

None of us do.

But I do know the sort of life I'd like to be living while I'm here.

I want my world to stay as big as possible for as long as possible.

I want to keep saying yes.

Yes to the walk.

Yes to the swim.

Yes to the bike ride.

Yes to the unexpected invitation.

Yes to getting down on the floor.

Yes to getting back up again.

Because freedom isn't something we lose all at once.

We lose it a little at a time.

And thankfully, we can protect it in exactly the same way.

One walk.

One bike ride.

One yoga practice.

One ordinary day of moving well.

Because in the end, the size of our world isn't decided by our age.

It's decided by what we're still able—and willing—to say yes to.