I am very bad at guessing ages.
Not slightly off bad.
Catastrophically wrong bad.
Case in point: a coworker once brought empty boxes into the office. Baby diaper boxes. Without hesitation, I looked at her and said:
“Oh are those from your granddaughter?”
The room froze.
She stared at me in horror and replied, “It’s from my son.”
Ooops.
Later, I found out she was in her early-30s.
A generational leap had been made.
By me.
Loudly.
Then there was another episode at work. A new employee joined, and somehow age came up. I casually told her I was 70 years old.
She accepted it.
Without blinking.
No follow-up questions.
No skepticism.
Just a respectful nod like, “Wow. Good for him. “
In hindsight, this is where it gets uncomfortable.
Was I that convincing?
Maybe during burnout —when I was exhausted, numb, overextended —my demeanor really did age me. Maybe stress showed up in my face before I ever admitted it to myself. Maybe I looked older because I felt worn down.
Fast forward to now.
On the cruise, someone asked my age. I said 56. She didn’t believe me. Told me I looked younger.
And for the first time, I didn’t deflect or joke my way out of it.
I wondered.
Maybe this journey is showing on my face.
Maybe joy leaves fingerprints.
Maybe lightness is visible.
Age, it turns out, really is just a number.
But how we carry ourselves —how we feel, how we live, how we think— seems to do most of the talking.
Burnout can make you look 70.
Joy might shave a decade off.
Right now, I don’t know what age I look like.
But I know how I feel.
And for once, that feels younger than the number suggests.