What If Aging Well Means Living More, Not Looking Less
I spend more money on serums that promise younger skin than on experiences that might make aging worthwhile.
Last month: 8,000 taka on anti-wrinkle cream. Zero taka on the concert I wanted to attend. Zero on the cooking class I’ve been thinking about. Zero on the weekend trip my friend suggested.
But the cream? Bought immediately. Because it promises to make me look younger. To erase time from my face. To fight aging.
The anti-aging industry sells war against time. Creams that battle wrinkles. Procedures that fight gravity. Supplements that defeat cellular decay. Treatments that reverse damage. Products that stop clocks.
We’re soldiers in a conflict we cannot win. Investing billions in delaying the inevitable. Spending fortunes on a battle that has only one ending. Time wins. Always wins. Has never lost.
Yet we keep fighting. Keep buying. Keep hoping that this cream, this procedure, this supplement will be different. Will actually stop time. Will actually make us young again.
Pro-living would look different. Completely different.
Instead of hiding gray hair, celebrating the experiences that earned it. Each gray hair a story. A challenge faced. A year survived. A life lived.
Instead of erasing laugh lines, creating more reasons to laugh. Making memories that carve deeper lines. Living so fully that your face shows it. Wearing your joy like badges.
Instead of fighting the calendar, filling it with meaning. Using time instead of fighting it. Living days instead of counting them. Making moments instead of erasing evidence of moments.
The distinction matters. Deeply matters.
Anti-aging focuses on preservation. Keeping what we have. Maintaining appearances. Stopping clocks. Looking back. Staying the same. Freezing time.
Pro-living emphasizes enhancement. Becoming more ourselves. Deepening experience. Accumulating wisdom. Looking forward. Growing different. Using time.
I fear aging because I’ve been taught to see it as failure rather than achievement. Society teaches this. Media reinforces it. Advertising profits from it.
Each year survived becomes year wasted. “She’s 45” said with pity. “He’s 50” said with shock. As if surviving decades is embarrassing. As if living long is shameful.
Each wrinkle represents decline rather than expression. Not “she smiles a lot.” But “she’s getting old.” Not “he’s lived fully.” But “he’s aging badly.”
Each gray hair suggests defeat rather than endurance. Not “survived stress.” But “letting himself go.” Not “earned through living.” But “failed to maintain youth.”
But what if we changed the story? Changed the meaning? Changed what aging means?
What if aging meant becoming more yourself instead of less? More confident. More comfortable. More clear about who you are and what matters. More settled into your own skin.
What if time added character instead of subtracting beauty? Each year adding depth. Adding stories. Adding wisdom. Adding the kind of beauty that doesn’t show in photos but shows in presence.
What if the goal wasn’t to look twenty forever but to live sixty magnificently? To be the best sixty you can be. Not a fake twenty. Not a preserved thirty. But an authentic, full, rich sixty.
My mother is sixty-five. Gray hair. Wrinkled face. Aging body. By anti-aging standards, she’s lost the battle. Surrendered to time. Failed at preservation.
But she’s magnificent. More herself now than ever. More confident. More comfortable. More interesting. More wise. More worth spending time with.
She stopped dyeing her hair five years ago. “Why hide what I’ve earned?” she said. Each gray hair from raising children. From building a career. From surviving losses. From living fully.
She doesn’t use anti-aging creams. “What’s the point?” she asks. “I’m aging. That’s what living things do. If I’m alive, I’m aging. The alternative is death.”
She’s pro-living instead of anti-aging. And she’s happier than most younger people I know. More content. More at peace. More present.
My friend Labib is forty. Spends thousands monthly on anti-aging treatments. Creams. Injections. Procedures. Hair dye. Supplements. Everything.
He looks younger than forty. Success, right? Won the anti-aging battle? Defeated time?
But he’s miserable. Anxious. Checking mirrors constantly. Comparing himself to his younger self. Panicking about each new wrinkle. Each gray hair. Each sign of time.
He’s not living. He’s fighting. And fighting is exhausting. Fighting is expensive. Fighting is losing even when you’re winning.
Tonight I calculate: If I stopped buying anti-aging products and spent that money on experiences instead, I could afford a new hobby every month. Travel twice a year. Take classes. Try restaurants. See concerts. Make memories.
I could live more instead of aging less. Could fill time instead of fighting it. Could accumulate experiences instead of erasing evidence.
The anti-aging industry depends on our fear. Fear of becoming irrelevant. Fear of losing value. Fear of being seen as less. Fear of time itself.
But what if we weren’t afraid? What if we saw aging as success? As achievement? As the natural result of living?
What if wrinkles were proof of laughter? Gray hair evidence of survival? Aging bodies certificates of endurance?
My grandmother lived to eighty-nine. Face deeply wrinkled. Hair completely white. Body bent with age. Hands gnarled with arthritis.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Because every line told a story. Every gray hair marked a decade. Every wrinkle showed a life fully lived.
She never fought aging. Just lived. Just grew. Just became more herself with each year. More centered. More wise. More present. More loved.
She was pro-living until her last breath. And that’s what made her beautiful. Not her appearance. Her presence. Her being. Her life.
Tonight I look at my anti-aging products. Bottles and tubes and jars. Promises and hopes and expensive lies. Fighting time. Fighting nature. Fighting life itself.
And I ask: What if I stopped fighting? What if I started living instead?
What if I took the money I spend on looking younger and spent it on being more alive? On experiences that make aging worthwhile? On creating stories that deserve wrinkles? On living fully enough that gray hair feels earned?
What if anti-aging is the wrong goal? What if the goal should be pro-living? Being so alive that aging becomes evidence of life well-lived, not life poorly maintained?
My face is aging. This is true. Inevitable. Unchangeable. Can be hidden, delayed, disguised. But not stopped. Not defeated. Not reversed permanently.
But my life? My life can be rich. Full. Deep. Meaningful. Growing. Expanding. Becoming more even as my body becomes less young.
That’s the choice. Anti-aging or pro-living. Fighting time or using it. Preserving youth or creating meaning. Looking younger or living better.
Tonight I choose pro-living. Choose experiences over serums. Choose memories over procedures. Choose living over fighting.
Choose to age magnificently instead of young unsuccessfully. Choose to become more myself instead of less old. Choose to fill time with meaning instead of erasing time from my face.
The wrinkles will come anyway. The gray hair will grow regardless. The aging will happen whether I fight it or embrace it.
But the life I live? The experiences I have? The person I become? That’s my choice. That’s what I control. That’s what matters.
Anti-aging promises to make me look better. Pro-living promises to make me be better. To live better. To age better. To be more myself with each passing year.
Tonight, finally, I choose the better promise. The real promise. The one that actually delivers.
Not eternal youth. But meaningful age. Not preserved appearance. But accumulated wisdom. Not fighting time. But using it well.
Pro-living. Not anti-aging. Living so fully that each year adds value instead of subtracting youth. Becoming so much myself that aging becomes enhancement, not decline.
The serums stay in the cabinet. The concert tickets get bought. The cooking class gets booked. The weekend trip gets planned.
This is pro-living. This is aging well. This is the real fight—not against time, but for meaning. Not against aging, but for living.
And this battle? This one we can actually win.