Image by J Plenio on Pixabay
“I don’t enjoy doing some of the things I used to,” I said to a friend recently.
“That’s a sign of depression,” she replied. “When you stop getting joy from things you once loved, it’s a sign.”
I was irritated. I hadn’t asked for a diagnosis. I’d just been sharing something real in response to her question.
But her reaction made me realize how widespread this misunderstanding is. Confronting change—especially the kind that comes with aging—is not the same as being depressed. It’s called reality.
The truth is, many of the things I used to enjoy aren’t accessible in the same way anymore. And when I do try to enjoy them, they’re often spiked with new complexities or shadowed by the way others respond to me.
Same Activities, Different Experience
Take exercise, for instance. I’ve always loved going to the studio. Years ago, when I received a (thankfully) false diagnosis and thought I might die, one of my first thoughts was how much I would miss my classes.
These days, I’ve been diagnosed with arthritis. (Yes, it happens even if you’re fit). I’m still going to class, still showing up, still fit—but getting up and down is harder. I modify everything in yoga. And though most people treat me like just another participant, every so often someone jumps in with an unnecessary offer of help—like managing the one small step at the entrance.
I’m still going. But the vibe is different now. I’ve thought about hiring a trainer just so I can move at my own pace without modifying every move. For now, I keep going, and people who haven’t seen me in a while say, “Wow, you look amazing.” It feels good. It’s still worth it. But it’s not the same.
Joy Meets Friction
I used to love going up to my building’s roof deck. During quarantine, it kept me sane. But it takes two steep flights of stairs to get there. These days, sometimes that climb stops me.
And walking. Walking! My favorite low-effort, high-reward activity. But now it comes with the fear of falling. I’ve had falls since I was six. I can trip over my own feet. But now the aches last longer. The recovery takes more time. I still walk. But it’s not as carefree or joyful.
Even non-physical activities feel different. I used to take art classes for self-growth or to add creativity to my day job. Now, many activities feel like placeholders…something to fill time rather than build a future.
Then There’s the Way I’m Treated
Over the years, I’ve noticed the subtle (and not-so-subtle) shifts in how people interact with me. Like the networking event where a very young man asked, “Are you retired?” As if I’d show up just to hang out?
Or the improv class where someone said, “It’s so nice that you come and hang out with the kids.” Kids? Some of them had white hair.
There’s the woman who called out “Go ahead, sweetheart” while I waited for her bike to cross a side street on the way to barre class. When I told her I wasn’t her sweetheart, she gave me a sarcastic “Oh my,” implying I was the problem.
A man at a bus stop once asked, “Do you need help?” When I asked why, he had no answer.
While I waited for a Lyft, a woman saw me checking my phone and asked if I was lost.
Another offered to help me cross a street. I asked why she thought I needed help.
“Because you’re old,” she said. “My mom is old. She needs help. So I figured you do too.”
Let’s be clear: I sometimes do ask for help. For example, I’m terrified of fast escalators, and once in Budapest, I asked a stranger to help me. I ask Amtrak staff if I can use the elevator when I travel. But if I’m just standing on a corner, waiting for a car or bus? No, I’m not lost. I’m not helpless. I’m just…standing.
These microaggressions accumulate. They change the texture of the experience. They make walking to exercise class feel like something to endure, not enjoy. I’ve even started taking a quieter street with less foot traffic to avoid the unsolicited “help.”
When Assumptions Define You
In The Other Americans by Laila Lalami, the protagonist is a composer who attends a prestigious music conference—only to be mistaken for cafeteria staff, a trespasser, and a critic, simply because of her skin color. The joy of her performance event is overshadowed by constant microaggressions. She wants to run away.
In 2014, Jacqueline Woodson wrote in The New York Times about winning the National Book Award—only to have the MC introduce her with a watermelon joke. As she said:
“In a few short words, the audience and I were asked to take a step back from everything I’ve ever written… lest I forget, where I came from.”It’s the same with ageism: a stereotype overwrites your identity, eclipsing your accomplishments, your presence, your personhood.
We’ve become more attuned to how damaging it is to reduce someone to their race. But many still don’t recognize how degrading it can be to reduce someone to their age.
I work on books. I stay active. I engage. But I also navigate a world that sees someone who looks like me and assumes frailty and forgetfulness. My actual mental and physical accomplishments disappear. Their thoughtless remarks change the nature of my experience.
So yes, some things don’t feel the same anymore. But not because I’m depressed.
It’s because the world sees me differently—and insists I play along.
