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I’ve been seeing a lot of articles about the need to find one’s purpose, especially as one gets older. There’s a broad consensus on the importance of purpose and meaning in life. People who feel a sense of purpose live longer and, presumably, healthier lives.
The reasoning usually goes something like this:
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Society defines purpose largely in terms of paid work and being busy.
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Paid work may no longer be available because of age or external forces—AI being the obvious one. So we’re told it’s important to feel fulfilled without a paying job. Otherwise, people may feel anxious, untethered, useless, irrelevant—or all of the above.
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Therefore, we need to dissociate purpose from paid work. Purpose should be defined by being rather than doing. We need to reward people for pursuits they can follow after retirement or during unemployment.
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One writer (who shall remain nameless) even suggested that one’s purpose can be “just to stay alive.” Or “just be kind.” To me, that sounds less like meaning and more like a life sentence—or an open-ended stay in a nursing home. You’re released only when you die.
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For older people, purpose is often reframed as a family role. Many writers focus on the joy of being grandparents. If you don’t have grandchildren, they urge you to find some—assuming everyone likes children, and likes them more with age.
I want to suggest a different frame, one drawn from Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal.
Gawande writes about patients who must choose between turning off life support and dying, or continuing to live in what may be a deeply diminished state. He urges clinicians to ask a different question:
“What do you want to be able to do if you live?”
For one man, living meant being able to eat chocolate ice cream and watch football on TV. As long as he could do those things, he wanted to live.
One woman said she wanted to be able to get down on the floor and play with her grandchildren.
In other words, Gawande asks people to solve for X:
If I can do X, I want to keep living. If I can’t, it’s not worth it.
Now solve for X.
For me, X is living alone and being able to go to the exercise studio twice a week. (It used to be taking Zumba classes twice a week, but they’re no longer offered.) So when medical professionals urge me to take medications that will leave me weak or depressed, I say, “No thanks,” much to their consternation. If I lose my mind, my sight, or my mobility, it’s a no-brainer. I want to be gone.
If you ever catch yourself saying, “I’d rather be dead than Y,” you’re already identifying your X.
This approach forces clarity. You have to operationalize your outcomes. You don’t get to hide behind vague phrases like “being kind” or “living for each day.” It requires acknowledging that meaning, especially later in life, is inseparable from control—particularly control over health outcomes.
Without some kind of purpose, you’re not really living. You’re just finding ways to occupy your time until you die.
The friction starts when others question your X. They say, “Surely you can find a substitute that would satisfy you.”
But notice how selective that logic is.
If you say, “My purpose is being present for my biological or adopted grandchildren,” no one suggests a substitute. No one says, “Just get a dog—you won’t notice the difference.”
But if you say, “My life feels meaningless without paid work,” or “I like being busy and useful,” you may be met with condescension—or outright ridicule.
So what do we offer people who lose the ability to apply their skills at market value? Volunteer work rarely carries the same weight. Arts or sports lessons can be purposeful—but not if what you actually want is to earn a living.
When we ask, “What’s the X that makes life worth living—the thing that keeps the medical staff from turning off life support?” we often decide that X can be replaced, based on our values. I’m thinking of doctors who encourage people to keep living when their only option is a potentially abusive nursing home or an otherwise intolerable existence. I’m thinking of people who can’t understand why older or unemployed people don’t find their lives meaningful.
Sometimes X can be replaced.
Sometimes it can’t.
One person’s meaningful life is another person’s meaningless existence. Not everyone wants to be a sweet grandma. Not everyone wants to be sweet.
Or a grandma.
If we’re serious about purpose, we need to stop offering substitutes and start respecting answers—even when they make us uncomfortable.
If you liked this article, you’ll love my book, When I Get Old I Plan To Be A Bitch. Funny book with a serious message about stereotypes of again.
