Embracing Aging: How to Thrive and Find Your True Value Beyond 40 in a Youth-Obsessed Society

Last week, I declined an invitation to speak about “staying relevant.” It felt ironic for a 43-year-old, like me, to offer advice to an audience that likely tunes out anyone over 40. As I walked around Marina Bay, I thought about how I’ve spent most of my life chasing validation—performance reviews, metrics, and social media stats. Somewhere along the way, I started believing that my worth depended on constant proof and optimization.

But then I recalled a chat I had years ago in a small café in Chiang Mai with an older British expat. He was trying to learn Thai and laughing at his mistakes. He said, “The best part about being old is that nobody expects you to be impressive anymore. Do you know how freeing that is?” At the time, I didn’t get it. Now, I do.

In our twenties, we’re handed a script: build your brand, climb the ladder, and collect achievements. It’s exhausting, like a never-ending audition for a show where the audience slowly starts to leave. The algorithms favor the young, and industry events can feel like high school reunions where you suddenly realize you’re just a chaperone.

The natural reaction is to panic. Work harder, achieve more, and keep producing. Many people my age fall into this trap, fighting an unwinnable battle against time, trying to compete with their younger selves. But what if we’re focused on the wrong fight?

During my two years in Thailand, I discovered two types of older expats. One group was still clinging to their past glories—constantly talking about their achievements and connections. The other group had let go. They were learning to cook, picking up painting, or working on community projects. They seemed more alive, focusing on being useful or simply happy.

Aging isn’t about loss; it’s about refining what matters. When we’re young, we’re all potential, no form. But time has a way of cutting out the unimportant stuff—like the need for universal approval or constant comparison. What remains is your true essence, and that’s far more interesting than just an image.

When I catch myself feeling anxious about metrics that don’t really reflect my worth, I remind myself: I’m not auditioning anymore. The show I thought I was part of never really mattered that much.

In your forties, you start to understand things that matter deeply—not simply facts but life lessons. You know what it takes to heal a broken heart or how much success truly costs. You discern the difference between mere visibility and genuine connection.

This wisdom comes not from optimization but from failure and taking wrong turns. Young people have a beautiful uncertainty about them—they don’t know what they don’t know. I wouldn’t trade my hard-earned knowledge for their pristine possibilities. There’s real appeal in someone who has stories that take time to tell, someone who’s comfortable in silence.

My friend Sarah, now 52, recently opened a ceramics studio after years in corporate law. She said, “I spent 30 years becoming someone. Now I’m spending the rest unbecoming.” That’s the true art of aging—shedding what isn’t genuinely you and recognizing that your value isn’t measured by productivity or appearance. It’s in your presence, your unique way of seeing the world, and how you create space for others.

I still live in Singapore, in a place that would have impressed my younger self. Now, it’s just home—a space for waking up, making coffee, and doing work that feels true.

Sometimes I video call friends still chasing the digital nomad dream, and I can see my younger self in their eagerness. They talk about metrics and growth, while I find joy in simple things—the taste of good coffee, the sound of rain, the feeling of running despite the aches.

Perhaps after 40, dignity isn’t about maintaining youth but rather accepting the freedom that comes from knowing your worth isn’t tied to fleeting trends. It’s about being present in your life.

Recently, I had lunch with a much younger investor who was focused on pitching ideas to skew younger. Halfway through, I realized I was watching sunlight dance on my water glass, reminiscing about how different my view was years ago. I interrupted him, saying, “You know what? I think we’re good as we are.”

He looked puzzled. People often do when you step off the age-performance treadmill. With age, you realize each moment counts. You can spend them trying to impress an audience that’s already moved on or live fully in the life you have.

I choose presence over performance. It’s quieter but far more fulfilling. And if that isn’t aging with dignity, I don’t know what is.



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