What You Are, I Once Was. What I Am, You Will Become.

I read a comment recently that stopped me mid-scroll.

It wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t trending.

But it said everything.

Andrea wrote:

“My aunt, who lived until she was 91, always told me—‘What you are, I once was. What I am, you will become.’”

And I felt that.

In a world obsessed with youth—where worth is often measured in momentum, likes, and how early you “peak”—this single sentence from a 91-year-old woman cut through all the noise.

“What you are, I once was. What I am, you will become.”

It doesn’t scream. It doesn’t beg for attention.

It just is.

Truth in its simplest, most human form.

We spend so much of our lives sprinting—trying to stay relevant, stay sharp, stay in bloom.

But no one tells you how beautiful it is to slow down and mature.

To grow into yourself.

To step into the very wisdom you once looked up to without realizing you were heading there the whole time.

Most people don’t understand this until they get there.

Until they glance at their hands and see their parent’s hands staring back.

Until they look in the mirror and realize the face looking back has stories in it.

Until they lose the urge to prove themselves in every room and start listening instead.

We talk about “starting over” like it’s a weakness.

We treat older professionals like they’re somehow past their prime, even though they’ve weathered storms most people don’t yet have names for.

We shorten résumés. We shrink ourselves to fit into a system that wasn’t designed to honor seasoned strength.

But Andrea’s aunt? She knew better.

She didn’t say it with panic or regret.

She said it like someone who had walked the full length of the path and saw us standing at the beginning, trying to race through it.

She said it like someone who knew that aging wasn’t the end of the story—it was the part where things start making sense.

Because time doesn’t just pass.

It teaches.

It teaches us to sit in silence without needing to fill it.

It teaches us that our worth isn’t in how loud we are—but how deeply we understand.

It teaches us that legacy isn’t built in the highlight reel, but in the quiet, daily act of showing up with consistency and care.

And one day, if we’re lucky, we become someone’s version of Andrea’s aunt.

Someone who doesn’t rush to speak but is listened to when they do.

Someone whose presence says, “I’ve been there, and you’ll be okay.”

Someone who shows us what grace looks like after the applause fades.

So if you’re over 50 and feeling forgotten, overlooked, underestimated—I want you to know:

You’re not behind.

You’re not fading.

You’re becoming.

You carry the maps that others haven’t seen yet.

You bring the patience that only comes from surviving.

You walk into rooms not to impress—but to understand.

And to the younger ones who haven’t felt this shift yet—it’s coming.

One day you’ll wake up with a little more softness, a little more stillness, and the realization that your urgency has become perspective.

That your fire is still burning—but now it’s steady.

And that the very people you once rushed past are the ones you now sit beside, hoping to learn from.

Andrea’s aunt gave us a sentence.

A gift.

A reminder that age isn’t something to fear.

It’s something to honor.

Because what you are, she once was.

And what she became… is what we’re all still growing into.

And if we carry that legacy well—with grace, humility, humor, and heart—maybe one day we’ll be the ones someone quotes mid-scroll, in a moment that reminds them what truly matters.