Goodbye, Dear 60s (Humor, Wit, and Truth)

Dear 60s,
Now I am 69,  
about to leave you.  
I did not rush into you —  
you arrived quietly,  
like a bill I forgot to pay.  

But I am walking out of you  
with a steadiness
I did not have before  
(and with joints that now file complaints).

You were the decade  
where power stopped performing  
and started breathing.  
Where leadership softened into presence,  
and presence became just enough —  
because at this age,  
nobody has the energy to pretend anymore.

You taught me that strength  
does not always stride or speak;  
sometimes it sits there,  
listens,  
and lets the room come to it  
because getting up too fast  
is a gamble.

In my 60s,  
trust grew deeper roots.  
Not the trust of youth,  
but the trust of a man  
who has lived enough life  
to know what deserves his energy  
and what deserves his silence  
(and what deserves being ignored entirely).

I trusted my gut instincts better.  
I knew that I knew,  
and that was enough.  
Besides, at this age,  
your gut speaks louder than your friends.

You were the decade  
where faith guided  
what control never could.  
Where I learned to release  
or simply let go  
what I once gripped too tightly,   
including expectations,  
old grudges,  
and the idea 
that I could still eat 
anything after 9 p.m.

And yes,  
I am losing friends to death,  
one by one.  

Mortality stopped being a rumor  
and became a neighbor  
who visits unannounced.  

I will miss them.  
But their absence taught me  
to live with more gratitude,  
more laughter,  
and more urgency  
for the moments that remain.

I watched the world speed up,  
but I slowed down,  
not out of weakness,  
but out of wisdom  
(and because my back insisted).  

I chose intention over impulse,  
meaning over motion,  
and comfortable shoes over everything.  
I was a lot wiser now.

Dear 60s, 
you shaped my legacy quietly.  
In the way I spoke truth  
without trembling.  
In the way I loved  
without hesitation.  
In the way I stood  
without needing validation  
because at this age,  
you stop auditioning  
for people who aren’t even in your movie.

You were the decade  
where I became fluent in myself.  
And confidence became  
silent, resilient humility . . .   
the kind that says,  
“I know who I am,  
and I also know where I put my glasses…  
eventually.”

And now,  
as I step toward the next horizon,  
I leave you with gratitude  
for the lessons,  
the clarity,  
the peace,  
and the discounts.

Goodbye, dear 60s.  
You were a decade of intentional power.  
A decade that refined me.  
A decade that prepared me  
for everything still ahead.

Hello, Dear 70s . . . here I come, 
be gentle with me.

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© Dr. Ivan Edwards — All rights reserved.