My Aging Hands and the Stories They Will Not Let Me Forget
I know it is not just my hands that are ageing. My face is changing too, softer in places, heavier in others, quietly doing its own thing when I am not looking. But it is my hands that stand out to me the most. Maybe because they are always in front of me, always moving, always reminding me. They feel harder to ignore, harder to pretend are not changing. And, this is what prompted me to write this blog post.
My Aging Hands
I have this bad habit of catching sight of my own hands when I am absolutely not prepared for it. Usually, when I am doing something deeply glamorous, like scrubbing toothpaste off the sink or trying to fish the last biscuit crumb off my jumper. And every time, without fail, there is that little jolt of shock. A tiny internal gasp. Like, excuse me, when did my hands decide to age faster than the rest of me?
They look older. They feel older. They ache, they spasm, they sometimes refuse to do the simplest things. Honestly, if my hands were a teenager, I would tell them to stop with the attitude and pick their stuff up off the floor. And yes, it stings. I am in my mid-forties, not ninety. I have four kids, a small business that does not run itself, and a chronic illness bingo card no one asked me to play. I need my hands. I rely on them. So when I see them looking… tired… it hits harder than I expect.
At first, I used to let that sting turn into frustration or sadness. I would catch myself thinking about everything I can no longer do easily, the tasks that used to feel effortless but now demand careful negotiation. Simple things like opening a jar or turning a key feel like obstacles. Sometimes I feel cheated, like my hands are showing me a version of the future I am not ready for.
But if I give myself a minute, the panic usually settles, and something softer creeps in. Something almost emotional. Sentimental even. Because these hands have done a lot. They have held babies and bags of shopping and far too many freshly washed school jumpers. They have typed late at night when pain kept me awake. They have learned the language of chronic illness and adapted, even when it hurt. They have helped build a life that may not be perfect, but is unequivocally mine.
These hands carry memories. Each line is a small roadmap of the life I have lived, late nights with a newborn, first days at school, scraped knees and tears, laughter at the kitchen table. They are tired, yes, but they are full. They have been witnesses to love, chaos, grief, and joy. Every ache and every weakness is a reminder that they have been working hard, even if I am not always gentle with them.
There are days when the pain scares me. Days when I wonder how much more they will lose, or how quickly. Some mornings it sits heavy on my chest. Other times it hums quietly in my hands themselves. The fear that comes with it is real, and I do not try to pretend otherwise. I worry about how my chronic illnesses will progress, how much more I will need to let go of, how much harder things might get. I even catch myself wondering if I will ever be able to do certain things again without discomfort.
And yet, there is another truth. The one that feels like a quiet tap on the shoulder. Growing older is a privilege. I forget that sometimes, especially on the rougher days when my body feels like it is giving out piece by piece. Not everyone gets to watch themselves grow older. Not everyone gets to have hands that tell the story of their life, even if they ache along the way. Every crease, every mark, every line is proof that I am still here, still moving through the world, still learning, still holding on.
My hands may not work the way they once did, but they are still mine. They are still capable of love. They still carry comfort. They still reach for warmth. And they remind me that even when life is messy and painful, it is still worth holding on to. My hands, much like me, are ageing in their own stubborn way, and there is a kind of beauty in that.
So yes, sometimes I look down at my hands and feel that sharp sting of sadness. But more and more, I follow it with a soft breath, maybe an eye roll, and a quiet thank you. These hands have carried me this far. They have done their best. They have made my life possible. And as long as they are still here, I am still here too.
They are ageing, I am ageing, and there is nothing I can do about it. But there is a lot I can do about the way I choose to see it, and I am learning, slowly but surely, to see it as a gift, not a loss.
About me
I am a married mother of four children. One of those four children is our granddaughter, for whom we are SGO (legal guardians)/kinship carers. I run a small business and enjoy writing, so I blog. My blog focuses on my family life as well as my experiences of living with chronic illnesses and disabilities such as ME/CFS, spinal stenosis, chronic pain, and fibromyalgia. Oh, and I am only in my mid-40s.
