I didn’t wake up one morning in my seventies feeling like a teenager.

It happened quietly, the way sunrise creeps across the kitchen floor.

What surprised me wasn’t the absence of aches (they still RSVP).

It was the presence of energy, curiosity, and an almost mischievous optimism. I’m not special.

I just built a handful of habits that make feeling young less of a mood and more of a system.

Below are the 11 that made the biggest difference.

1. I move like it’s my job

My former career trained me to show up on time. Now I apply the same discipline to movement.

I walk first thing—fifteen minutes, no debate, rain jacket by the door.

I add small “movement snacks” throughout the day: two sets of air squats while the kettle boils, calf raises on the stairs, a stretch while waiting for the printer.

The trick isn’t intensity; it’s inevitability. I don’t “try to exercise.” I have appointments with my body, and I don’t miss meetings.

2. I lift what life asks me to lift

Cardio keeps the engine humming, but strength keeps the doors opening.

Twice a week I pick up heavy things: dumbbells, grocery bags, grandkids.

Nothing heroic—just hinge, squat, push, pull. I want to be the guy who moves the suitcase to the overhead bin without turning it into a group project.

Muscle is independence insurance. It also improves balance, posture, and the subtle confidence of being sturdy.

Last summer, my daughter called while I was tidying the garage. “Dad, can you help move Mom’s old planter boxes?”

Those cedar monsters had been sun-soaked and waterlogged for years. We tipped one together, and I felt my back brace instinctively, knees doing the work my ego once would have stolen.

Ten minutes later they were on a new patch of soil, and my wife was smiling at the little herb garden she’d wanted for ages.

That evening, my grandson climbed onto my lap with a sprig of mint and called it “Grandpa’s garden.”

It wasn’t the weight I lifted that mattered; it was what I could still lift for the people I love.

3. I protect sleep like a dragon guards treasure

Sleep is the multiplier.

If I shortchange it, every other habit becomes harder and more negotiable.

My rules are boring and effective: no caffeine after midday, a cool dark room, the same bedtime most nights, and a book that isn’t thrilling enough to keep me up.

I learned to treat late-night worries like telemarketers—don’t engage.

If I wake at 3 a.m., I breathe slow and count down from 300. I usually don’t make it to 240.

4. I eat simple, not saintly

Here’s the plan: mostly plants, adequate protein, and meals I can assemble without a chemistry degree.

Breakfast is eggs or yogurt and fruit. Lunch is soup or a big salad with a handful of beans or chicken.

Dinner is whatever keeps me honest without feeling punished.

I drink water like it’s a habit (because it is). I keep treats in single servings—two cookies feel like pleasure; a sleeve feels like regret.

I don’t do food guilt. I do course correction.

5. I calendar purpose, not just tasks

Retirement can feel like an endless Saturday until it feels like nothing at all. I need reasons to get out the door.

So I schedule them. Coffee with a friend. Volunteering at the community center.

A museum hour on Wednesdays.

If meaning doesn’t make the calendar, it rarely happens.

When I put “call my brother” on the same list as “renew driver’s license,” both get done and my day feels rounder.

Momentum isn’t mysterious; it’s scheduled.

6. I practice mentorship because it feeds both sides

There’s an old saying: “To teach is to learn twice.”

I’ve found it’s also a shortcut to feeling alive.

I mentor a couple of younger managers, mostly by asking good questions and sharing the mistakes I’ve already paid for.

They bring me fresh eyes and new tools; I offer them scar tissue and shortcuts.

Everybody wins. If you want proof that age is an asset, lend yours to someone who needs it.

7. I keep intergenerational friendships on purpose

Most of my neighbors are not my age, and that’s a feature, not a bug.

I have buddies in their thirties who text me about career knots, and older friends who model the decade ahead.

We swap playlists and recipes. We trade babysitting for tech support.

I’ve learned that feeling young has less to do with the year on your birth certificate and more to do with the mix of ages at your table.

Variety is vitality.

8. I audit my inputs (and put the doom on a diet)

We are what we repeatedly consume.

If I mainline outrage and catastrophe, I show up brittle and suspicious.

So I run a simple “input audit” every quarter.

Which newsletters, shows, and social feeds leave me heavier? Which leave me clearer?

I keep a bias toward creators who teach, not shout. News gets time-boxed.

Phones sleep in another room.

When I lower the volume of noise, I hear my own life again. That, I’ve noticed, feels youthful.

9. I treat curiosity like cardio

Aging isn’t what steals youth; stagnation does. So I learn badly, on purpose.

One season it was the harmonica.

Another, sourdough. Lately it’s sketching. I’m not trying to be great; I’m trying to be new.

The awkwardness of a beginner’s mind—the smudged pages, the clumsy first attempts—wakes something up.

If you want a quick litmus test for vitality, ask yourself: when did you last do something you might stink at?

A few winters ago, my granddaughter convinced me to join her at a community watercolor class.

She sat beside me, tongue poking out in concentration, while I made a mountain range that looked suspiciously like melting marshmallows.

During the break, a woman in her forties leaned over and whispered, “I love that you’re here with her.

My dad says he’s ‘too old’ for this.” On the drive home, my granddaughter held my hand and said, “You’re brave, Grandpa.”

Not because I painted well, but because I showed up willing to be a beginner.

That single night rewired something in me.

10. I do small maintenance before big repairs

Bodies, homes, relationships—everything lasts longer with small, boring maintenance.

I book annual checkups when I book my next vacation. I keep a cheap notebook for “micro-fixes”: replace the wobbly hinge, schedule the dentist, apologize first.

The same rule applies to my inner life. When a grudge sprouts, I pull it while it’s small.

When a habit slips, I tighten the screw before it becomes a replacement job.

Most crises announce themselves in whispers first. Listen early.

11. I build a legacy I can touch

Legacy isn’t marble and memoirs. It’s smaller and closer. I write my grandkids short letters about ordinary days.

I label family photos with names and stories so they won’t become mysteries.

I keep a “wisdom file” on my desk—one-pagers on budgeting, resilience, starting a first job, loving well.

I’ve shared versions of these ideas before in another piece about practical legacy, and I’ll keep refining them because they’re living documents.

The point is not to be remembered; it’s to be useful now.

A final note

Youth, at this age, is not a number.

It’s a posture. It’s the way you carry your body, your calendar, your attention, and your hope.

If you’re looking for one place to start, pick the smallest habit that would make tomorrow 5% better—an earlier bedtime, a ten-minute walk, a call you’ve been meaning to make—and do it today.

Then do it again. Momentum is a generous friend. Keep it close.