Finding My Place at Any Age (And Why You Were Right About Courage).

Sitting with friends half my age on our mountain terrace, Gran, I remembered when I first learned that belonging has nothing to do with birth certificates.


Dear Gran,

I'm sitting on the terrace of our wooden house in Lehong, two meters above the ground on sturdy stilts that my partner and his friends built with their own hands. The view stretches across valley after valley of green mountains, and on clear days like today, I can just make out the white spire of a church in Ruteng - a two-hour drive through winding mountain roads.

Around me are six of my partner's friends, all at least fifteen years younger than me, sprawled on bamboo mats and small wooden stools, exhausted but laughing after helping us move our pigs to this new plot of land. They're sharing stories in rapid Manggarai, occasionally switching to Indonesian when they remember I'm still learning. My partner, also fifteen years my junior, is teaching me curse words in the local language while his friends pretend to be horrified.

They accept me completely, Gran. Not despite my age, but without even thinking about it. Here, respect flows naturally to anyone older, even by a single year, but it's paired with such easy inclusion that age becomes irrelevant. Watching them today, I was transported back to when I first arrived on Gili Trawangan, terrified I was too old to belong anywhere new.

You'd be so proud of how far I've come. But it wasn't always this easy.

When I First Felt Like a Stranger in Paradise.

When I first arrived on Gili Trawangan for my dive master course, I felt completely out of place. The island was a backpacker haven - sun-kissed twenty-somethings with intricate tattoos and that effortless confidence that comes from having fins on your feet since childhood.

I was the oldest trainee by two decades. My mentor was a Staff Instructor with thousands of dives under her belt, and the other instructors were confident, funny, wild, and fearless in ways I'd forgotten how to be.

And then there was me. Forty-something. Former corporate. Still trying to remember how to tie a double-ended clip without looking like I was wrestling an octopus.

I kept thinking: What am I doing here, Gran?

You always encouraged me to try new things, but sitting on the side of the pool watching twenty-year-olds demonstrate perfect buoyancy control, I wondered, are there some adventures that come with expiration dates?

Sizing Myself Down.

The truth is, I was intimidated. Nervous. Unsure how to be myself in this new world.

I second-guessed everything. Was I trying too hard? Not trying enough? Should I join in with the jokes? Could I hold my own in the banter? I had once been the banter queen, Navy-trained, no less. Back when political correctness wasn't even a concept.

But here, I was frozen. Unsure of my place. Unsure of myself.

I was completely aware of how I might be perceived. Too old. Too serious. Too different. Too much like someone's mum pretending to be cool.

Remember how you used to say, "My darling girl, you worry too much about what other people think"? I could hear your voice, but I wasn't ready to listen yet.

And then, something shifted.

The Ocean Doesn't Care How Old You Are.

Over the next few weeks, I let my barriers fall. Or maybe they were gently eroded by saltwater and the kind of acceptance I'd forgotten existed.

Because here's the thing I discovered, Gran: divers don't care how old you are. They care about what you saw on your dive. They want to know how deep you went, whether it was the same turtle from yesterday or a new shark, and how the visibility was down at the cleaning station.

We talked ocean. We talked gear. We shared stories of the strangest things we'd seen underwater. And slowly, we talked life.

And then we laughed. We danced on tables at Lava Bar. Played Rock 'n' Roll Bingo and forgot what day of the week it was. That's island life - time unravels and connection deepens in ways that have nothing to do with calendars.

And I was finally part of it.

You always said that genuine people don't care about superficial things, and Gran, you were right. The ocean strips away pretence. When you're sharing air underwater or marvelling at a manta ray together, birth certificates become irrelevant.

Lessons From the Young.

The most unexpected thing was how much I learned from my younger dive buddies.

They were curious, wise, generous, and utterly unbothered by the things I used to worry about. Over late-night chats and salty sunsets, I remembered what it was like to be the youngest one in any group, getting those condescending "You'll understand when you're older" pats on the head.

I promised myself I'd never be that kind of elder. Age doesn't equal wisdom, does it, Gran? Age doesn't give you the right to be right about everything. Everyone has something to teach, and I was surrounded by incredible teachers.

I kept my mouth shut more. I listened. And when I did speak, it was from a place of humility, not hierarchy. And you know what? I grew. Fast.

It reminded me of something you used to say: "My darling girl, the moment you think you know everything is the moment you stop learning."

The Wobble That Nearly Broke Me.

One afternoon, I had a complete wobble. A full-body, gut-punch of maternal guilt.

Emily's ship - HMS Queen Elizabeth - was arriving home at Portsmouth. There was footage all over the news of families gathering on the dock, welcome signs and tears of joy. My phone buzzed constantly with messages from friends in the UK sending me photos and videos.

And I wasn't there.

I should have been waving from that dock, Gran. I should have been cheering her on like I had at every milestone before. Instead, I was halfway across the world, living out what suddenly felt like a selfish dream.

I sat quietly that day. Kept to myself. Studied my dive master manual in the shade while everyone else played volleyball on the beach. My mentor noticed something was off - she had that same intuition you always had when something was troubling me.

It was my younger friends who pulled me back to center. They reminded me of something you'd said countless times: You can't be everywhere for everyone. You are exactly where you're meant to be.

They were channelling your wisdom without even knowing it, Gran.

When Age Became Just a Number.

When I returned to the island after my visa run to Singapore, I felt it immediately - I was coming home.

Gili T isn't perfect. It's full of Vodka Joss-fueled nights, dancing until sunrise, and falling off bikes in the dark because the paths have more potholes than road. You lose your phone, your wallet, occasionally your dignity. But you also find joy. Lightness. Connection. Yourself.

One of my favourite moments came from a young Danish girl I'd befriended. She was maybe twenty-two, wise beyond her years, and completely unbothered by conventional timelines. She said, with the kind of confidence I was still learning:

"Age is just a number on your birth certificate. It has nothing to do with who you are."

She was echoing something you'd tried to tell me my whole life, wasn't she, Gran?

I stopped thinking of myself as old. I started thinking of myself as present. And that made all the difference.

Somewhere between the dive boats and the nasi goreng ladies and the midnight bike rides to watch sunrise, I realised: I had found my place. Not because I fit some predetermined mould, but because I showed up with my barriers down and my heart open.

As I sit here now on our mountain terrace, listening to my partner's friends plan tomorrow's rice harvest in three languages, I can feel how far I've travelled - not just geographically, but emotionally.

These young men treat me with such natural respect and inclusion. When they discovered I'd never harvested rice, they immediately made plans to teach me. When I struggle with Manggarai pronunciation, they patiently repeat words until I get them right. When I share stories of my daughters or my corporate days, they listen with genuine interest, not polite tolerance.

This is what you always tried to teach me, isn't it, Gran? That belonging isn't about fitting in - it's about showing up authentically and trusting that the right people will see your heart, not your chronological age.

The church spire in Ruteng is catching the last light of day now, a tiny beacon across these ancient mountains. Just like your voice across time and distance, reminding me that courage doesn't have an expiration date.

"My darling girl," you'd say if you were here, "you were always brave enough. You just needed to remember."

Thank you for planting that seed of courage in me, Gran. It took root in the most unexpected places - first in the coral reefs of Gili Trawangan, now in these Indonesian mountains where age is honoured but never limiting.

From the quiet of the mountains, walking beside you.

 
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Packing the Past for One Wild Dream (And Why You'd Be Proud I Chose Courage)

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When Daughters Fly and Piglets Cry: On Letting Go and Finding Peace.