I am failing to meet my expectations for my new project, Aging with Gratitude. The initial focus has been connecting with new, local people in the Phoenix area who are willing to sit for a portrait and share their story with me.

My inspiration is to challenge myself artistically and socially, and to produce better photography and writing. So far it’s working, and that’s the good news.

Perhaps I’m not failing as much as not meeting my initial expectations, which has been a pattern in my life. Not sweating the small stuff helps, and this is small stuff in the grand scheme.

I’m grateful for what I’ve learned so far, and for the incredible people I’ve met, including a woman I photographed at 6:30 a.m. today with her two Labrador retrievers, one of them below.

Lessons learned so far

I’ve learned that many people don’t feel comfortable sitting for the project. I share an overview with them, and rarely do they want to proceed. Most often, the aversion comes from discomfort in front of a camera, or in the public eye.

Some people change their mind after the portrait session. That’s another lesson I accept and chalk up to experience.

Why argue with reality?

For example, I photographed a woman in Chandler early in the project. We both loved her portrait. But she didn’t want to follow up with the story I wanted to write — a story of trial and triumph. She had been through hell and back.

The last lesson is that I absolutely love the challenge. It’s not easy to pack the mobile studio light and gear, unload it, set it up, get ready for the shoot, shoot it, wrap up, pack up, and drive home to tackle the edits.

But I love it. It’s the feeling I get while writing this story, sharing the picture above, and becoming a better writer, photographer, and hopefully, human being. Trust me that trusting our feelings, given we are sound of mind and sober, is the way to know the way to go for you; your path, your destiny.

The latter only happens when I trust my inspirations enough to get off my butt and into the world, connecting with other humans — who are more like you and me than different — and getting to know them while practicing my favorite arts: writing and photography.

Not knowing can be uncomfortable

Sometimes I don’t know what I want. That’s universal. I’m in a transition from a past business identity and life to a new one: writer, photographer, visual artist, and grandfather. It’s a challenging transition shedding the business warrior mask for that of a different me.

It’s normal not to know what’s next or what I want specifically. I trust that inspiration — the spirit of my muses, a higher power from within — will show me when it’s time.

That’s trust. My faith is the foundation of it: when I don’t know, I will know in due time. While waiting, I can remain open, aware, curious, and diligent by reading, researching, and taking notes, and waiting because patience is a virtue, after all.

The path to emotional freedom

Curiosity powers my life. Knowing that, I’m okay when I’m not. Trust, wait, feel, and when the time comes, know and go.

It’s emotional freedom acquired through acceptance, gratitude, and humility. These are the same qualities I see in the people I’m meeting, photographing, and writing stories about.

I see similarities, not differences. Wiser people taught me that.

How could I not be grateful for it all, especially the uncomfortable stuff that makes us better humans? I already sit too much in front of a screen. Aware of that, I intend to keep this project going. I trust I’ll meet more people in due time, and that many will be willing to let me take their picture and tell their story of gratitude.

Gratitude works when you let it

Here’s a nugget. When we can be grateful for all we’ve got, and we learn more about who we are versus who we are not, and the masks fall by the wayside, we become more emotionally free.

Life can teach us to become grateful. We all go through our personal trials. We all confront the emotional tsunamis as they hit. So, as we age, we can learn new lessons, and our suffering can change us.

Suffering can lead us to be grateful. Gratitude and other virtues lead the way to emotional freedom. That may be the best of all.

I am grateful for the early positive feedback on Aging with Gratitude, and I encourage you to share my work with your friends and family. Feel free to copy and paste the link to the overview for Aging with Gratitude.

https://forms.gle/4EqoHnP17XQPHT9i6

Thanks for being along for the ride.

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Look closely at Ford’s eyes in this photograph. He’s our oldest grandson, a little over three. He is wearing his Buzz Lightyear pajamas and sitting on a worn little rocking horse, but that is not where he is in his imagination.

He is Buzz Lightyear in this moment.

He’s also riding a magical horse across some distant world known only to him. I get to observe this, and in this moment, I am reminded of who we are.

The real us.

You can see the bliss in his face. He is completely absorbed in the adventure. All of us were like this early in life, until life happened, and we forgot.

Ford is not pretending halfway

He has entered the story with his whole being. He is not concerned about what happened yesterday or what might happen tomorrow. He is not wondering how he looks, whether anyone approves, or what he should accomplish next. He is fully alive in the only place life has ever happened, right here and right now.

When I look at him, I see what psychologists call a flow state. I also see something much older and more spiritual. Children seem to possess a natural ability to surrender to the moment before the world teaches them to worry, compare, hurry, perform, and protect themselves.

Children do not need to study presence because presence is still their natural way of being.

Children are presence, a gift

As adults, most of us gradually lose that state of presence. Our minds become crowded with responsibilities, ambitions, regrets, resentments, and fears. We replay conversations that ended years ago and prepare for problems that may never happen. We become so busy managing life that we stop experiencing it.

Then, as we grow older, many of us begin searching for peace.

The Tibetan Buddhist tradition of Dzogchen offers an interesting perspective on that search. Dzogchen is often translated as “Great Perfection” or “Great Completeness.” It teaches that beneath the restless movement of our thoughts, our basic awareness is already open, clear, and whole.

The self-perfected state does not mean that our personalities are flawless or that we no longer need to grow. It means that the peace we seek may not have to be created. It may have to be remembered.

That idea speaks to me as I age. I have spent much of my life trying to become something, build something, fix something, understand something, or overcome something. There is value in growth, effort, and self-examination, but there is also a time to stop struggling with life and learn how to rest within it.

Jesus offered a similar invitation when he said:

“Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.” - Matthew 18:3

He was not telling us to become childish. He was pointing toward the qualities children often possess before experience hardens them: humility, trust, openness, wonder, and the ability to receive life without constantly attempting to control it.

Ford does not understand Dzogchen, and he does not need to. He does not need a meditation retreat, a spiritual teacher, or another book about living in the present. For now, he climbs onto his horse, becomes Buzz Lightyear, and disappears into a world of his own creation.

Watching him reminds me that I once lived that way too. We all did.

We’re the only animal that imagines

There was a time when a cardboard box could become a spaceship, a backyard could become an unexplored wilderness, and an afternoon could stretch on forever. We did not require life to be impressive before we allowed ourselves to enjoy it.

Wonder was available everywhere because we were present enough to notice it.

Aging can narrow our world when we focus only on what hurts, what has changed, and what we can no longer do. Those losses are real, and gratitude should never be used to deny them.

Yet growing older can also simplify us. We begin to understand that not every disagreement must be won, not every goal must be reached, and not every question must be answered. Some burdens can finally be set down.

The Psalmist described this peaceful surrender beautifully:

“I have calmed and quieted myself, like a weaned child with its mother.” - Psalm 131:2

That is the state I hope to inhabit as the years continue to pass. I do not expect constant happiness or freedom from grief. I hope for something quieter and deeper, a heart spacious enough to hold both sorrow and gratitude without being ruled by either.

Ford helps me remember how

When I am with him, I can put down the phone, stop measuring the usefulness of the moment, and enter his world for a while. I can laugh without needing a reason. I can recover my curiosity. I can be immensely grateful that I am still here to see the light in his eyes and feel his small hand reaching for mine.

Perhaps this is one of the greatest gifts our grandchildren offer us. They do more than continue the family story. They lead us back toward a part of ourselves we may have buried beneath the weight of adulthood.

Ford does not know he is teaching me anything. He is simply riding his magic horse.

I am the one remembering how to be alive.

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If you had asked me to read Tolstoy as a younger man, I would have told you I didn’t have time. But later in life, I developed an insatiable curiosity about Tolstoy, Emerson, Jung, Dostoevsky, and many of the great thinkers who wrestled with the deeper questions of human existence.

My hope has always been that they could help me wrestle with the deepest questions, and they have. After recently finishing Tolstoy’s The Kingdom of God Is Within You, I realized that Leo Tolstoy had everything the world tells us should make a person happy.

By the time he reached fifty, he was one of the most celebrated writers alive. He had produced War and Peace and Anna Karenina. He possessed wealth, land, status, a wife, children, and the admiration of readers around the world.

Yet Tolstoy found himself standing at the edge of despair.

“I did not myself know what I wanted,” he wrote. “I feared life, desired to escape from it, yet still hoped something of it.”

His Crisis Was Not Caused by Failure

It was caused by the discovery that success could not answer his deepest question:

“Is there any meaning in my life that the inevitable death awaiting me does not destroy?”

Tolstoy could no longer distract himself with work, pleasure, property, or praise. Death made every achievement appear temporary. If everything he loved would eventually disappear, what lasting meaning could life possibly have?

He described this spiritual breakdown in A Confession, written shortly after turning fifty. It was more than depression. It was a crisis of consciousness, the collapse of the worldview that had guided his adult life.

When crisis calls us, how will we answer?

Why the Question Comes Later

Many people begin asking spiritual questions as they grow older because the identities that once supported them begin to weaken. That’s been my experience, and for many I know or have studied.

Curiosity about a higher power seems universal for certain souls. Life happens, our consciousness evolves.

Careers end. Children leave. Parents and friends die. The body changes. Recognition fades. Time, which once seemed unlimited, becomes precious.

The questions become harder to avoid: What was my life really about? What remains when my accomplishments are forgotten? What part of me, if any, survives death?

These questions can create fear, but they can also become gateways to higher consciousness and fulfill our human purpose. The loss of certainty may open us to humility. The awareness of death can teach us to value life. The fading of ambition can make room for gratitude.

Tolstoy began looking beyond the educated and wealthy people around him. He observed ordinary laborers, farmers, and religious believers who endured poverty and hardship without surrendering to despair.

They believed life had meaning because they participated in something greater than the individual self. This compelled Tolstoy to shift his view. A reason to live for a higher purpose, such as self-determination, much like Viktor Frankl taught us.

“Faith is the sense of life, that sense by virtue of which man does not destroy himself, but continues to live on. It is the force whereby we live.” - Leo Tolstoy

From Achievement to Transformation

Tolstoy returned to the teachings of Jesus, especially the commands to love, forgive, serve, live simply, and resist violence. His beliefs remained controversial and often differed from official Russian Orthodox doctrine. Yet the direction of his life changed.

The question was no longer, “What can I acquire?”

It became, “What kind of person must I become?”

This resembles the ancient Christian concept of theosis, the gradual transformation of the human person through participation in divine love. It’s the Eastern Christian way of revealing the enlightenment of humanity.

It does not mean becoming God. It means becoming more fully what we were created to be, more compassionate, truthful, humble, forgiving, and awake. Grace, in this sense, is not merely something we receive. It is something we learn to embody.

Tolstoy increasingly believed that social progress depended upon this inner change. “A better life can only come when the consciousness of men is altered for the better,” he wrote.

The Gift Hidden in Aging

Published in 1894, the book emerged from the radical spiritual transformation that followed Tolstoy’s midlife crisis. He had become disillusioned with wealth, fame, organized religion, government, and the violence societies accepted as normal.

Returning to the teachings of Jesus, especially the Sermon on the Mount, he concluded that the kingdom of God was not a political system, religious institution, or distant heaven. It was a moral and spiritual reality discovered within the individual.

Tolstoy argued that society could be transformed only when individuals practiced love, patience, forgiveness, and nonviolence in daily life.

The book revealed how completely his worldview had changed. The celebrated novelist who once pursued achievement and social status had become convinced that the meaning of life was found through conscience, simplicity, service, and obedience to the highest truth within us.

Tolstoy’s Later Life Was Not Peaceful or Perfect

He struggled with his family, his wealth, his beliefs, and the contradiction between his ideals and his behavior. That may be the most honest part of his story.

Spiritual awakening does not remove human weakness. It makes us more aware of it. Gratitude does not mean pretending that life is painless. It means recognizing that life remains sacred despite its pain.

Tolstoy discovered that the fear of death could become an invitation to live differently. Aging stripped away some of his illusions, but it also revealed a profound possibility.

We may spend the first half of life building an identity. The second half asks us to release it.

What remains may be simpler than we expected: love, service, forgiveness, gratitude, and the grace to become more fully human before our time is gone.

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The Aging with Gratitude™ project is a passion project I started in June of 2026. My passion for photography and storytelling is at the heart of my work.

My mission is to capture portraits of amazing human beings alongside the stories behind them. Stories of struggle and transformation. Conversations with people who have lived, suffered, recovered, lost, rebuilt, loved, failed, forgiven, and kept going. People who carry wisdom in their wrinkles. People who know life is both beautiful and hard — people who have become more fully human.

Aging with gratitude means we’re at a stage in life where we can look back and be thankful for the journey through hell and back. It hurt so much that it profoundly changed us.

Joe Berman and I met about ten years ago through a mutual acquaintance

We shared coffee, and I gave him an acrylic painting I had recently finished. I sensed immediately that we were kindred souls. We have stayed in touch and see each other off and on.

Born in Denver in 1973, Joe remembers fishing with his father as one of the happiest parts of his childhood.

His greatest challenge came in April 2019, when degenerative disc failure caused a traumatic spinal injury. His chin became pinned toward his chest. The symptoms felt almost like a stroke, and the pain was extreme.

Joe’s response was direct: attack it, take charge, and do the work. That mindset helped carry him through a difficult two-year recovery.

He is most grateful for his mother, Terri, who never gave up on him. Last year, Joe finally told her he was “ready to fly free.”

He is also grateful for Tiffany, his wife, and his 18-year-old son, Noah, a young thespian whom Joe encourages to become himself fully.

Joe has fought many battles without losing his joy. It is easy to love him because he embodies love.

The portrait session at The Thumb

I texted Joe on a whim earlier this week. Asked him if he could rally for a portrait session. Joe rides his e-bike to work most days. He serves as general manager at The Thumb, a one-of-a-kind North Scottsdale destination that combines award-winning barbecue, a bakery, a gift shop, a gas station, and a full-service car wash. When he’s not working, he loves hiking and spending quality time with friends and family.

Without hesitation, he invited me to meet him at work, where he’s overseeing a major renovation project. We exchanged a big hug and warm smiles. I set up in the corner of the restaurant area. During the portrait session, Joe was exactly the man I have come to know. Open, playful, present, and completely himself.

At first, you notice the glasses

As if to see them as the custom windows to the eyes, then his soul. They are bold, slightly eccentric, and impossible to ignore. I complimented him because they suit him well.

Then your eyes move beyond the frames and meet his expression. There is alertness there, but no hardness. His eyes carry the awareness of someone who has suffered, fought back, and learned not to waste the life he reclaimed.

His smile is wide and unguarded. It does not feel posed. It feels like Joe. You can almost hear him laughing before the photograph was taken and again after the shutter clicked. Within about nine shots, we were done.

Easy subject, compassionate nature

His Thumb shirt tells another part of the story. Joe is proud of his work and the people he serves. His tattooed arm, his beard, and the lines across his face reveal a man who has lived fully rather than carefully.

As I photographed him, I kept thinking about the contrast. The black background holds the darkness he has known, while his face seems to rise out of it with warmth and light.

That is Joe Berman.

He has been hurt, but he is not bitter. He has faced fear, but he remains joyful. He has fought for his life, and now he seems determined to love every mile of it.

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I recently asked someone I know what he thought about SuperAging. He had no clue what I was talking about. Neither did I, until I came across the term, researched it, and started writing about it.

The idea caught my attention because I realized something surprising: I may already be living it. I am not claiming to be biologically exceptional, nor am I pretending that aging is easy.

My face resembles beef jerky when I look at myself. I wake up with aches I did not have at 30. Recovery takes longer. Sleep quality matters. Finding the optimal foods to keep me going, and not taking prescription drugs for anything, are paramount for the long game.

The body keeps an honest record of the years

Still, at 65, I feel mentally curious, physically active, spiritually grounded, and more excited about creating than I did during many of my younger years. I credit a strong gene pool, years of learning from painful mistakes, and the grace of the Almighty One.

SuperAgers are generally described as older adults whose memories, thinking abilities, or physical capacities remain unusually strong for their age. Scientists have studied people over 80 who demonstrate remarkable mental sharpness and resilience.

But SuperAging means more to me than performing well on a memory test. It is a way of meeting life.

Some people become old long before their bodies require it. They stop learning. They stop moving. They stop questioning their assumptions. They decide their most creative and meaningful years are behind them. Their world gets smaller because they expect it to.

Others remain open. I recently met an 81-year-young woman who plays tennis three times a week. My hero! Others walk, lift weights, ride bicycles, read books, create art, start businesses, volunteer, mentor younger people, strengthen friendships, and keep asking better questions. They may move more slowly, but they are still moving toward something.

Age is a state of mind and body—the two influence each other every day

When we believe decline is inevitable, we may stop doing the very things that help preserve our strength. When we believe growth remains possible, we are more likely to exercise, connect, learn, rest, eat wisely, and find reasons to get out of bed.

This is not magical thinking. Belief alone will not prevent disease, erase genetics, or guarantee a long life. Some people do everything right and still face devastating illness. Others neglect themselves and live far longer than anyone expected. Life has never promised fairness.

SuperAging is not about blaming people for growing sick or frail. It is about taking responsibility for what remains within our influence.

We can move our bodies. We can feed our minds. We can stay connected to the people who bring us to life. We can release old resentment before it hardens into identity. We can stop telling ourselves that we are too old to learn, love, build, heal, travel, paint, write, change, or begin again.

Most of all, we can practice gratitude

Gratitude does not deny pain. It changes our relationship with it.

I am grateful for the muscles that still carry me, even when they complain. I am grateful for the brain that still asks questions. I am grateful for the failures that stripped away my pride and taught me humility. I am grateful that I no longer need to prove as much.

That may be one of the greatest gifts of growing older. We begin to understand that life is not measured only by how much we achieve, own, control, or accumulate.

A richer life may be found in a quiet morning, a strong cup of coffee, a bicycle ride, a grandchild’s laughter, an honest conversation, a blank canvas, or the realization that we are still here.

We cannot control how many years remain. But we can decide how awake we will be while living them. Maybe that is the true heart of SuperAging. Not refusing to grow old and refusing to stop growing.

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David Cooke’s portrait says what words can only try to explain. Sitting in front of the black backdrop in my garage studio, he did not pose as much as arrive. The shaved head, weathered face, gray beard, sun-marked skin, and easy smile all tell the truth of a man who has lived outside, inside, and through plenty.

In black and white, the same face becomes quieter, deeper, almost stripped down to spirit. You can see the lines, but they do not feel like age. They feel like evidence. This is a man who has stopped trying to hide from the road behind him.

He looks open, grounded, amused, and fully present. That is what I saw sitting with him. Not perfection. Not performance. Just David, comfortable in his own skin.

In the color version, there is warmth, playfulness, and mischief, helped along by the ridiculous joy of the cycling taco shirt.

At 69, he can look back and see his life in stages

He was born in 1957 in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and spent his formative years in the Detroit area. The first stage of his life was corporate. The second was consulting, sales, and business consulting. The third came after a family tragedy that deeply changed him. That experience led him to start a nonprofit called 100 Pedals and ride his bicycle across America for 100 consecutive days.

Now, David says he is living what he calls “the rogue life.”

That sounds rebellious, but not reckless. For David, the rogue life seems to mean living from the heart instead of the script. Less control. More trust.

Less chasing. More presence.

The turning point came in 2009

A serious addiction issue struck someone in his family. It rocked his world. Like many people who love someone in crisis, David first tried to react, fix, manage, and control what could not be controlled.

That path did not work.

Over time, he made a conscious shift. He intentionally moved from reacting to reflecting. He moved from trying to control life to learning how to accept it. Not passively. Not weakly. But with awareness.

That kind of acceptance is not giving up. It is growing up.

David has also lived a sober life for more than 25 years

He doesn’t wear it like a badge of attention-seeking honor. That matters because his presence does not feel accidental. It feels practiced. Sobriety, yoga, travel, loss, family pain, and faith have all shaped him into a man who seems less interested in escaping life and more interested in meeting it directly.

He does not preach about it. He lives it. That may be what makes it powerful.

When I asked David what he was most grateful for, he did not name one thing. He said he is grateful for the whole journey. All of it. Every stage. Every chapter. Every lesson.

That answer stayed with me because it did not sound polished. It sounded earned.

David does not claim to have no inner critic

When he looks in the mirror and takes stock of his life, he can still judge himself. He can still feel disappointed. But he has learned to distinguish between the smaller, self-critical mind and the larger part of himself that knows better.

He is a man of faith, but not a narrowly or rigidly religious one. His worldview feels universal. Open. Grounded. Human. He has a rare ability to meet people where they are — strangers, friends, whoever happens to be nearby.

I have known David for a little over 20 years, and I would call presence his superpower. He’s far more chill than when we first met. Taking a few runs through hell and back will do that.

The gift of presence

He can be present with people without needing to impress, fix, or perform for them. That was clear again when he came to my home studio, which is also my garage, so that I could make his portrait.

David is easy to be with, down to earth. No masks. No pretending.

In recent years, he has spent time in Bali and other parts of the world. He practices yoga and is certified to teach it. You can feel that in the way he carries himself.

The mind, body, breath, and presence are not theories to him. They show up in the way he speaks, the way he listens, and the way he moves through the room.

He describes himself as heart-led

You can feel it when you’re with him. His head, he says, can become too illogical. The heart knows who we are because the heart knows the soul.

“The soul knows who we really are.”

Everything outside of that belongs more to the ego, the self-critical mind, and the old story of not being enough.

David does not seem interested in chasing a destination anymore. That may be one of the gifts of aging well. At some point, life stops being only about getting somewhere. It becomes about being awake to where you are.

David enjoys sitting in local coffee shops and observing. He calls himself introverted, though he can turn on his extroversion when something matters to him.

Purpose lights him up. Meaning pulls him forward.

That, too, feels familiar

We have both changed over the last 30 years. We have both overthought life. We have both chased things. We have both learned, slowly and sometimes painfully, that control is not peace.

David’s story is not about having life figured out.

It is about learning to live without needing to.

That is radical acceptance. Not as a slogan. As a way of living.

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Janet told me she is both the luckiest and unluckiest person she has ever known.

After spending time with her in her beautiful home, I believe her.

Janet and I met through local outreach. I was looking for interesting people to connect with, hear their stories, and capture a black-and-white portrait. She was the first stranger who said yes.

The project is called Aging with Gratitude. I go into the community and sit across from people who have lived enough life to stop pretending. People who have suffered, rebuilt, lost, forgiven, and kept going. I listen. Then I make a portrait.

Janet’s portrait carries a quiet elegance

Against the black backdrop, her silver hair, soft smile, and bright eyes seem to hold both grace and strength. There is nothing forced in her expression.

She looks open, composed, and fully present, the way someone looks when they have lived long enough to need no longer to prove anything.

The color version brings warmth to her face and depth to her blue eyes, while the black-and-white version strips the image down to light, shadow, and character.

What remains is dignity.

Beauty, yes, but not the shallow kind. This is the beauty of a woman who has lived, endured, learned, and still chooses to meet the world with softness.

Janet is exactly who this project exists for

She was born in Europe in 1945. The Holocaust devastated her family. Janet has no memory before age five.

In 1949, her uncle sponsored her, her grandmother, and her aunt to come to America. They crossed the Atlantic on a huge military ship and landed in Miami.

She grew up during the postwar boom

Her mother worked on a factory floor, saved her money, and eventually found success in real estate. She prospered. She was also driven at the expense of her family. Janet noticed.

Janet attended Boston University, studied English literature, and began her adult life working in finance in Manhattan. She married, had a daughter, divorced when her daughter was two, returned to graduate school, and earned a Master’s degree in clinical psychology.

Somewhere along the way, her worldview shifted from a capitalist one to a humanist one. She did not say that like a confession. She said it like an observation. It became part of her struggle, her transformation, and her search for meaning.

Loss kept finding her

Her father died suddenly of a heart attack at 68. Her mother died at 56 of a cerebral hemorrhage. Feeling orphaned and unmoored, Janet said she made some choices she now describes as stupid. She married again. It did not last.

Later, Janet married a psychiatrist. Together, they built a clinical practice specializing in early brainwave biofeedback therapies. At one point, they operated five offices. She called it a tough business, but she was grateful for it because of the people they helped.

Then, in 1995, she lost her daughter.

Suddenly. Without warning.

That kind of loss can break a person.

Janet kept going

What followed was a search, she said, for a sound foundation. Janet became a seeker. She visited psychics. She was desperate to find her daughter somewhere. Her brother died not long after. Her husband had an affair. She left him shortly after they moved to Arizona in 1999 and started over from nothing.

She enrolled at the Scottsdale Culinary Institute because she loved to cook and needed something to love. Not long after, she met her current husband. They are very different people. They have been married 18 years, and by every measure she offered, it has been a happy life.

Janet practices yoga regularly

She plays tennis three times a week. She lit up when she told me about the massive abstract oil painting on her kitchen wall. Janet herself is radiant.

Her soul exudes warmth and serenity. Young at heart.

One of her favorite lines is, “If you have an address book, you have a ministry.”

I asked Janet what she is most grateful for. She did not hesitate.

“I’m most grateful for the love I received from so many people, which gave me the ability to love others.”

That stayed with me

I asked her what she had learned from all of it, the losses, the rebuilding, and the long arc of a life that refused to stay broken. She said the tough things taught her how to get up.

She said the greatest gift she received was love from others, and that love taught her how to give it back. She believes she has been protected by guardian angels her whole life.

We talked about life as I set up my photography lighting and backdrop. She showed me around her home. She told me her story without drama, without self-pity, and without pretending the pain had not been real.

That is what struck me most

Janet has known more loss than many people could carry. She has also known love, beauty, art, friendship, marriage, service, and gratitude. She has suffered. She has rebuilt. She has kept her heart open.

She is both the luckiest and the unluckiest person she has ever known.

After spending time with Janet Eggen, I think she might be right on both counts.

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Retirement is overrated, and I am at retirement age. Instead of sitting around, moving my sheckles, and being a quiet, content introvert, I’m facing my fear and getting out of my comfort zone to meet new people.

I am beginning a new photography and storytelling project called Aging with Gratitude™. My project isn’t about money. It’s my love of art, humans, and their stories.

Especially people who are fifty-five and older. The older, the better. But everyone must be willing to be on camera with me.

It’s time to launch this project on Substack, so welcome aboard.

The conversations I value the most.

They aren’t about success as much as about human struggle, suffering, and life-changing stories. Reinvention, regret, grace, recovery, meaning, purpose. The quiet wisdom that only comes from living a long, difficult life, because life is hard for all of us.

My mission is to capture black-and-white portraits alongside the stories behind them. Conversations with people who have lived, suffered, recovered, lost, rebuilt, loved, failed, forgiven, and kept going.

People who carry wisdom in their wrinkles. People who know life is both beautiful and hard—people who have become more fully human.

For example, even though my project is only a couple of weeks old, I met an eighty-one-year-old woman earlier this week who was born in 1945 in Germany. She barely made it out alive, and her story, her black and white portrait, will be ready to publish shortly.

A stranger became a friend. More to come.

Aging with gratitude means we’re at a stage in life where we can look back and be thankful for the journey through hell and back. The suffering hurt so much that it profoundly changed us.

The photography side of it.

I’ve been practicing photography since 1978, when I learned to make my first prints in a darkroom. Then, life happened, and even though I had a camera my entire life, I didn’t discover the inner artist within me until 2020.

Since then, I’ve been learning the business of art, photography, and painting, which is brutal, just like with writing and selling any decent book. I practice art for love, like most artists. For some of us, money trickles in. But this particular project has nothing to do with money.

Aging with Gratitude™ includes portraits that could be worth 10,000 words written in the wrinkles.

If you’re fifty-five or older and you’re still carrying something—the failure, the loss, the comeback, the forgiveness that took thirty years to find—I want to meet you. I don’t care if you’ve never been photographed before, never thought your face was worth looking at twice.

That’s not how I see it. I want to sit across from you, let you talk, and then point a camera at the kind of face that only comes from staying alive through things that should have taken you under.

Find me on Instagram. Send a message. Tell me where you’re from, what you’ve survived, what you’d want a stranger to know about you before you’re gone. I’ll bring my camera, my questions, and the kind of patience I didn’t have at thirty.

The project is off to a great start.

Because here’s what I’m starting to understand, two weeks and one extraordinary German grandmother into this project: we don’t earn wisdom by living long. We earn it by living through.

Wrinkles reveal our wisdom.

The wrinkles aren’t the story—they’re just where the story chose to settle. Somewhere underneath every one of them is a person who got knocked down by something life-sized and decided, for reasons even they can’t always explain, to get back up.

That’s what I’m after. Not nostalgia. Not a highlight reel of a life well-lived. The real thing—the grit and the grace, the unbearable and the unbelievable, sitting in the same face at the same time.

Aging with Gratitude™ isn’t about pretending the hard years didn’t happen. It’s about what’s still standing after they did.

Come find me. Let’s talk. Help me inspire millions to age with gratitude.

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