I turned 70 on a mild spring morning and celebrated it in the least Instagrammable way possible: coffee on the porch, a phone call with an old friend, and a slow walk to the park.
On the way home I passed a gym parking lot where younger versions of me used to muscle through lunchtime workouts, checking my watch between sets to see if I was “making the most” of my break. Back then, my days were a timed competition and I was both referee and player.
This time, I stopped beside a flowering dogwood, took a breath that sounded like relief, and thought, I like this version of life more.
My 40s were loud with striving. My 70s feel quieter, and somehow larger. That did not happen by accident. It came from a handful of small habits I kept choosing until the days fit better.
If you are not here yet, tuck these away. If you are already in the neighborhood, consider them friendly reminders.
1) Choose a daily anchor and keep it sacred
In my 40s I started every morning like I was late for my own life. Now I anchor each day with one nonnegotiable that steadies my head. For me it is a simple loop around the block after breakfast. Ten to fifteen minutes. No headphones. I notice the light, check the sky, say hello to a neighbor. When I return, the rest of the day has a rhythm to join instead of a fight to win.
Your anchor can be anything humble and repeatable: stretching, watering plants, writing a paragraph, quiet prayer. What matters is that you protect it. The world usually wants your first hour. Give yourself the first slice, then offer the rest with a calmer heart.
2) Save your energy for the people who return it
In my 40s I said yes to every invitation that sounded like an obligation with confetti. These days I choose company that leaves me lighter when I shut the door behind them. It is not about shrinking your circle, it is about warming it. I keep a simple test: after I see you, do I want to be kinder to the next person I meet. If the answer is yes, you are my kind of people.
Try it for a month. Notice who steadies you. Invite those folks more often. Send a quick note of thanks after you see them. A small, loyal circle will outperform a crowded calendar every time.
3) Give your body the vote it earned
At 40, I bargained with my body. One more late night, one more heavy meal, one more hour hunched over a keyboard because a project had a “hard stop.” In my 70s, my body is the loudest seat on the council and I defer to it. If my back says walk instead of run, I walk. If my stomach says soup is smarter than a celebration that tastes like a dare, soup wins. I sleep like it is medicine, because it is.
Here is the habit that changed everything: I ask one morning question. What would make today 10 percent easier on my nervous system. Then I do that thing first. It has never once made the day worse.
4) Trade big gestures for steady repair
I used to believe relationships needed grand proofs. Now I think they thrive on daily maintenance. A quick apology instead of a long defense. A clean yes or no instead of a foggy maybe. A short call when someone crosses my mind. When tension shows up, I repair fast so it cannot build a nest.
Not long ago I snapped at a family member over a scheduling mix-up. Ten minutes after the call I left a note on their porch with two lines: “I am sorry for my tone. I would like a do-over.” We restarted later that day and moved on. My 40s would have turned that into a week of dodging. My 70s prefer peace that earns its keep.
5) Keep one learning lane open at all times
Joy in your 70s needs fresh air. The easiest window to crack is a beginner’s project. Nothing huge. A foreign phrase a day, a bird you can now name by its call, a new stretch that lets you tie your shoes without the grunt, a short course on how to tune a bike. Curiosity keeps the attic of your mind from getting dusty, and it gives you stories that have nothing to do with doctors or weather.
Pick something so small it feels silly. Do it five minutes a day for two weeks. The quiet pride you feel will sneak into everything else you do.
6) Curate inputs like a careful cook
In my 40s I called doomscrolling “staying informed.” I thought I could outrun the stress by reading one more take. Now I set two small gates: a time window for news and a preference for long-form over endless snippets. My mood thanks me and the facts still arrive.
Make a “menu” for your attention. One or two sources you trust, one book on the table, one friend you call instead of text storms. Less noise equals more room for noticing the life you are actually living. That noticing, by the way, is where most happiness hides.
7) Turn chores into rituals that respect future you
You want your 70s to run on rails. That means giving Tuesday the tools it needs so Friday does not turn into a scramble. I keep a short list posted inside a cabinet called Rails. Water first. Ten-minute tidy before lunch. Walk after dinner. Pills at 9. It is not glamorous, but I am proud of how smoothly my days move because that list exists.
Pick three rails you can keep. Treat them like a friendly boss. The point is not to impress anyone. The point is to reduce the number of decisions you have to make while hungry, tired, or rushed. That reduction is happiness in disguise.
8) Protect the humble arts of noticing and savoring
I am convinced one of the biggest differences between my 40s and my 70s is the speed at which I let joy land. Back then, I rushed past little pleasures because they did not feel “earned.” Now I practice savoring like a tiny sport. The first sip of coffee. The way sunlight chooses a corner of the room. A stranger holding a door with a nod that says we are in this together.
You can train this. Give yourself three thirty-second pauses a day. Name one nice thing in full sentences. “This toast is warm and buttery.” “The breeze through the window smells like rain.” You will feel slightly ridiculous for two days. Then you will feel richer, and nothing external will have changed.
9) Let endings be clean and beginnings be small
Your 70s get happier when you stop dragging old seasons behind you like a suitcase with a broken wheel. Thank the club you no longer love and step off the committee you outgrew. You are not quitting life. You are pruning so the healthy branches get light.
On the flip side, start small when you begin again. A gentle fitness class. A monthly coffee with neighbors instead of a weekly standing date that turns into homework. A short volunteer shift instead of a role that takes over your week. Small beginnings leave room for the right things to grow.
What you gain when you stop competing with your younger self
Here is a surprise that took me years to trust: when you stop trying to win the game your 40-year-old self designed, you notice you are playing a better one.
My days now are lighter on drama and heavier on presence.
I laugh more at things that are funny and waste less energy pretending something matters that does not. I still plan, but I do not worship plans.
I still care about improvement, but I no longer confuse optimization with meaning.
There is another gain you cannot see on a spreadsheet. The people around you exhale. In my 40s I sometimes dragged my household through a week shaped like a trophy. Now my house feels like a place where you can set your armor down and stretch your toes under the table. That is worth more than applause ever was.
A simple weekly template that makes room for happiness
- If you like a little structure, borrow this:
- One anchor you do every morning, no matter what.
- Two people you contact with a short, sincere check-in.
- Three rails you keep most days: move, nourish, tidy.
- One small ending you allow each week: unsubscribe, step down, delete, donate.
- One small beginning you test: a recipe, a class, a new walking path.
- One hour outside with no phone, broken into pieces if you need.
- One repair you make before Sunday night, even if it is just a clean apology.
Follow that loosely and your 70s start to feel like a well-tuned instrument.
Final thoughts
My 40s taught me how to push. My 70s are teaching me how to pace. The difference is not laziness. It is wisdom about which levers actually move a day in the direction you want.
Choose an anchor. Save your energy for people who return it. Let your body vote. Repair fast. Keep learning. Curate your inputs. Build rails. Savor small things. Make endings clean and beginnings small.
You do not need to wait for a milestone birthday to live this way. You can start with one habit by Friday. Tomorrow morning’s walk. A clean boundary on your calendar. One generous call to someone who steadies you.
If you do, you may discover what I did on that birthday walk beside the dogwood: happiness in your 70s is not louder than it was in your 40s, it is simply closer. And the more you protect it with these simple habits, the more it will show up without being chased.
So, which habit will you test this week, and where can you write it so tomorrow’s version of you sees it before the world starts tugging at your sleeve?
