Opinion | Why Growing Old Without Growing Up Is The Real Problem

For years, I have carried a quiet promise to myself: to grow up as I grow old. Growing old is a biological process largely beyond my control. Longevity research, however, is no longer fringe. It is mainstream, well-funded and ambitious. While that research is exciting, my own idea of longevity is slightly different. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it echoes the thinking of David Sinclair, one of the field’s most prominent voices. Longevity, as he suggests, is not about fighting death, but about fighting for life. Not merely extending lifespan, but extending health span: the years in which we are truly alive. That distinction matters. Because if “being alive” longer is the real aim, then growing up becomes imperative. At least, it does

for me. Growing up, as I see it, is not about resignation, passive acceptance, or the slow dulling of desire. It is not about shrinking one’s life to make it easier to manage. It is quite the opposite. It is a refusal to remain a passenger in my own existence. It is the decision to become a co-creator of it. But to be honest, this is far easier said than done. There are many moments, sometimes many within a single moment, when retreating into the familiar feels safer. When it is easier to believe that life happens to me rather than through me. Every time I try to retreat, two unlikely guardians block the way. On one side stands quantum physics, quietly reminding me that there are no neutral spectators. Observation itself alters reality. On the other stands Vedic philosophy, confident in its ancient assertion of a participatory universe, where consciousness is not a by-product of matter but its foundation. Both insist on the same truth: reality is not something we merely stumble upon; it is something we participate in shaping. Between these two ideas lies an uncomfortable conclusion. There is no escaping responsibility. My life, in ways large and small, is my creation. And if I am dissatisfied with an aspect of it, the responsibility to change it is also mine. But that immediately raises a harder question. How? Here, philosophy falters. It offers insight, not instruction. It does not provide a practical manual for everyday change. Neuroscience, however, does. In trying to understand how change actually happens, I encountered neuroplasticity. Simply put, it is the nervous system’s capacity to change itself. Not occasionally. Not only in childhood. But moment to moment. This insight unsettles an old belief many of us grew up with: that the brain is a machine, a fixed circuit board wired early and then left to run. It is not. The brain is not something we merely have. It is something we work with. It is not just a possession. It is a relationship. Neuroplasticity explains how this relationship functions. The brain is constantly forming new neural connections, strengthening those we use frequently, and weakening or pruning those that fall out of use. What we return to repeatedly becomes easier. What we neglect slowly fades. This applies not only to skills, but also to beliefs, habits, fears, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we are. Some neuroscientists, with a sense of humour, call the brain Aladdin’s genie. It reshapes itself to support the narrative we return to most often, even when that narrative insists that change is impossible. Whatever command we repeat, whatever wish we keep rubbing into the lamp, it will attempt to grant. Not wisely. Not selectively. Just faithfully. This is both the promise and the problem of neuroplasticity. A system that never stops adapting does not protect us from ourselves. It amplifies us. The amplification cuts both ways. For a long time, we believed the brain’s capacity to change peaked in childhood and then declined, like a once fertile field turning barren. Neuroscience has shown something far more unsettling. The field never closes. We simply stop sowing. Our investment in learning changes with age. As we grow older, we explore less. We rely more on familiar strategies. We repeat what once worked. We begin to value efficiency over novelty. The hidden cost of this efficiency is rigidity. We do not stop learning because the brain cannot change. The brain stops changing because we stop learning. As the time needed to learn stretches with age, many of us mistake slowness for inability, and delay for decline. Neuroplasticity does not fail us. We disengage from it. Not out of laziness, but out of fear: fear of mistakes, fear of looking incompetent, fear of discovering that we are beginners again. Which brings me to one of the most underappreciated aspects of neuroplasticity: the role of mistakes. When we attempt something new, the brain sharpens its attention around errors. Failed attempts activate neural pathways too. During rest and sleep, inefficient circuits are pruned, while effective ones are strengthened. Without error, the brain struggles to recognise progress. Learning does not happen despite mistakes. It happens because of them. This was the most reassuring insight neuroscience offered me. The question then becomes how to leverage this knowledge in daily life. Unfortunately, there is no universal formula for change. Five-step frameworks rarely survive real life. We live differently, learn differently, and therefore change differently. What does help is awareness: the understanding that change is not a burst of motivation or an act of willpower, but an act of attention. Of repetition. Of choosing, again and again, where to place our effort. For me, this shows up in small, imperfect acts. I still confuse guitar strings after four years of learning. “Hotel California” sometimes sounds like it has triggered a fire alarm. After years of being devoted to strength training, I am challenging my flexibility through flow-based movement. To say I am far from flowing would be generous. More often, my own body weight refuses to cooperate and pins me mid-transition. Every morning, I sit before my computer screen and make countless mistakes, patching and stitching words because they insist on becoming a story. With each mistake, I remind myself that it is not evidence of failure, but of participation. As long as I am participating, I am co-creating my life. That, to me, is the difference between being alive and merely staying alive. And as long as the nervous system remains capable of change, I keep my quiet promise to continue growing up as I grow old. (Sudipta Dubey is an author and a fitness consultant. Views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect News18’s views.)