Still Got My Hands on the Wheel

They all thought I was finished—just a wrinkled old lady with shaky steps and borrowed time. You know how folks get when your hair turns silver and your steps slow down. They stop looking at you and start looking past you, like you’re already halfway to the next world.

But there’s something they forget: the flame of the soul doesn’t dim with age. If anything, it sharpens. Burns quieter, maybe, but hotter. When I overheard my own children talking about my funeral plans—yes, my funeral—while I was still pouring my own coffee and sweeping my own porch, I didn’t cry. I didn’t argue. I decided.

I decided to remind them: kindness isn’t weakness.
Gentleness isn’t surrender.
And growing old doesn’t mean growing silent.

I’ve spent seventy-four years walking through this world with an open hand—lifting, holding, forgiving. That’s how I was raised: soften the world, even when it hardens you. But somewhere along the way, people started confusing mercy with fragility. As if softness means you can’t stand tall.

Let me tell you something: it takes more strength to forgive than to fight. It takes more faith to be tender when life’s been cruel. And it takes more courage to stay kind when people stop seeing your worth.

I’ve buried loved ones. I’ve prayed through storms. I’ve walked into hospital rooms and out of empty houses. And I’ve never stopped showing up—with pie, with prayer, with presence. That’s not weakness. That’s resilience with grace.

So when I heard my name spoken like a memory, like I was already part of the past, something in me refused to shrink. That moment didn’t just hurt—it awakened me. I won’t go quietly. I won’t be erased while I still have stories, laughter, and a spine that straightens when it needs to.

I may not run anymore, but I still stand.

I may forget things, but I remember what matters.

I may bend—but I do not break.

And no one gets to write my ending but God Himself.

See, age is not a slow descent. It’s a sacred ascent. You start seeing clearly—what’s real, who’s real, and what never really mattered. You realize your worth isn’t tied to your usefulness, your speed, or your silence. It’s rooted in the breath God put in your lungs and the battles you’ve weathered with dignity intact.

So yes, I’m still here. Still sass and salt and soft hands. Still able to speak up for myself and anyone else who’s ever been told they’re “too old” to matter. And no, I don’t need to prove myself to anyone anymore. But just in case you forgot:

I’ve still got my hands on the wheel.

And I’m not done driving yet.