What? Me? Old?

Give me a break, doc!

Jul 26, 2025

I feel like I have aged ten years in the last two months. The doctor tells me it’s just aging. Yikes! I don’t believe him. Or maybe I just have oppositional defiance disorder (ODD).

Not me. The DSM-5 says I’m too old for ODD.

I more likely have ORR—Old-age Resistance Reclamation. My own diagnosis for the day. Yes—I can diagnose myself—my PhD gives me permission.

I feel better now—just talking to you, dear Reader—knowing you’re out there somewhere.

I also got a letter from my mitochondria, which has cheered me up—and perhaps brings me some focus.

A Letter From My Mitochondria

(aka, my body’s ancient energy whisperers)

Dear JL,
We’re writing from HQ—Cell Block B, Mitochondrial Division. Sorry for the long delay. We tried signaling via fatigue, brain fog, and mysterious weight gain, but it seems the Command Center (aka, your doctor) marked it as "Age Spam." Rude.
We’re not mad. We’re just ... tired.
You see, we used to be spry little powerhouses, processing glucose, fat, and dreams into ATP with the vigor of a thousand suns. But lately, we've been missing a few key ingredients. Possibly:
Magnesium (our spark plug)
B vitamins (our motivational speeches)
CoQ10 (the juice of the gods)
Sleep (you knew that already)
And maybe ... just maybe … a break from constant stress hormones that flood us like Monday morning emails.
Exercise used to be a team-building event. Now it feels like a hostile takeover. We're not saying no to movement—we're just saying ... maybe something gentler for now? Like a stretching session while yelling at Pierre in Stardew Valley?
We don’t want supplements. We want support. We want curiosity. We want to feel seen.
Let’s rebuild this trust. We promise: we’re not your enemy. We’re your spark.
Yours (with slightly lowered ATP production),
—The Mitochondria

Wasn’t that thoughtful? I have to do better at listening.

Hold on, while I write back to my mitochondria …

A Letter to My Mitochondria

(the ones who keep the lights on)

Dear Glorious Mitochondria,
I got your memo.
And first, let me say—I’m sorry it took me so long to listen. You've been humming, sputtering, whispering, and flashing SOS signals in ways I didn't quite know how to read. I now realize that the fatigue, the fog, the slow-burn ache ... they weren’t failures. They were flares—tiny lanterns calling me home to myself.
Thank you for not giving up.
Thank you for converting even the meager scraps of rest and joy into sparks of life. Thank you for whispering through the ache: "Something isn’t right—come back to us."
I’m here now.
I may not know exactly what you need, but I promise I’ll ask. I’ll slow down. I’ll stop pretending this is just age, laziness, or some invisible flaw. I’ll stretch more gently, sleep more protectively, and feed you what feeds us both—nutrients, breath, and maybe a few Stardrop berries.
I want us to thrive again.
I remember how it felt when we danced through the day with energy to spare. That memory is not a ghost. It's a promise I haven’t forgotten.
So let’s start over. You tell me what you need—and I’ll do my best to meet you there. No judgment. Just quiet trust, small steps, and maybe a hot bath with mineral salts.
Yours in repair and reverence,
~ jlynn
(P.S. I’m bringing glitter pens to this conversation. I suspect you like sparkle.)