Owning My Progress, Not Someone Else’s Timeline

There’s a particular kind of existential crisis that hits many gay men of a certain age like
myself, usually sometime after walking into a gym class where the average participant was born after Will & Grace went off the air. And suddenly, I find myself comparing my seasoned and well‑traveled body to someone who is unfamiliar with dial‑up internet, Sun‑In, or Garbage Pail Kids. It’s unfair. It’s unhelpful. And it’s exhausting.

So let’s talk about how I can stop doing this.

1. Admit I'm Not 25 Anymore (or 35.....or even 45...)

As I've mentioned before (and stand by emphatically), age is NOT just a number, and if you can't deal with that, then you're frankly being dishonest with yourself (and others if you use pictures from last decade and hide your age on Grindr) and delusional.

Younger guys have their youth. Great. Good for them. I did, too, once upon a time. However, they also have no idea what it’s like to tight‑roll their jeans so aggressively that circulation became a suggestion. They never wore hypercolor shirts or parachute pants with more zippers than a bondage store clearance rack.

I, on the other hand, have. And through the regrettable fashion decisions and the luxury of living a youth mostly unsupervised, I've evolved. I've upgraded. I've earned my mileage. That shouldn't be something to hide. That should be something to flex. With age comes wisdom and experience. Something younger guys don't have (even if they claim to have an "old soul"...whatever, kid).

2. Remember That Comparison Is a Rigged Game

Comparing myself to someone 20 or 30 years younger is like comparing a vintage wine to a Capri Sun. They’re not even in the same category. One is fun, shared with rowdy kids to calm them down, and gone in two seconds; the other is a Capri Sun.

When I compare myself to someone younger, I'm playing an unfair game with rules I am incapable of agreeing to. At my age, the playing field has changed. A younger body is performing at different hormone levels, metabolism, recovery speed, and wear-and-tear.

I have to remember that progress should not be measured by the physiological advantages of a 20-something-year-old fitness influencer. It should be measured against who I was the day before.

3. Focus on What My Body Can Do

In my 50s, my body does not bounce back like it used to. Because of this, I had to change my strategy from boot camps and Crossfit to something that is more sustainable and long-term like lower weight/higher rep and moderate cardio like walking. But my body still shows up, and it’s still carrying me through workouts, relationships, adventures, and the occasional questionable decision.

Younger guys might have smoother skin and quicker gains, but they didn't get the leg workout I did having to get up from the sofa every time I wanted to change the channel. They didn't work their arms manually rolling car windows up and down. They didn't get the full body workout moving the living room furniture around until the angle of the TV antennae was juuuuuuuuust right.

4. Curate Your Environment Like a Grown Adult

My social media feed is full of shirtless 23‑year‑olds, and I'm not mad about it. However, they're like my ex: pretty to look at but ultimately not good for me or my mental health. So I try not to engage with them. Instead, I like/comment on the rare fitness influencer of my age and stance in life. Someone I can relate to. Someone who is truly inspiring. Someone who looks like they have paid a mortgage. These are the people whom I should find motivating, not some child who can perform jumping jacks while in a handstand.

5. Show Up Anyway

At the end of the day, aging isn’t a downgrade. It’s an evolution. I’m not here to rewind myself back into some younger version of me who didn’t know anything. I’m here to inhabit the man I’ve become, the one who has survived, learned, unlearned, rebuilt, and kept showing up even when the room got younger and the lighting got harsher.

So if I catch myself comparing my body, my journey, or my worth to someone who wasn’t alive when AOL CDs came in the mail, I remind myself of this: I am not competing in their race. I’m running my own, on a track I helped pave, in shoes I paid for, with a resilience they haven’t had the years to earn.

And honestly? There’s a power in that. A quiet, steady, deeply rooted power that doesn’t need validation from a room full of twenty‑somethings. I’ve lived enough life to know who I am, what I bring, and why I belong anywhere I choose to stand.

That’s the real flex. That’s the real glow‑up. And it’s one no amount of youth can touch.