After 60, quitting these nine habits can dramatically improve happiness

The first time you realize you’re closer to 80 than to 40, it can land in the body like a small earthquake. It might arrive in a quiet moment: standing at the kitchen sink, watching a pair of finches argue over a sunflower, or waking up to knees that feel like someone replaced the joints with rusted hinges overnight. After sixty, time suddenly feels louder, more insistent. And yet, beneath the background noise of medical appointments, retirement paperwork, and adult children who still occasionally treat you like a fragile antique, there’s something else taking root—a sharper hunger for real happiness, the kind that isn’t borrowed from other people’s expectations.

Letting Go of the Habit of Rushing Through Your Days

There’s an odd superstition that seeps into our culture: that slowing down is the same as giving up. So even after sixty, many of us keep moving like we’re late for something. We half-walk, half-hurry, hearts racing as if someone somewhere is taking attendance. The house must be tidy. The bills must be dealt with. The lawn must not dare look like a field.

But watch the way late afternoon light pools in the corner of a room—how it turns dust into a small galaxy floating in front of your favorite chair. Notice the way the neighbor’s maple throws its shadow like a slow wave across your porch. The world is inviting you, gently but clearly, to stop sprinting through your days as if you can outrun the ending.

Quitting the habit of rushing doesn’t mean embracing laziness; it means choosing presence over panic. At sixty and beyond, happiness often hides in unhurried things: making coffee slowly enough to smell its bloom, taking an extra five minutes to rub lotion into your hands, walking the dog without glancing at a watch. When you quit rushing, time doesn’t actually slow, but it does deepen—like a river that suddenly reveals the stones beneath its surface.

You might start simply. Decide that one daily ritual—breakfast, watering the plants, folding laundry—will be done without multitasking, without the TV humming, without mentally writing tomorrow’s to‑do list. Give it your full attention. It will feel odd at first, like driving without the radio on. But slowly, a new rhythm appears: calmer, quieter, and, strangely, more alive.

Releasing the Heavy Cloak of “I’m Too Old for That”

One of the most dangerous habits after sixty doesn’t show up on any medical chart. It lives in the quiet phrases that slip out when invitations arrive: “I’m too old for that,” “That’s for younger people,” “My time for that has passed.” Little by little, these sentences become a kind of invisible fence, closing in around your life until your days shrink to the familiar, the safe, and the painfully small.

This habit often starts as protection. You don’t want to feel foolish taking a watercolor class for the first time with people half your age. You don’t want to be the slowest walker on a trail or the person asking the most questions in a technology workshop. But every time you say, “That’s not for me anymore,” a piece of curiosity quietly packs its bags and leaves.

Imagine, instead, treating your sixties and seventies as a second adolescence—but this time with better boundaries, a deeper sense of self, and no pressure to be cool. You can be the beginner without the shame. You can say, “I’ve never done this before,” and watch people’s faces light up, because courage is far more interesting than competence.

Try a small rebellion against “too old.” Take a short course in something delightfully impractical: bird calls, pottery, native plants, storytelling, or digital photography. Go listen to live music on a weeknight. Start a container garden on your balcony. If it helps, treat each new thing like a field trip your younger self never got to take. The goal isn’t mastery; it’s aliveness. You are not too old for wonder. Wonder, in fact, has been waiting for you to finally have the time.

Walking Away from Comparison and Regret

There is a moment, often sometime after sixty, when your peers begin to sort into different storylines. Some are traveling the world, posting photos in sunhats on faraway beaches. Some are helping to raise grandchildren. Some are managing illnesses that quietly shape every day. Some are gone. It’s almost impossible not to look around and start measuring yourself against everyone else—income, marriages, health, adventures, the state of your knees.

Comparison, though, is like drinking seawater: the more you take in, the thirstier and more dissatisfied you become. Coupled with its old friend regret, it can turn beautiful late‑life years into a mental courtroom where you are forever on trial for not having done enough, earned enough, traveled enough, loved enough.

But step outside on a clear evening and look up. The sky does not ask a single star why it is not brighter, earlier, or more like the one beside it. Each burns with what it has. Your life, too, has its own specific burn, shaped by choices you made when you were doing the best you could with what you knew then.

Quitting the habit of comparison and regret doesn’t mean pretending everything was perfect. It means gently closing the file on alternate lives that never happened—those phantom versions of you who did everything “right.” Sometimes it helps to name the life you actually lived: the children you raised or didn’t raise, the towns you stayed in, the jobs you loved or tolerated, the griefs you carried. This is the story you get to finish, not the one that only ever existed in your imagination.

A simple practice: once a week, write down one thing your younger self would be proud of you for today. Not decades ago—today. Maybe you walked farther than usual. Maybe you finally called an old friend. Maybe you cooked yourself a nourishing meal instead of eating crackers over the sink. Pride, in small daily doses, is a powerful antidote to regret.

Loosening the Grip of Neglecting Your Body

Another quiet habit that steals happiness after sixty is pretending your body is either a lost cause or a machine that should keep going the way it always has. Some people give up entirely, treating their joints and muscles like an abandoned house—something to endure rather than inhabit. Others ignore the warning lights, pushing as if they were still thirty, then feeling betrayed when pain shows up like an uninvited guest.

There is a kinder way between these extremes. It begins with acknowledging a simple, often uncomfortable truth: this body has carried you through every heartbreak, every job, every late‑night drive home, every long day of caregiving. It deserves more tenderness than judgment, more curiosity than complaint.

Quitting the habit of neglect doesn’t mean committing to extreme gym routines or rigid diets. It might look like stretching your arms overhead each morning until your spine sighs with relief. It might be walking at a pace where you can still tell a story without gasping for breath. It might be cooking one more meal at home than you did last week, adding colors to your plate the way a painter adds them to a canvas.

And there is joy here, too. The joy of realizing you can still grow stronger. The joy of sleeping better because you moved your body instead of treating it like a parked car. The joy of noticing how sunlight feels on your face during a slow walk, or how the air tastes differently in different seasons. This is your one remaining instrument; the music of late life is richer when you take the time to tune it.

Setting Down Bitterness and Grudges

By sixty, almost everyone has been hurt in ways that leave a mark: betrayals, silences, unspoken apologies, words said sharply in kitchens and cars that still echo years later. Without meaning to, you can begin to build a private museum of grievances in your mind—a place you visit when you can’t sleep, replaying arguments like old films, reciting a silent list of who should have done better.

Holding onto bitterness is like agreeing to carry a heavy stone in your pocket everywhere you go. You get used to the weight. You might even forget it’s there. But your back curves a little more, your steps shorten, and joy becomes harder to recognize because your hands are already full.

Quitting this habit doesn’t require you to pretend that wrongs never happened. It doesn’t ask you to invite harmful people back into your life. Instead, it invites you into a quieter kind of freedom: the choice to stop rehearsing the pain. You can choose to put down the story where you always end up as the injured, righteous one. You can choose to reclaim all that mental space for something softer, something healing.

Sometimes forgiveness is too big a word at first. Think of it as “making room.” What could you do with the emotional energy you spend revisiting old hurts? Learn the constellations in your night sky. Press flowers between heavy books. Volunteer one morning a week. Write letters that only say what you’re grateful for, even if you never send them.

The surprising thing is that when grudges loosen their grip, your body notices. Shoulders settle. The jaw unclenches. Breathing becomes less defensive, more spacious. Happiness, at this age, is often less about adding something new and more about putting down what you no longer need to carry.

Stepping Away from Isolation and Numbing Distraction

There is a special kind of loneliness that can arrive after sixty. Children move out. Partners die or drift. Coworkers vanish on the day you retire, replaced by long mornings and quiet afternoons. Into that silence, it is easy to slip into two connected habits: isolation and distraction. The TV hums for company. The phone becomes a glowing, bottomless well of scrolling. You talk back to news anchors more than to actual friends.

But humans are not built to live solely in reaction to screens. Our nervous systems still recognize the sound of real laughter across a table, the warmth of a hand on our shoulder, the easy comfort of someone who remembers your stories from before your hair turned white. While solitude can be nourishing, isolation is something else entirely: a slow erosion of joy, a thinning of the threads that tie you to the world.

Quitting the habit of numbing distraction doesn’t mean throwing away your devices or never watching another show. It means noticing when screens stop being a window and start being a wall. It means choosing, a little more often, to turn outward instead of inward.

This might look like joining a morning walking group, or a community garden, or a book circle that meets in a local library. It might be inviting a neighbor for tea on the porch instead of texting. It might be calling an old friend just to listen, not to trade complaints. Even small social rituals—saying hello to the same barista, chatting with the clerk at the grocery store, learning the names of the dogs who share your sidewalk—begin to stitch you back into the fabric of the living world.

When you step outside, really outside, you may notice new companions: the crow that always watches from the power line, the shifting clouds, the smell of rain long before it begins. These are conversations too, subtle ones, reminding you that you still belong here, that your presence still matters.

Nine Habits Worth Quitting After 60

Here is a simple overview of nine common habits that, when gently released, can open surprising doors to happiness in later life:

Habit to Quit	What It Steals	What You Gain
Constant rushing	Presence, calm, joy in small moments	Deeper days, less stress
“I’m too old for that” thinking	Curiosity, adventure, learning	Fresh experiences, renewed confidence
Comparison to others	Self-worth, gratitude	Peace with your own path
Living in regret	Energy for the present	Freedom to enjoy the life you have now
Neglecting your body	Mobility, strength, sleep quality	Comfort, vitality, confidence
Holding grudges	Lightness, ease in relationships	Emotional space, softer heart
Chronic isolation	Belonging, mental health	Connection, laughter, support
Numbing with screens or news	Attention, creativity	Clarity, time for what matters
Telling yourself “it’s too late”	Hope, motivation, courage	A sense of possibility, new chapters

Choosing a Softer, Braver Kind of Happiness

There is one last habit that threads through all the others: the quiet belief that after sixty, life is mostly about managing decline. You hear it in jokes about senior moments, in the way people speak over elders instead of to them, in the subtle way you might find yourself stepping back from the center of your own life, handing the pen to others.

But sit for a moment with your hands in your lap and really look at them. The lines, the scars, the veins like small rivers. These hands have done so much: held newborns, fixed broken things, written checks, braided hair, planted bulbs in cold soil and waited months to see if anything would grow. Why should they not also be the hands that begin something new?

Quitting these nine habits is less about self-improvement and more about self-return. It is an invitation to come back to the raw, beating core of what has always made life worth living: connection, curiosity, movement, rest, laughter, forgiveness, and a steady relationship with the ordinary magic of the world around you.

The finches will keep arguing over the sunflower. The light will keep pooling in the corner of your favorite room. Seasons will keep arriving, patient and unhurried. Somewhere within all of that, there is a version of you—sixty, seventy, eighty—who is not done yet. Not done learning or loving or being surprised. Not done being happy.

That version of you is already waiting, just on the other side of a few old habits you are finally brave enough to set down.

Frequently Asked Questions

Is it really possible to become happier after 60?

Yes. Research and lived experience both suggest that many people actually become more emotionally stable and content as they age. By intentionally releasing habits that drain your energy—like comparison, constant rushing, and isolation—you create more room for joy, meaning, and connection.

What if I feel it’s “too late” to change anything?

The belief that it’s too late is itself one of the most limiting habits. Change at this stage doesn’t need to be dramatic to be powerful. Small, consistent shifts—taking daily walks, reaching out to one person a week, trying one new activity a month—can dramatically reshape how you feel over time.

How do I start if I feel overwhelmed by all these habits?

Choose one habit that feels both important and manageable. For example, decide that for fifteen minutes each day you’ll step outside without your phone, or that once a week you’ll invite someone to talk—on the phone, in person, or even over a fence. Success with one change builds confidence for others.

What if my health limits what I can do?

Limitations are real, but so is adaptability. Focus on what is still available: gentle movement, mental curiosity, creative expression, meaningful conversations, small outdoor moments like sitting by an open window or on a balcony. Happiness is less about physical capacity and more about how fully you inhabit what you can still do.

How can I find community if I live alone or far from family?

Look for small, local circles: library events, community centers, faith communities, hobby clubs, gardening projects, or walking groups. Even brief, regular contact with neighbors and shopkeepers helps. You don’t need a large network to feel less alone; a few steady, genuine connections can transform your days.