“At 64, I thought I was losing motivation”: why my priorities had simply shifted

The kettle clicked off just as the sky began to pale, that in-between moment when the world is mostly quiet but not quite asleep. I stood at the kitchen window, cradling a warm mug, watching the first light collect on the neighbour’s maple tree. At 64, I had started waking up absurdly early, my body refusing the luxury of sleeping in. For months I’d been telling myself I was losing my motivation—drifting, slowing, becoming one of those people who talk more about what they used to do than what they’re doing now. But that morning, with the faint scent of toast and coffee in the air and a soft breeze slipping through the cracked window, something finally shifted. I realised, slowly and a little reluctantly, that maybe nothing was “wrong” with me at all. Maybe my priorities had just moved, like a tide quietly receding while I was busy staring at the horizon.

The Day I Stopped Chasing My Own Shadow

For most of my life, motivation had a very particular flavour: urgency. I woke up every day with a to-do list that seemed to have teeth. There were deadlines at work, projects at home, social plans, gym sessions, family commitments. If I didn’t accomplish enough, I carried a low-grade sense of failure into bed with me like an unwelcome roommate.

In my fifties, I wore busyness like a badge. “You’re always doing something,” friends would say, and I’d beam as if they’d complimented my character. Being in motion meant I mattered. It meant I was still needed, still relevant, still tethered to the bustling current of life.

Then, somewhere around my sixty-fourth birthday, the current slowed. Or maybe I did. Tasks I used to attack with almost aggressive enthusiasm began to feel heavy. Volunteering extra hours? I found myself hesitating. Starting a new ambitious project? The excitement was there, but faint, like music heard from another room. I caught myself turning down invitations and staring at half-finished to-do lists without much guilt… and that frightened me more than I wanted to admit.

One evening, after cancelling yet another commitment, I sat in my favourite armchair feeling oddly blank. “Am I becoming lazy?” I wondered. “Is this how it starts—the slide into irrelevance?” The thought crawled under my skin. For weeks, I kept waiting for the old spark to rehabilitate itself. It didn’t. Instead, something gentler arrived.

When “Less” Stopped Feeling Like a Failure

The realisation didn’t come in a flash; it arrived in slow, quiet moments. In the way I started lingering over my morning walk, for instance. I used to power-walk like I was being timed, counting steps and heartbeats, mentally composing emails for later. One day, I noticed I had stopped checking my phone mid-stride. I was watching instead—watching the light sift through leaves, listening to the dry rattle of a crow in the distance, noticing how the air smelled differently after a night of rain. And I thought, a little suspiciously, “Is this… it? Is this what I’m doing now? Just… walking?”

That same week, I opened my calendar and realised I had unconsciously left several days almost empty. No big projects. No packed schedule designed to impress anyone, including myself. I should have felt unsettled. Instead, the blank spaces looked oddly inviting, like wide, sandy stretches of beach waiting for footprints.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care anymore. I still liked being useful, still valued seeing something through. But the burning need to constantly “prove” my usefulness—to others, to myself—had dimmed. The silence where that need used to shout felt, after a while, less like absence and more like… room. Room to breathe. Room to pay attention. Room to decide what genuinely deserved my energy.

One morning, sitting with my planner open and a pen hovering over another week, I finally asked myself a different question: instead of “Where has my motivation gone?” I tried, “What is my motivation now?” When I framed it that way, the answer wasn’t that my motivation had vanished. It had simply changed destination.

The Subtle Art of Re‑Prioritising Without an Announcement

There was no dramatic declaration, no manifesto taped to the fridge. My priorities shifted quietly, like furniture being rearranged in the next room. At first, I only noticed in small decisions.

I used to say “yes” almost automatically—to extra work, to another family errand, to social plans that left me more drained than delighted. Now, a pause had crept in between the invitation and my answer. In that pause, I would check in with myself: Do I actually want to do this? Or do I just feel I should?

That tiny pause changed more than I expected. It didn’t mean I turned into a hermit. It meant I started reserving my energy for what felt nourishing—conversations with close friends that went deeper than small talk, small creative projects that had waited politely for years, slow afternoons reading in the backyard while sunlight moved across the grass.

It was unfamiliar at first, this idea that I didn’t need to continuously climb an invisible ladder. I realised much of my old “motivation” had been shaped by fear: fear of falling behind, fear of being forgotten, fear of being labelled unproductive. The world loves a hustle story. It rarely celebrates someone who quietly decides to live at a gentler speed.

But in that new slowness, something important emerged: a different set of priorities I hadn’t given myself permission to honour when I was busy keeping up appearances.

What My Priorities Look Like Now

To make sense of this internal rearrangement, I did what I’ve always done when life feels murky: I wrote things down. I listed the parts of my life that now asked for my attention, not with the panicked urgency of the past, but with a steady, unhurried invitation.

None of these priorities would have looked out of place at 24 or 44. But the order in which they stand now—and the intensity with which I honour them—has changed. I no longer place “achievement” at the top as if everything else must bow to it. Success, I’m discovering, can be measured in deeper breaths and unhurried mornings too.

The Myth of “Losing It” After a Certain Age

There is a sly, persistent story many of us absorb about ageing: that after a certain point, wanting less automatically means being less. Less ambitious, less valuable, less interesting. When my own drive to stack my days sky-high began to wane, I fell right into that narrative.

I remember confiding in a younger colleague that I felt like I’d misplaced my ambition. She smiled and said, “Or maybe your ambition got promoted.” I frowned. She explained: “Instead of striving to do more, maybe you’re just ambitious now about doing what actually matters to you.” Her words lodged in my mind and wouldn’t let go.

What if, after all these years of striving, my mind and body were simply insisting on a different kind of ambition—one centred on depth rather than breadth? What if the so‑called disappearance of motivation was really the shedding of what no longer fit?

When I looked around at friends my age, I saw similar shifts: people leaving high‑pressure jobs for work that paid less but hurt less; others trading oversized houses for smaller spaces and bigger stretches of free time; some choosing late‑life studies, art classes, or gentle routines that would have seemed indulgent in their thirties. We weren’t losing ourselves. We were stepping into a truer version of ourselves that had been waiting patiently under years of obligation.

Listening to the Body’s Quiet Instructions

Our bodies are often ahead of our minds in these transitions. Mine started sending quiet memos: the bone‑deep fatigue after long social weekends, the restlessness when a day was sliced into too many small, scattered commitments, the surprising contentment of evenings with nothing scheduled except a book and the hum of the refrigerator.

At 64, I can distinguish between the heaviness of depression—when nothing feels worth doing—and the gentle pull toward a more intentional life, where I do fewer things but care more about them. The two can look similar from the outside: less activity, fewer big projects. But inside, they feel utterly different. One is a dimming of light; the other is a deliberate turning of the beam.

Once I recognised that, I stopped labelling myself as “unmotivated” and started asking, Motivated toward what? Less driven to climb and compete, yes. More driven to savour, to connect, to notice. The direction had changed, not the engine.

Choosing a Life That Fits the Season You’re In

There is relief in admitting that you’ve simply outgrown the old version of your own hustle. The person I was at 34 needed to prove something. The person I am at 64 needs to live inside her days, not sprint past them.

My calendar now is far from empty, but it’s more honest. There are pencilled‑in walks with a friend, afternoons of gardening, doctor appointments, family gatherings, the occasional daunting task that still makes my heart beat faster. But there is also white space, and that white space is no longer a sign of failure. It is air.

If you met me now, you might think I’m quieter, slower, less “driven.” What you wouldn’t see at first glance is how much more awake I feel inside my own life. I haven’t lost my motivation. I’ve redirected it—from chasing external markers to cultivating an interior landscape where I actually want to spend time.

Standing again at the kitchen window this morning, I watched the light move across that same maple tree. The leaves were the deep, late‑season green that hints at the coming shift to gold. That tree is not less alive because it no longer wears the bright, unruly green of early summer. It is simply in another part of its cycle, quietly preparing for the next transformation.

At 64, I am, too. And for the first time in a long time, that feels less like an ending and more like a beginning designed just for me.

FAQ

Is it normal to feel less driven as we get older?

Yes. As we age, our priorities often shift from achievement and accumulation toward meaning, relationships, health, and peace of mind. This can feel like “losing motivation,” but it’s often a healthy realignment rather than a decline.

How can I tell if I’ve lost motivation or my priorities have changed?

Ask yourself: do I still care deeply about some things, even if they’re different from before? If you feel drawn to certain activities, people, or values—even gently—it’s likely your priorities have shifted. If nothing feels worth doing at all, it may be more about burnout or depression and worth discussing with a professional.

What if people around me don’t understand my new priorities?

Others may interpret your slowing down as disinterest or withdrawal. It can help to explain that you’re being more intentional with your time and energy, not disappearing. Over time, the people who truly care about you usually adjust to the new rhythm.

How can I explore my new priorities without feeling guilty?

Guilt often comes from clinging to old definitions of productivity and success. Try experimenting with small changes: leave some white space in your week, say no to one obligation, say yes to something that genuinely nourishes you. Notice how your body and mood respond. Use that feedback to guide you.

Can shifting priorities still include ambition and growth?

Absolutely. Growth doesn’t have to mean climbing higher; it can mean going deeper. You might pursue learning, creativity, or service in ways that fit your current energy and values. Ambition can evolve from “doing more” to “doing what truly matters, in a way that feels sustainable and honest.”