The House of Me: A Story of Aging, Renewal, and the Beauty of What Lasts

Photo by Büsra Aksoy on Unsplash

A house is so much more than just shelter. My house became the place where I confronted something deeper: ageism—the quiet, persistent views we carry about older people and anything past its so-called “prime.”

It all began with an open house and an open mind. The realtor hosted the open house, and my husband, Michael, brought the open mind. We had been looking for a home where he could have a first-floor office and where we could do laundry on the second floor. That day, we happened upon a stucco house—listed as built in 1907—within our price range.

As we climbed the front steps, I noticed the realtor was wearing the exact same dress I’d put on that morning. No one else was at the showing. She hadn’t received a single offer in eight months. The online photos were underwhelming, and as our realtor explained, “Many people don’t want an old house.” It reminded me of online dating in my fifties. Men wanted younger women. Buyers want younger homes. Others couldn’t see past her age. But I could.

As we walked through the house, I became convinced that she had once been stunning. An Arts and Crafts home, her design was a reaction to the excesses of the Victorian era—with its heavy ornamentation and elaborate décor. This home boasted clean lines, a strong triangular shape, and minimal embellishment. Her stucco exterior echoed the earth; her design paid homage to nature.

But as we wandered through her rooms, she felt tired and worn—like someone quietly let go. As if the people who once loved her had stopped trying.

Still, she was in our price range. And as we explored her creaky, spacious rooms, Michael said, “This house ticks a lot of our boxes.”

Then came the inspection—and a long list of problems.

“The roof is damaged, the fence is unstable, the skylight is leaking, the tiles are cracked in the primary bathroom, several electrical outlets aren’t up to code,” the inspector rattled off.

“Right,” I said. “But overall, would you say she’s in good shape? Or is this worse than most houses her age?”

“It’s about average for a house this old,” he replied, already moving on.

That reminded me of conversations I’ve had with friends: “Well, for my age, not so bad. Sure, my knees ache and my back hurts, but that’s to be expected.” I don’t like hearing that. I’ve always wanted to believe that people and things past their prime can be renewed, even celebrated. Some days, that belief is hard to hold onto. But my house ended up convincing me it might just be true.

Two weeks later, she was ours.

I had no idea how much work that would take. “Needing a little work” turned out to mean needing a lot. Everything cost more and took longer than expected. The house drained our bank account with every major repair: a new roof, a full interior paint job, rebuilt walls, a tuck-pointed chimney, a new fence, and new hardwood floors.

And yet—somehow—I wasn’t daunted.

As the floors were ripped out and rubble piled up outside the garage and on the porch, I felt strangely hopeful. That something old could be transformed. That something forgotten could be made new again. When the insurance company threatened to cancel our policy because of the roof, I calmly told them we had a replacement scheduled that week. And we did.

Thousands of dollars later, she’s shown me that transformation is possible. Restoring her has become a kind of restoration for me.

She represents so many of us in middle age—dealing with the effects of age, wear, or neglect. She had been overlooked. So many middle-aged women can relate to that feeling of invisibility—once young, beautiful, and vibrant, now just another face in the crowd. Once we turned heads; now we get bumped in the grocery store. People talk down to us, as if age has destroyed our intelligence.

The passage of time hasn’t been any kinder to me than to her. We’ve both aged. We both creaked until she got her new hardwood floors. Both of us have changed from our original shape. She’s better now—our painters straightened her crooked walls. And though my hair has lost some of its luster, her new green roof sparkles, like I imagine it did a century ago.

She’s reinforced my belief that beauty has less to do with age than with how we carry ourselves, how much we’re loved, and how we choose to show up in the world. I think my house stands a little taller these days—no longer overlooked, but admired by people who once passed her by. When I clean her floors and dust off her high ceilings, I imagine her feeling proud and saying, “Thank you” for caring for me.

I still get anxious whenever repairs are underway—just as I do before a doctor’s appointment. When we replaced her front door and she stood exposed to the street, I wondered if she would be okay. Does she feel vulnerable now, the way I feel? Would her historic trim survive the pounding? Does she feel upset that she’s being torn apart—even if it’s just her front door? I flinched when I heard workers drilling into her walls. I jumped when I heard the hammers pounding on her. I want to run out to them and tell them to be gentle. She’s not a young house anymore. Watching her undergo repairs feels a lot like watching my doctor remove a suspicious mole from my arm—necessary, but hard to witness.

During the bathroom renovation, we discovered mold under the floor—a gruesome surprise. But really, who knows what’s growing inside any of us? We cleaned it out and installed new tile, a fresh shower, new sinks. The space gleams now—like a smile with freshly whitened teeth.

With all the work we’ve done, I’m proud to show her off to friends.

“Wow, this is a spectacular house!” a friend of thirty years said recently.

“You think so?” I replied—just the way I respond to my husband’s compliments, hoping to hear it again in a different way.

It turns out that older things can be restored and loved just as deeply as when they were new. And she’s even older than we thought. She wasn’t built in 1907, but sometime in the 1880s.

Her restoration has given me a new perspective. As I lace up my shoes and racewalk along the lakefront near my old-new home, I feel that anything is possible—for both of us. I’ll train for the upcoming Illinois Senior Olympics and see if I can qualify for the national games next year. I’ll watch what I eat, get my sleep, and tend to the small and significant parts of myself—just as I’ve done for her.

And as I continue uncovering more of her history, I truly believe that both of us may still have our best years ahead.