Climbing Through Life: What Bouldering at 60 Has Taught Me

At 60, I’ve taken up a sport that most people associate with fearless twenty-somethings in chalk-covered tank tops—bouldering. It’s a strange and beautiful thing to find yourself halfway up a rock wall, heart pounding, fingertips clinging to a crimp, legs trembling as you decide what to do next. You’d think I’m doing this for fitness, or for some sort of bucket list thrill. But truthfully? I climb because it’s taught me how to live.

Bouldering has a way of demanding your full attention. There’s no room for distraction—no time to worry about bills, aging parents, or whether you left the stove on. Each route is a puzzle. Each hold, a question: Will you trust this one? Will you commit? And for those few minutes, all you can think about is your breath, your grip, your next move. It’s pure presence.

When I first started, I was overwhelmed. I wanted to power through problems quickly, like others at the gym. But I learned fast that brute strength isn’t what gets you to the top—strategy does. You have to pause. You have to study the wall. You have to break the climb into pieces: just one hold, one foothold, one shift of weight at a time.

Isn’t that life?

At 60, I’ve lived enough to know that rushing rarely gets you where you want to go. Bouldering has reminded me that taking life one step at a time isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom. You plan your next move, you breathe through discomfort, and when you fall (because you will fall), you shake it off and try again.

There’s also the humility. Some days, the routes that looked easy are the ones that leave me sitting on the mat, laughing at myself. Other days, I surprise myself—I finish a problem I never thought I could. Life is like that, too. Sometimes the things that look easy aren’t. And sometimes, you’re stronger than you think.

People ask me why I do this. Isn’t it dangerous? Aren’t I worried about getting hurt? The truth is, I’ve been hurt in safer places. I’ve lost people. I’ve faced fears and regrets and days when getting out of bed was the real climb. But on the wall, I’ve found a kind of clarity. A truth.

Bouldering at 60 has taught me that being in the moment isn’t just a mindfulness exercise—it’s a survival skill. It’s how you keep going. It’s how you make peace with what you can control—your breath, your next move—and release what you can’t.

So I climb. I chalk my hands, look at the wall, and remind myself that there is no rush. That the top isn’t the goal. Being present on the journey is.

And when I leave the gym, I carry that lesson with me. Into relationships. Into work. Into every uncertain moment. Because life, like bouldering, is best lived with intention, patience, and just a little bit of grit.

At 60, I may not move as fast—but I move with heart. And that, I’ve learned, is enough.