I’m 80 years old and somehow I woke up in my 38 year old body just for one day.

I wake up to little hands tugging at the blankets.
I blink. I sit up slowly.
My babies, they’re small again.
I gasp. I cry.

They climb into bed, giggling, wiggling.
I used to rush through mornings, but not today.
I pull them close. I hug them tight.
I kiss their messy hair.
I hold their little hands.
And this time I soak in every second.

I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
No deep lines. No grey hair.
My younger face.
I used to think I looked old at 38.
What a silly thought.

I stare for a moment and think, you are so beautiful.

I find my husband in the kitchen making coffee.
He looks strong and young.
I wrap my arms around him so tightly.
And he looks surprised.
Maybe we didn’t hug enough back then, I think.

We talk about the day.
Nothing big.
But today it all feels big.
I memorise the sound of his voice.

We pile into the car.
Kids arguing over seatbelts.
Someone drops a snack.
Crumbs everywhere.

And I used to get so frustrated.
But I soak in the noise.
The chaos.
I know my car will be quiet and spotless for many years to come.
But I’ll miss the mess.
I will miss this mess.

Dinner is loud and unorganised.
No one wants to sit still.
There’s shouting, giggling, a little arguing and so much life.
I don’t clean up right away.
I just sit and watch, trying to burn it all into my memory.

And before bed, I pick up the phone.
I call my mum and I hear her voice.
Mum. Mum. Mum.
I haven’t heard this voice in so many years.
I close my eyes and let her words wash over me.
And I tell her I love her again and again.
And I never want to hang up.
And this time I don’t leave anything unsaid.

At bedtime, I don’t skip pages in the story.
Not tonight.
I read every single word.
And then I ask, can we read one more book?
And they say yes.
I don’t want this day to end.

I got one more day.
And this time I knew.
This was joy.
This was love.
Those little hands.
The loud, messy dinners.
Our strong young bodies with no aches or pains.
Our parents who were still alive.

It all mattered so much more than we ever realised.

Credit: Thank you to Lise and Sarah for sharing this beautiful piece. And if you’d rather listen to this beautiful poem, you can do that here. 

Here’s what gets me about this piece: the woman in the poem doesn’t wish for a bigger house. A better job. A flatter stomach. Different kids. A quieter partner.

She wishes she’d noticed what was already there.

The weight of small hands. The chaos of dinner. The warmth of a hug. The gift of one more phone call to her mum. The crumbs and mess in the car.

And here’s the part that made me stop – she had all of it. It was all right there the whole time. She just didn’t see it because she was too busy rushing to the next thing, stressing about the mess, feeling frustrated by the noise.

Sound familiar?

Research in positive psychology shows that people who regularly practice what’s called “temporal distancing” – imagining themselves looking back on the present from the future – report significantly higher life satisfaction and lower stress. It’s not about false positivity or pretending everything’s perfect. It’s about seeing your life the way your 80-year-old self will see it: as a collection of moments that mattered far more than you realised at the time.

Your cluttered kitchen isn’t mess – it’s evidence of a life being lived. Of trying to nourish yourself and your family.

The fingerprints on your windows and mirrors aren’t dirt – they’re temporary proof that small hands still live here.

The exhaustion you feel isn’t failure – it’s the beautiful weight of being needed.

One day – maybe sooner than you think – your car will be spotless. Your house will be quiet. Your phone won’t ring with someone asking what’s for dinner.

And you’ll give absolutely anything for just one more day of the mess.

So before 2026 properly begins, I want to invite you into three simple practices. Not resolutions. Not goals. Just three ways to live like you got one more day.

Hold On

Tomorrow morning, before you reach for your phone, before you mentally run through your to-do list or check your socials, I want you to pause and ask yourself this question:

If I was 80 years old waking up in this body for just one day, what would I notice first?

The softness of the blankets? The taste of your morning tea? Your ache-free body? The warmth of the sun on your face? The fact that those you love are still here? The waggy tail greeting you as you rise.

For just 60 seconds, notice what’s actually in front of you. Not what’s missing. Not what needs fixing. What’s here. Right now. 

This isn’t being naive or burying your head in the sand. When you deliberately notice the good stuff, you’re literally shifting your brain from threat-scanning to presence. You’re activating your prefrontal cortex and dampening your amygdala. You’re being neurologically intelligent.

Throughout the day, catch yourself three times doing something ordinary – making your bed, washing dishes, patting the dog. Slow down for just 10 seconds and notice: What do I see? What do I feel? What do I hear?

The 80-year-old version of you would tell you: this is what you’ll miss. Not the Instagram-worthy moments. These ones.

Let Go

In that piece, the woman calls her mum. She says “I love you” again and again. She doesn’t leave anything unsaid.

Here’s some hard truth: research consistently shows that one of the biggest regrets of the dying isn’t “I wish I’d worked harder” or “I wish I’d been thinner.” It’s “I wish I’d stayed in touch with the people I loved.”

Before this year kicks in too far, I want you to make one phone call. Not a text. Not a message. Pick up the actual phone and call someone whose voice you’ll miss one day.

Your mum. Your dad. Your sister. Your best mate from school. Someone who won’t always be here.

Don’t wait for a reason. Just call them and say whatever your 80-year-old self would want you to say now.

Tell them you love them. Tell them why they matter. Tell them the thing you keep meaning to say but never quite get around to.

And while you’re at it – let go of whatever grudges you’ve been carrying. Not because someone deserve forgiveness, but because you deserve freedom.

Before 2026 gets too far, consider: who’s living rent-free in your head? Who’s taking up space that could be filled with joy instead?

Keeping score and harbouring grudges is like poison to your body, mind, and soul. It increases cortisol, suppresses immune function, disrupts sleep, and accelerates aging.

You don’t have to tell them. You don’t have to send a message. Just write their name on paper and underneath it: “I release you. Not because you deserve it, but because I deserve peace.”

Then burn it, tear it up, or bury it in your garden. Let the earth compost what your heart can’t carry anymore.

Because at the end of the day, if someone cannot meet you where you are, you cannot keep asking them to do so. If someone cannot reciprocate your love, if someone cannot give you what you truly deserve, you have to understand that aching for them to do so is a form of self-destruction.

Your heart is a vast and tender thing. You cannot keep trying to shrink it into what someone else needs. You cannot keep pouring your love into a vessel that cannot contain it.

It will only leave you empty.

Move Forward

Here’s your invitation for 2026: What if you said yes to “one more” a little more often? Not to big things that don’t sit right with your soul. But little moments that matter. Because “one more” won’t always be an option.

One day, you’ll wish desperately for one more conversation. One more messy dinner. One more chance to read the story without skipping pages.

So when someone asks for one more this year – and you’ve got it within you to give – say yes.

And for yourself? Set some intentions not through goals and metrics, but through your senses. The way your body actually experiences life.

What do you want to see this year? Sunrise? Your garden in bloom? Less of your phone screen?

What do you want to hear? More laughter? Ocean waves? Your own voice saying “no” to toxic relationships or circumstances?

What do you want to feel? Morning dew on bare feet? Strong muscles? Your partner’s hand in yours?

What do you want to taste? Home-cooked meals? Fresh herbs from your garden? Life without rushing?

What do you want to smell? Eucalyptus after rain? Sea air? Dinner cooking slowly?

Where do you want to move your body? Walk through a forest? Swim in the ocean? Climb out of old patterns?

Write these down. Not as goals to achieve, but as experiences to seek.

Because here’s the truth: years from now, you won’t remember your to-do list. You’ll remember how life felt.

I know we may all be that woman at 38 at times – rushing through mornings, getting frustrated by mess and little things, mentally running through a to-do list instead of actually seeing what’s in front of us. So, this year here’s my wish for us all.

Let’s try and not be that person waking up at 80 wishing they’d noticed more.

Let’s make 2026 the year we hug tighter, read that extra book, notice the crumbs without grumbling. Let’s make more phone calls and say yes to more time with those we love. Let’s release people who can’t meet me us where we are and let go of grudges that are hurting our peace.

Not because we’re aiming for perfection but because today, is all of our “one day”.

We don’t get to come back. We don’t get to wake up at 80 in our younger body and do it differently. This is it. Right now. Crumbs and chaos and all.

But so is the stuff you’re stressed about. The work deadline. The argument you had. The things that feel enormous right now – your 80-year-old self probably won’t even remember them.

They’ll remember the laughter. The hugs. The spontaneous holiday you went on. The dinner everyone turned up and laughed until their belly hurt. The feeling of being loved and needed and alive.

So as we say farewell to 2025 and step into 2026, here’s my invitation:

Stop waiting for the perfect moment. This is the moment.

Notice what’s here. Let go of what isn’t serving you. Say yes to one more.

And when 2026 feels overwhelming or chaotic or messy – remember the woman who got one more day and chose to spend it noticing everything she’d been too busy to see.

Be that person. Now. While you still can.

Wishing you and your family an abundance of health, joy and blessings for 2026. May the year ahead be filled with all good things and growth. Sandy x