Living the Last Days and Years Alone

Living the Last Days and Years Alone
By Fong Muntoh

No one teaches us how to grow old.
And even fewer speak about growing old alone.

Not everyone has children. Not every child comes back. Some spouses go too early. Some friends fade quietly with time. And one day, you wake up and realize the silence in your home has become your closest companion.

In aged care, I’ve seen it.
The brave ones who still smile.
The ones who say “I’m okay” when asked, even though they miss conversations, shared meals, or someone who remembers their birthday.
And I often wonder: what keeps them going?

Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s strength.
Or maybe, deep down, they’re still waiting for something—even if they don’t know what it is anymore.

Living alone in the later years is not just about being physically by yourself. It’s about carrying memories with no one left to share them with. It’s about celebrating your own birthday with a slice of cake you buy yourself. It’s making medical decisions alone. It’s falling sick and hoping someone, somewhere, will notice.

But this isn’t a piece about pity.
This is about quiet courage.

There is dignity in choosing peace over pity. In continuing to water your plants, take your walks, wear your favourite blouse even if no one will see you. There is grace in finding joy in radio music, afternoon light, or the neighbour’s cat that visits once a week.

If you are reading this and living these years alone, I want you to know—your life still matters. You are still part of the fabric that holds this world together. You have stories, wisdom, and presence that carry weight.

And if you’re caring for someone in this stage of life, pause and sit with them—not just physically, but emotionally. Let them tell you the same story twice. Let them ask you about your day. Let them feel useful again.

Because loneliness in old age isn’t always about being forgotten. Sometimes, it’s about being left unseen.

So today, if you know someone living their final years alone—reach out.
And if you are that someone, know this: you are not invisible. You are deeply, deeply seen.

Menjalani Hari dan Tahun Terakhir Seorang Diri

 Menjalani Hari dan Tahun Terakhir Seorang Diri

Oleh Fong Muntoh

Tiada siapa mengajar kita cara untuk menua.
Dan lebih sedikit lagi yang berbicara tentang menua seorang diri.

Bukan semua orang dikurniakan anak. Tidak semua anak akan kembali. Ada pasangan yang pergi terlalu awal. Ada sahabat yang perlahan-lahan hilang bersama masa. Dan pada suatu pagi, kita sedar bahawa kesunyian di rumah telah menjadi teman paling setia.

Dalam dunia jagaan warga emas, saya melihatnya.
Individu-individu tabah yang masih mampu tersenyum.
Yang menjawab “saya okay” bila ditanya, walaupun hati mereka rindu pada perbualan, makan bersama, atau seseorang yang masih ingat hari lahir mereka.
Dan saya sering tertanya—apa yang membuat mereka terus bertahan?

Mungkin kerana kebiasaan. Mungkin kerana kekuatan.
Atau mungkin, jauh di dalam hati, mereka masih menunggu sesuatu—walaupun mereka sendiri tidak pasti apa lagi yang ditunggu.

Menjalani hari-hari terakhir seorang diri bukan hanya tentang fizikal yang bersendiri. Ia tentang membawa kenangan tanpa sesiapa untuk berkongsi. Ia tentang menyambut hari lahir sendiri dengan sepotong kek yang dibeli sendiri. Ia tentang membuat keputusan kesihatan sendiri. Ia tentang jatuh sakit dan berharap ada seseorang, di mana-mana, yang akan perasan.

Namun, ini bukan tulisan tentang simpati.
Ini adalah tentang keberanian yang diam.

Ada maruah dalam memilih ketenangan berbanding rasa kasihan. Dalam terus menyiram pokok, berjalan perlahan, memakai baju kegemaran walaupun tiada siapa yang melihat. Ada keindahan dalam kegembiraan kecil—muzik di radio, cahaya petang, atau kucing jiran yang datang melawat seminggu sekali.

Jika anda sedang membaca ini dan menjalani tahun-tahun akhir seorang diri, ketahuilah—kehidupan anda masih bermakna. Anda masih menjadi sebahagian daripada benang kehidupan yang menyatukan dunia ini. Anda punya kisah, kebijaksanaan, dan kehadiran yang membawa erti.

Dan jika anda menjaga seseorang di fasa ini, duduklah bersama mereka—bukan sekadar secara fizikal, tetapi secara emosi. Biarkan mereka ulang cerita yang sama. Biarkan mereka tanya tentang hari anda. Biarkan mereka rasa berguna sekali lagi.

Kerana kesunyian di usia tua bukan semata-mata kerana dilupakan. Kadang-kadang, ia kerana tidak dilihat.

Jadi hari ini, jika anda kenal seseorang yang melalui tahun-tahun akhir seorang diri—hulurkan tangan.
Dan jika anda adalah orang itu, ketahuilah: anda tidak hilang dari pandangan. Anda sedang diperhatikan dengan penuh penghargaan.

Kadang-kadang, kesunyian di usia tua bukan kerana dilupakan. Tapi kerana tidak dilihat.”

Of course, Muntoh. Here is the **Bahasa Malaysia version** of the blog post *“When Nothing Feels Like Everything”*: --- **Bila Tiada Apa-Apa Rasa Seperti Segalanya** *Oleh Fong Muntoh* Ada hari yang datang tanpa bunyi. Tiada emosi besar. Tiada keputusan penting. Hanya… udara. Namun, ada satu beban halus yang menekan dada, seperti selimut yang tidak diminta. Hari ini, hari itu. Tiada apa yang salah, tapi tiada apa juga yang terasa betul. Saya jalani rutin seperti biasa—balas emel, senyum pada wajah-wajah yang dikenali, berjalan di koridor pusat jagaan seperti selalu. Tapi dalam hati, ada satu kesunyian yang berdengung. Dan saya sedar—hari-hari begini bukan kosong. Inilah detik-detik di antara. Jeda di antara satu ribut dan yang berikutnya. Mata badai emosi. Bila segala-galanya di dalam diam, tapi berjaga. Rasa segalanya, tapi digelar “tiada apa-apa.” Dalam dunia penjagaan, kepimpinan, dan kehidupan sendiri—ada hari-hari di mana kita memikul perkara yang tidak kelihatan. Kita serap keresahan orang lain, soalan mereka, kekecewaan kecil yang tak pernah disebut. Kita tahan perasaan sendiri, tunggu masa yang lebih sesuai untuk meluahkannya. Dan dalam proses itu, kita hilang jejak pada apa yang kita benar-benar rasa. Sehingga kesunyian itu menyapa, dan kita terpaksa menghadapinya. Dan tidak mengapa. Kadang-kadang, diam itu adalah cara jiwa menarik nafas. Jadi hari ini, saya izinkan sunyi itu wujud. Saya biarkan ‘tiada apa-apa’ itu hidup. Kerana mungkin, dalam detik paling sunyi, kita paling dekat dengan kebenaran. Kerana mungkin, bila tiada apa-apa rasa seperti segalanya—itulah hakikatnya. --- Would you like to add a quote image to accompany this post for social media? I can generate one with a line from the piece.

 Bila Tiada Apa-Apa Rasa Seperti Segalanya

Oleh Fong Muntoh

Ada hari yang datang tanpa bunyi.
Tiada emosi besar. Tiada keputusan penting. Hanya… udara. Namun, ada satu beban halus yang menekan dada, seperti selimut yang tidak diminta.

Hari ini, hari itu.

Tiada apa yang salah, tapi tiada apa juga yang terasa betul. Saya jalani rutin seperti biasa—balas emel, senyum pada wajah-wajah yang dikenali, berjalan di koridor pusat jagaan seperti selalu. Tapi dalam hati, ada satu kesunyian yang berdengung.

Dan saya sedar—hari-hari begini bukan kosong.

Inilah detik-detik di antara. Jeda di antara satu ribut dan yang berikutnya. Mata badai emosi. Bila segala-galanya di dalam diam, tapi berjaga. Rasa segalanya, tapi digelar “tiada apa-apa.”

Dalam dunia penjagaan, kepimpinan, dan kehidupan sendiri—ada hari-hari di mana kita memikul perkara yang tidak kelihatan. Kita serap keresahan orang lain, soalan mereka, kekecewaan kecil yang tak pernah disebut. Kita tahan perasaan sendiri, tunggu masa yang lebih sesuai untuk meluahkannya. Dan dalam proses itu, kita hilang jejak pada apa yang kita benar-benar rasa. Sehingga kesunyian itu menyapa, dan kita terpaksa menghadapinya.

Dan tidak mengapa.
Kadang-kadang, diam itu adalah cara jiwa menarik nafas.

Jadi hari ini, saya izinkan sunyi itu wujud.
Saya biarkan ‘tiada apa-apa’ itu hidup.
Kerana mungkin, dalam detik paling sunyi, kita paling dekat dengan kebenaran.
Kerana mungkin, bila tiada apa-apa rasa seperti segalanya—itulah hakikatnya.

When Nothing Feels Like Everything

 When Nothing Feels Like Everything

By Fong Muntoh

Some days arrive without noise.
No big emotions. No decisions to make. Just... air. And yet, the weight of it presses softly on the chest, like a blanket you didn’t ask for.

Today is one of those days.

Nothing is wrong, and yet nothing feels quite right. I move through the motions—respond to emails, smile at familiar faces, walk the corridors of the care centre like I always do. But inside, there’s a strange silence. Not numb, not sad. Just a stillness that hums.

And I’ve come to understand—these are not empty days.

These are the in-between moments. The pauses between one storm and the next. The eye of the emotional cyclone. When everything inside you is quiet, but watching. Feeling everything but calling it “nothing.”

In caregiving, in leadership, in simply being human—there are days where we carry invisible things. We absorb others’ worries, questions, small disappointments. We hold back our own, waiting for a better time to speak them. And in that process, we lose track of what we’re actually feeling. Until the stillness catches up to us, and we’re forced to notice it.

And it’s okay.
Sometimes stillness is just a soul’s way of breathing.

So today, I allow the quiet.
I let the nothingness be.
Because maybe, in the quietest moments, we are closest to truth.
Because maybe, when nothing feels like everything—it actually is.

The Calm Between Storms

 

The Calm Between Storms

By Fong Muntoh

Some days in aged care, the corridors feel quieter than usual—not because there’s peace, but because something is waiting to happen. Not a crisis. Not yet. Just the weight of questions hanging in the air.

I’ve come to learn that not every problem needs solving immediately. Some things just need time. Some people just need space. And sometimes, the best thing a leader can do… is to wait without anger.

Lately, I’ve been trying not to react. Not because I don’t feel—but because I’m learning that most problems are not problems. They’re questions in disguise.

“Why is she withdrawn today?”
“Why did the staff make that choice?”
“Why does this family seem so unhappy, no matter how much we try?”

It’s easy to be frustrated. To raise a voice. To fix. To control.
But more often now, I choose to breathe. To step back. To trust that the answers will come—not always in the form I expect, and not always from me.

Aged care is full of noise—alarms, footsteps, voices calling “nurse.” But there is also silence.
Between complaints and compliments. Between death and discharge.
Between being strong for everyone… and sitting alone with your thoughts.

And in this silence, I’ve found something unexpected:
Clarity.
Grace.
Even strength.

The calm between storms isn’t emptiness.
It’s reflection.
It’s restraint.
It’s the quiet work of mending what cannot be rushed.

We often talk about action—about doing, moving, fixing.
But there’s an art to not doing.
To waiting with awareness.
To letting something unfold without pushing it forward.

So today, as nothing much happens, I remind myself:
Storms always pass. But it is in the calm that we build the strength to weather the next one.

Rahmat yang Tersembunyi — Seni Melihat dari Sudut Berbeza

Tajuk: Rahmat yang Tersembunyi — Seni Melihat dari Sudut Berbeza

Oleh Fong Muntoh

Dalam dunia penjagaan warga emas, saya belajar satu perkara: segala sesuatu — walaupun aduan, kekecohan atau keletihan — boleh membawa rahmat yang tersembunyi. Kalau kita belajar untuk melihat sekali lagi, dengan hati yang baru dan perspektif yang lebih luas, bahkan perkara yang menyakitkan hati pun boleh menjadi tanda kehidupan, hubungan dan tujuan.

Pernah ada yang berkata kepada saya, “Residen tu banyak sangat merungut.”
Saya hanya senyum dan jawab, “Itu tandanya dia masih tahu apa yang dia mahu.”
Dia masih boleh menyuarakan ketidakselesaan, masih ada kehendak, dan masih ada semangat. Itu bukan beban — itu satu anugerah. Yang membimbangkan adalah bila mereka sudah tak mahu bercakap langsung.

Ayah saya pula, dia suka bermain mahjong. Kadang-kadang, duit yang saya beri padanya, habis kalah.
Adik perempuan saya pernah tanya, “Kenapa masih bagi duit kalau dia asyik kalah?”
Saya jawab, “Kalau ayah masih boleh kalah duit, itu tandanya dia masih hidup, masih aktif, masih menikmati kehidupan. Dan kalau saya masih mampu beri duit untuk dia kalah — itu pun satu rezeki.”

Semuanya soal perspektif.

Ada juga satu masa, seorang residen datang mengadu.
“Residen sebelah tu jalan pakai walker, bising betul! Setiap kali lalu, bunyi berdecit satu koridor!”
Saya dengar, kemudian jawab, “Sebenarnya, itu berita baik. Itu tandanya dia masih boleh berjalan. Dan awak pula masih ada pendengaran yang sangat baik. Dari sudut saya, kita ada dua residen yang sihat. Alhamdulillah.”

Masa bilik mula kosong kerana ramai residen balik kampung atau melancong, pasukan pengurusan saya mula panik.
“Kita kena cepat-cepat isi kekosongan ni,” kata mereka.
Tapi saya diam sekejap dan fikir — mungkin ini adalah rehat dari Tuhan.
Musim tenang yang sepatutnya kita nikmati. Kalau Tuhan beri ruang untuk tarik nafas, kenapa perlu kelam kabut? Kadang-kadang musim sunyi pun adalah jawapan doa.

Dan yang paling mencabar — adalah harapan daripada ahli keluarga.
Kadang-kadang mereka cerewet, emosional, atau terlalu menuntut. Tapi saya ingatkan diri dan staf saya: bila ada harapan, itu tandanya masih ada kasih sayang.
Cinta tu kadang datang dalam bentuk bising, marah, atau kawalan — tapi ia tetap cinta. Selagi ada yang ambil berat, residen itu masih dikelilingi oleh orang yang peduli. Bukankah itu yang kita harapkan?

Staf saya pun kadang-kadang rasa letih dengan kerenah residen dan keluarga mereka.
Tapi saya kata, “Kalau orang masih minta pertolongan kamu, itu tandanya kamu masih penting. Masih berguna. Masih ada peranan dalam masyarakat. Dan kamu masih membawa rezeki balik untuk keluarga kamu.”

Bagi saya sendiri, setiap aduan, masalah, isu — semuanya adalah peluang.
Peluang untuk jadi lebih baik.
Peluang untuk mengajar.
Peluang untuk membina hubungan.

Kesempurnaan bukan matlamat saya. Yang penting ialah kehadiran. Perubahan. Rahmat.

Saya belajar bahawa hidup tidak perlu sempurna untuk menjadi bermakna. Kadang-kadang bunyi bising di lorong, rasa serabut dalam mesyuarat, atau kerusi kosong di bilik — itu semua adalah bukti kita masih berjalan. Masih bernyawa. Masih sedang menjadi.

Jadi saya pilih untuk melihat dari sudut yang berbeza.
Walker yang bising? Itu tanda seseorang masih bergerak.
Anak yang bising? Itu hati yang masih menyayangi.
Penjaga yang penat? Itu jiwa yang masih memberi.
Bilik yang kosong? Itu rehat, bukan kegagalan.

Rahmat tak hanya datang dalam hari yang baik. Ia datang dalam bunyi, dalam kekeliruan, dalam aduan, dalam diam.
Kita cuma perlu lihat sekali lagi.

Grace in Disguise — The Art of Seeing Differently

Title: Grace in Disguise — The Art of Seeing Differently

By Fong Muntoh

In aged care, I’ve come to believe that everything — even complaints, even chaos — carries hidden grace. If we learn to look again, to listen with new ears, even frustration can become a reminder of life, connection, and purpose.

Someone once told me, “That resident complains about everything.”

I smiled and said, “That means they still know what they want.”

They can still express preferences, discomfort, and even entitlement. That’s not a burden — that’s a blessing. Silence and apathy are far more worrying.

Then there’s my dad. He’s a regular at the mahjong table and often ends up losing the money I give him. My sister once asked, “Why give him money if he just loses it?”

My reply? “If Dad can lose money, it means he’s still alive, still enjoying his days. And if I can afford to give him money to lose — that too is something to be grateful for.”

Perspective, you see, makes all the difference.

Another time, one resident came to me, frustrated. “That man’s walker is too noisy! Every time he walks past my door, it’s screech screech screech!”

I replied, “That’s actually good news. It means the man with the walker is still walking. And you, my friend, still have very good hearing.”

Two blessings in one hallway — who would’ve thought?

Even in bigger things, like when several residents checked out or travelled abroad and our numbers dropped — my management team panicked. “We need to fill those rooms fast,” they said.

But I paused and thought — what if this is God’s sabbath for us? A little window to breathe, reflect, reset. If God gives us a break, why rush to fill it? Some quiet seasons are heaven-sent.

And then, there’s the hardest to manage — family members’ expectations.

Sometimes they’re demanding, emotional, even unreasonable. But I remind myself and my team: expectations exist because they care. They love their parent or spouse enough to speak up. That love might show up as worry, anger, or even control — but it’s still love. And that love remains part of the resident’s life. Isn’t that what we want?

My team often struggles under the weight of these demands.

They feel tired, stretched, underappreciated.

But I tell them — if people are asking for your help, it means you still matter. You still have something to give. You have a job, a purpose, and a role in society. You are putting food on the table for your family, and that in itself is a quiet miracle.

As for me, I welcome complaints. I really do. Problems and issues are opportunities to teach, to grow, to serve better.

Each conflict is a doorway to connection.

Each misunderstanding, a chance to clarify and improve.

Perfection isn’t the goal. Presence is. Progress is. Grace is.

I’ve learned that life doesn’t have to be smooth to be meaningful. Sometimes, the bumps on the road are the very proof that we’re still on a journey. We’re still alive. Still becoming.

So I choose to see differently.

A noisy walker? That’s a man still moving.

A worried daughter? That’s a heart still loving.

A tired caregiver? That’s a soul still giving.

An empty bed? That’s a rest, not a crisis.

Grace isn’t just in the good days — it’s in the grind, the noise, the misunderstanding, the mess.

We just have to look again.

A Caring Nation with Neighbours from Hell

Malaysia loves calling itself a “caring nation.” We've got campaigns. Theme songs. Banners flapping by the roadside. In every WhatsApp group, someone will forward a message saying, “Remember to take care of your ageing parents.” But when it comes time to actually open a care centre to help families do just that — guess who kicks up the biggest fuss?

Neighbours.
But not even the ones next door. Usually it’s someone two lanes away with "principles."

Not a Hospital, a Home

A good care centre should not feel like a hospital. No strong smell of disinfectant. No sterile, whitewashed walls. No constant beeping machines. That’s not where you want someone’s mum to spend her golden years. What we need are homes — real homes. A place with a little garden, a proper kitchen, the smell of rice cooking at noon.

So we go looking for landed homes in quiet neighbourhoods, places with trees, birds in the morning, and uncles who still wash their cars shirtless. Places that feel like, well, home. But to turn that house into a care centre, we need a license. And to get a license, we need neighbour approval.

That’s when things go from paperwork… to passive aggression.

Excuses, Fear, and Misunderstanding

They show up at community meetings all friendly.
“We support elderly care,” they say.
But when the application reaches the local council, the objections start flowing.

🚗 “It’s going to cause traffic! So many families visiting!”

💸 “It’ll bring down property prices!”

🗣️ “Old folks will be screaming at night!”

And the most baffling one —
🤯 “It could bring diseases.”

I’m sorry — which part of aunty playing carrom while waiting for her grandchildren sounds contagious?

The Painful Truth

We could pretend this is all a misunderstanding. But deep down, some people still see aged care centres as dumping grounds — not support centres. They assume if you send your parents to a care home, you’ve failed them. You’ve abandoned them.

The truth? Many children put their parents in care because they love them. They want them looked after by trained professionals, fed properly, given their meds on time, and surrounded by friends. They want their mum to have someone to talk to during the day — even when they themselves are stuck in meetings and traffic jams.

But try opening that kind of place in a “nice” neighbourhood, and suddenly you’re ruining the peace.

What's really ruining things? The sound of seniors laughing in the activity room? The smell of nasi lemak at breakfast? Or just the discomfort of seeing the ageing process up close — a reminder of what’s waiting for all of us?

Double Standards, Everywhere

Here's the irony: kindergartens open all the time with little resistance. Loud toddlers. Crying. Parents dropping off and picking up all day.

But when you want to open a care home where people sleep early, eat on time, and don’t make a peep past 8pm — it’s a problem. If it's not the ambulance noise, it's the trash bins. And when those arguments don’t stick, they resort to vague things like “bad energy.”

Bad energy? This isn’t a haunted house. We’re just trying to care for people’s parents — the way we hope someone will care for ours one day.

Who’s Really From Hell?

People love to rage online when they see videos of seniors being neglected. They forward news about children “dumping” their parents and say “So sad, how can anyone do this?”

But the moment someone tries to open a well-run, dignified, home-like care centre — who's first to sign the petition?

When you ask them why they object, they say:
“Oh, it’s not that I don’t care… but this area’s not suitable.”
“Maybe they can open somewhere else…”

Which really means:
“I support elderly care… just not next to my house.”

That’s not a caring citizen.
That’s a neighbour from hell.

There Is a Middle Ground — If We’re Willing

Look, not all neighbours are like that. Some drop by on opening day with kuih. Some say, “If my mum ever needs care, I’d send her here.”

But if we want more care centres — good ones, not warehouses for the forgotten — we need a mindset shift. We need to see these centres as part of the neighbourhood. As a service. As a symbol of love, not neglect.

Because eventually, we all age. And if it’s not us, it’ll be someone we love who needs a place like this.

And when that day comes, let’s hope the neighbours around us aren’t from hell — but from the caring nation we love to sing about.

Rakyat Penyayang, Jiran Dari Neraka

Malaysia suka berbangga dengan gelaran "rakyat penyayang." Ada kempen besar-besaran. Lagu tema. Bunting tergantung di jalan. Dalam WhatsApp grup, semua sepakat kata “kena jaga mak ayah kita.” Tapi bila tiba masa nak buka pusat jagaan warga emas — tempat yang betul-betul boleh membantu keluarga menjaga ibu ayah mereka — siapa yang paling kuat membantah?

Jiran.
Tapi bukan jiran sebelah. Selalunya, jiran yang duduk satu lorong pun bukan. Jiran yang "bantah atas prinsip."

Kononnya.

Rumah, Bukan Hospital

Pusat jagaan yang baik bukan sepatutnya berasa macam hospital. Bau ubat kuat, dinding putih pucat, dan bunyi mesin berdengung — itu semua tak sesuai untuk warga emas yang perlukan ketenangan. Yang sesuai adalah rumah dengan taman kecil, ruang tamu yang selesa, dan dapur berbau sup panas.

Kami cari rumah dua tingkat, atau bungalow lama, di kawasan kejiranan yang ada pokok dan burung pagi-pagi. Tempat yang bila ibu awak duduk di situ, dia rasa macam balik kampung. Tapi untuk buka pusat macam ni, kita perlukan lesen — dan untuk dapat lesen, kita perlukan sokongan jiran.

Dan di sinilah mimpi jadi mimpi ngeri.

Antara Alasan dan Ketakutan

Mula-mula mereka datang ke mesyuarat JMB dengan senyuman palsu.
“Kami tak ada masalah bantu pusat jagaan,” kata mereka.
Tapi bila surat permohonan sampai ke meja PBT, kita dengar perkara lain pula.

🚗 “Akan jadi sesak, kereta keluarga datang melawat!”

💸 “Nanti harga rumah jatuh!”

🗣️ “Orang tua selalu jerit malam-malam!”

Dan yang paling mengelirukan —
🤯 “Nanti kawasan ni jadi kawasan penyakit.”

Macam mana warga emas yang baru saja habis main carrom dan tengah tunggu cucu datang boleh jadi punca penyakit?

Hakikat Yang Menyakitkan

Kita boleh senyum dan anggap ini semua salah faham. Tapi hakikatnya, ada kelompok dalam masyarakat kita yang masih melihat pusat jagaan sebagai tempat buangan, bukan sebagai tempat penjagaan. Mereka sangka tempat macam ni penuh dengan orang yang ‘tak mahu jaga mak sendiri’ — sedangkan banyak anak yang letak ibu bapa mereka di pusat jagaan kerana mereka sayang, bukan sebab mereka lari tanggungjawab.

Mereka mahu ibu mereka dijaga dengan baik — diberi makan ikut masa, ubat ikut dos, dan ada orang bercakap dengan mereka bila anak tak boleh balik tengah minggu.

Tapi cuba kita buka pusat jagaan dalam kawasan perumahan yang cantik sikit — terus dikatakan "tak sesuai, ganggu keharmonian kejiranan."

Apa yang mengganggu sebenarnya? Bunyi ketawa dari bilik aktiviti warga emas? Bau nasi lemak waktu sarapan? Atau cuma rasa tidak selesa melihat orang tua — kerana itu cermin masa depan yang kita belum bersedia hadapi?

Double Standard: Tadika OK, Rumah Orang Tua Tak OK

Yang pelik — tadika boleh buka tanpa banyak masalah. Nak buka tempat untuk anak-anak menjerit, berlari, menangis — jiran tak kisah sangat.

Tapi bila nak buka pusat warga emas yang duduk diam-diam, makan ikut jadual, tidur awal — tiba-tiba jadi masalah besar. Kalau tak bunyi ambulans, mereka bising pasal tempat buang sampah. Bila semua tak jadi, mereka mula tuduh tempat itu ada "vibe tak baik."

Vibe? Kita bukan buka pusat pemujaan. Kita cuma nak jaga mak ayah orang lain — dengan cara yang kita harap orang lain akan jaga mak ayah kita nanti.

Siapa Sebenarnya Dari Neraka?

Kita marah bila anak buang ibu di tepi jalan. Kita kutuk dalam Facebook bila nampak video warga emas diabaikan.

Tapi bila ada orang nak buka tempat jagaan yang betul — selesa, bersih, penuh kasih sayang — siapa yang letak bantahan pertama?

Bila tanya jiran mengapa bantah, mereka jawab:
“Bukan saya tak simpati, tapi bukan kat kawasan ni lah…”
"Kat tempat lain pun boleh..."

Bukankah itu sama macam berkata:
“Saya sokong kebajikan… tapi jangan dekat saya.”
“Saya penyayang… tapi jangan ganggu rumah saya.”

Dan itu, rasa,nya, bukan rakyat penyayang.
Itu jiran dari neraka.

Penutup: Jalan Tengah Yang Wujud Tapi Tidak Diambil

Muntoh tahu tak semua jiran macam ni. Ada juga yang sokong. Yang beri kuih masa pembukaan. Yang kata, “Kalau mak saya uzur nanti, saya nak hantar ke sini.”

Tapi untuk menjadikan pusat jagaan lebih banyak, lebih berkualiti dan mesra komuniti, kita perlukan perubahan sikap. Kita perlu lihat pusat jagaan sebagai sebahagian dari ekosistem kejiranan — bukan sebagai gangguan, tapi sebagai penyambung kasih sayang.

Akhirnya, semua orang akan tua. Dan kalau bukan kita, orang yang kita sayang pasti perlukan tempat macam ni.

Kita harap bila masa tu tiba, jiran kita bukan lagi dari neraka. Tapi jiran yang faham, bahawa menjaga warga emas bukan tanggungjawab seseorang — tapi tanggungjawab rakyat penyayang yang sebenar.

KALAU SAYA AHLI POLITIK, SAYA HANYA AKAN BERI LAYANAN BIBIR TERHADAP ISU WARGA EMAS

 

KALAU SAYA AHLI POLITIK, SAYA HANYA AKAN BERI LAYANAN BIBIR TERHADAP ISU WARGA EMAS

Oleh Fong Muntoh

Kalau saya seorang ahli politik, saya tak akan buang masa juangkan isu warga emas. Terus terang—tak ada nilai politik di situ. Populasi tua? Menarik untuk statistik. Tapi dari segi undi, bajet, atau publisiti? Tak mendatangkan pulangan. Jadi kalau saya ada kuasa dan pentas, saya akan cakap benda yang manis didengar, rasmi satu majlis, bergambar dengan beberapa nenek—dan kemudian beralih ke isu yang lebih "trending". Macam AI. Atau kereta elektrik.

Sebab apa saya nak fokus pada kumpulan yang, secara kasarnya, mungkin tak sempat pun tengok saya menang pilihan raya akan datang?

Mari saya jelaskan kenapa.

1. Warga Emas Tak Penentu Undi

Secara strategik, warga emas bukanlah kuasa undi yang perlu ditakuti. Mereka tak trending di TikTok. Tak buat kecoh di media sosial. Tak turun beramai-ramai masa ceramah politik. Ramai pun perlukan bantuan anak-anak untuk ke pusat mengundi.

Anak muda pula? Lantang. Bersemangat. Sesuai untuk video kempen. Mereka boleh jerit “ubah!” dengan penuh tenaga. Warga emas? Mereka diam. Bersabar. Hantar surat rasmi, bukan komen viral. Jadi, selamat kalau kita abaikan mereka. Takkan ada rusuhan.

2. Kos Tinggi, Pulangan Rendah

Dari sudut bajet, warga emas memang "rugi". Kos rawatan kesihatan, bantuan sosial, pencen, pusat jagaan—semua mahal, semua tidak beri pulangan politik yang cepat.

Tak macam lebuh raya baru, hospital pakar atau jambatan gantung. Tak boleh letak muka saya atas papan tanda pusat jagaan dan harap orang bersorak. Kalau saya nak kekal popular, lebih baik saya bina pusat e-sukan berbanding rumah rehat warga emas.

3. Jangka Panjang, Tapi Masa Saya Pendek

Andaikan saya benar-benar mahu bantu warga emas. Hasilnya lambat. Kita perlu ubah polisi, bina semula infrastruktur, latih penjaga, reka bandar mesra usia. Semua ini ambil masa—bukan satu penggal, tapi dua atau tiga.

Kerjaya politik pula? Silap langkah, satu sidang media pun boleh tumbangkan saya. Kenapa saya perlu rancang 20 tahun ke depan kalau saya tak pasti hidup politik saya lepas dua tahun?

Lebih baik saya umumkan Hari Warga Emas Kebangsaan. Bagi beg kanvas percuma. Tangkap gambar. Siap.

4. Penuaan Tak Glamour

Jujurnya, penuaan tak ‘fotogenik’. Tak boleh dijadikan bahan iklan kempen.

Tiada siapa mahu tengok gambar lampin dewasa, jagaan demensia, atau luka baring. Tak ada upacara gunting riben untuk “mengurangkan kesunyian warga emas.”

Tak boleh buat penuaan nampak ‘cool’. Tak ada warna tema sedondon yang menarik tajaan korporat. Bukan merah jambu macam kempen kanser payudara, atau pelangi seperti Pride. Ia kelabu, senyap, perlahan—dan tak komersial.

5. Warga Emas Adalah Masalah Keluarga

Dari sudut politik, penuaan bukan tanggungjawab kerajaan—ia tanggungjawab anak-anak. Naratifnya senang dijual: “Anak yang baik jaga ibu bapa.” Kedengaran mulia. Jimat bajet kerajaan.

Kenapa nak bina pusat jagaan kerajaan kalau kita boleh gunakan rasa bersalah anak-anak?

Kalau saya ahli politik, saya akan angguk perlahan dan cakap, “Kita mesti kekalkan nilai kekeluargaan Asia.” Dan biarkan penjaga terbeban tanpa bantuan. Jimat belanja. Dapat pujian pula.

6. Kita Dah Biasa Dengan Pengabaian

Kita sudah latih masyarakat untuk anggap kekurangan sebagai perkara biasa.

Klinik kesihatan buka seawal 5 pagi dan warga emas sanggup tunggu. Rampa rosak, papan tanda kecil, jalan kaki yang bahaya—semua ini sudah jadi norma.

Pusat jagaan dipanggil “rumah orang tua” dengan nada seperti hukuman. Selagi tiada yang bersuara, sistem terus berjalan. Tak ada desakan, tak ada tindakan. Kalau saya ahli politik, saya senang saja tumpang arus ini.

Tapi Nasib Baik Saya Bukan Ahli Politik

Kerana di sebalik semua sebab ini, tersembunyi satu kegagalan besar—gagal melihat nilai sebenar warga emas.

Realitinya, melabur dalam penjagaan warga emas adalah pelaburan sosial. Warga emas yang sihat kurangkan tekanan pada sistem kesihatan. Penuaan aktif bantu kesihatan mental, kurangkan beban penjaga, dan bina masyarakat antara generasi yang kaya nilai.

Dan suka atau tidak, kita semua sedang menua. Isu ini bukan tentang "mereka". Ini tentang "kita".

Saya tidak mahu jadi ahli politik yang hanya muncul di pusat jagaan waktu pilihan raya. Saya mahu jadi pemimpin yang perjuangkan polisi bantuan penjaga, bandar mesra usia, rehat penjaga, dan sokongan sebenar.

Kerana kepimpinan sebenar bukan diukur melalui undi. Ia diukur melalui maruah.

Tentang Penulis

Fong Muntoh ialah veteran dalam industri penjagaan warga emas dengan pengalaman lebih 25 tahun. Beliau merupakan rakyat Malaysia pertama yang menerima pengiktirafan sebagai Pakar Operasi Penjagaan Warga Emas daripada Kementerian Sumber Manusia. Kini menerajui Komune Care Centre, beliau aktif memperjuangkan dasar dan persekitaran yang bermaruah dan adil buat warga emas Malaysia.

 

If I Were a Politician, I’d Only Pay Lip Service to Ageing Issues

 

If I Were a Politician, I’d Only Pay Lip Service to Ageing Issues

By Fong Muntoh

If I were a politician, I wouldn’t waste my time championing ageing issues. I mean, let’s be honest—there’s no political mileage in it. The ageing population? Great for statistics. Not so great for votes, funding, or flashy press conferences. So if I had the power and the podium, I’d probably say all the right things, cut a ribbon or two, pose with a few grandmas, then quietly move on to something sexier. Like AI. Or electric cars.

Because why should I spend time, money, or energy on a demographic that—frankly—won’t even be around by the next general election?

Let me break it down.

1. Old People Don’t Sway Elections

If I’m being brutally strategic, seniors are not a political force to fear. They’re not the ones flooding TikTok or trending hashtags. They don’t show up at rallies. Many don’t even make it to the polling station unless their children drive them there.

Youths, on the other hand? They’re vocal. They’re visible. They look good in campaign videos. They can shout “reformasi!” with energy. Seniors? They quietly endure. They queue at clinics and send polite letters. You can safely ignore them with no riots.

2. The Economics Don’t Add Up

As a politician with a budget to stretch, the elderly are a liability. They cost more than they produce.

Healthcare, social welfare, pensions, aged care homes—all expensive, all politically thankless. Unlike a new highway or a bridge, you can’t slap your name on a nursing home and expect people to cheer.

Every Ringgit spent on the elderly is a Ringgit not spent on “development,” and voters love development. Especially the kind they can see on a billboard with my smiling face on it.

3. It’s a Long Game… And I Don’t Have Time

Let’s say, just for fun, I did want to help seniors. It would take decades to make a dent. We’re talking policy reform, infrastructure overhaul, training carers, building age-friendly cities—not exactly “next quarter KPI” material.

The average politician's career horizon? Maybe 5 years if we’re lucky. One scandal, one reshuffle, and poof! Gone. Why invest in a 20-year national ageing roadmap if I might not even last the next party AGM?

Better to announce a token Senior Citizen Day, maybe give away reusable shopping bags. That earns me a Facebook post and a few pats on the back.

4. Ageing Is Depressing

Let’s be honest. The optics are tough.

Caring for the elderly doesn’t make for inspiring campaign visuals. No one wants to see photos of adult diapers, dementia care, or long-term bedsores. There are no ribbon-cutting ceremonies for “reducing elder isolation.”

You can’t make ageing look “cool.” There’s no ribbon-colour awareness month that gets big corporate sponsors. It’s not pink like breast cancer or rainbow like Pride. It’s beige, grey, quiet, slow—unmarketable.

5. Old People Are “Somebody Else’s Problem”

Politically, ageing is a family issue. That’s the narrative that sells: “Anak yang baik jaga ibu bapa.” It sounds noble. It keeps the burden on families. And it saves the government a whole lot of money.

Why build state-run respite centres when we can guilt children into doing it?

If I were a politician, I’d just nod solemnly and say, “We must uphold our Asian values,” then let the caregivers burn out in silence. No budget needed. Clap, clap.

6. We’ve Normalised Neglect

Let’s not forget—we’ve trained society to accept neglect as normal.

We’ve normalised seniors queueing at dawn for Klinik Kesihatan appointments. We’ve normalised broken ramps, dim signs, and pavements that break bones. We’ve normalised calling aged care “rumah orang tua,” as if age itself is a punishment.

Why change the system when the system doesn’t even realise it’s broken?

As a politician, I’d ride that wave of ignorance like a pro.

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But Then Again…

Thank goodness I’m not a politician.

Because behind every one of these reasons is a deeper failure of vision and leadership. The truth is, investing in the elderly is investing in society. Healthy seniors reduce hospital strain. Active ageing improves mental health, reduces caregiver burnout, and keeps communities intergenerationally rich.

And like it or not, we’re all ageing. Every one of us. This isn’t a niche issue. It’s a mirror. And if we don’t act now, we’re leaving behind a society where we too will one day grow old in the same indifference we once dished out.

So no—I refuse to be that politician. I choose to be the one who doesn’t just visit a care home when the cameras are rolling, but one who demands ramps, rest stops, respite policies and real support for families year-round.

Because real leadership isn’t measured in votes. It’s measured in dignity.

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About the Author

Fong Muntoh is a veteran in the aged care industry with over 25 years of experience. He is the first Malaysian to be officially recognised as an “Expert in Aged Care Operations” by the Ministry of Human Resources. He currently leads Komune Care Centre and continues to advocate for policies and infrastructure that uphold the dignity of elderly life in Malaysia.

MALAYSIA’S INFRASTRUCTURE IS NOT SUITABLE EVEN FOR ACTIVE AGEING

 

MALAYSIA’S INFRASTRUCTURE IS NOT SUITABLE EVEN FOR ACTIVE AGEING

By Fong Muntoh

Aging is not a disability. But in Malaysia, it often feels like our built environment treats it as one. While we speak often—and proudly—of “active ageing,” the infrastructure around us says otherwise. From dimly lit signage in shopping malls to uneven pavements and poorly marked stair edges, even relatively fit and independent older adults are being sidelined, quite literally.

Let’s get one thing straight: this is not just about wheelchairs or frailty. This is about how people in their 50s, 60s, and 70s—still active, mobile, working, and contributing—are subtly excluded because we design spaces with only the young and able-bodied in mind. It's time we call this out.

Small Fonts, Big Problems

Take a walk in most Malaysian hotels, malls or even hospitals, and try to read the signs. If you're in your 40s or 50s and your arms are getting longer every time you try to read a menu, you’ll know exactly what I mean. The font sizes are too small, and the colour contrast is often poor—silver on beige, or grey on white. These combinations may look sleek on a designer’s screen, but they are a nightmare for older eyes.

As we age, our pupils shrink and the lens in our eyes become less transparent. This means we need brighter light and better contrast to see clearly. If a person needs to squint, tilt their head or whip out a torchlight just to find the bathroom or the exit, we’ve already failed them.

Floors That Fight Back

The second culprit? Flooring. And I’m not even talking about potholes or broken tiles—though there are plenty of those. I’m talking about shiny tiles in hotels that create glare and depth perception issues, pebble-wash paths that trip up confident walkers, or random height differences in walkways that have no warning lines or textured cues.

A slip or fall can be life-altering for an older person. But the risk is not always due to weakness or frailty—it’s often due to poor design. The floor shouldn’t be a hazard course.

Ramps, Rails and Real Inclusion

We’ve come to associate accessibility with wheelchairs. So some developers check the box by building a ramp and calling it a day. But what about grab rails in stairwells, handrails along long corridors, benches to rest at intervals, or escalators that don’t suddenly stop working and become a long vertical trap?

Older adults may not need a wheelchair, but they benefit from support. A simple railing can make the difference between confidence and hesitation, independence and dependence.

From 40 to 80: Infrastructure Should Age With Us

Here’s a perspective we don’t hear enough: you don’t suddenly become “old” at 70. The ageing process is gradual, and the needs evolve over decades. Vision, reaction time, balance, and strength change subtly but significantly from age 40 onward. A society that truly respects its elders doesn’t just react when someone is bedridden—it anticipates and adapts ahead of time.

Think about it: a person at 45 with slight presbyopia (the need for reading glasses) starts noticing small signs. By 55, they’re struggling in dim restaurants. By 65, they might avoid night driving. Should we wait until they fall before we start taking design seriously?

The Case for Age-Inclusive Design

Age-inclusive infrastructure is not charity work. It’s not a CSR box to tick. It is national planning with foresight. By 2040, Malaysia will be a super-aged society, with more than 14% of the population over 65. That means every tenth person will be affected by poor design—if not more.

Good design is invisible. It allows people to move, see, interact and feel safe without even noticing it. Wider lifts. Brighter, evenly distributed lighting. Clear signage in large fonts and high contrast. Non-slip flooring. Resting areas. These aren’t expensive; they just require intention.

The Cost of Inaction

When our infrastructure ignores the realities of ageing, we push older adults into isolation. They stop going out. They stop spending. They stop engaging. That’s not just a health issue—it’s economic.

We like to say we’re a family-oriented society, but families rely on environments that support everyone. If we don’t fix this, we’re forcing our parents—and eventually ourselves—into shrinking lives, simply because the mall was too dim, the sign too small, and the walkway too risky.

It’s Time We See It

Malaysia has made strides in healthcare and elder services, but the battle is not just in hospitals or nursing homes. It’s in public toilets, LRT stations, and sidewalks. It’s in everyday interactions that either include or exclude.

Ageing actively should not be an Olympic feat. It should be something that’s naturally supported by the spaces we live, work, shop, and rest in.

Our cities, our buildings, our infrastructure—they all need glasses. It’s time we help them see better.

INFRASTRUKTUR MALAYSIA TIDAK MESRA USIA – BAHKAN UNTUK WARGA EMAS AKTIF SEKALIPUN

 

INFRASTRUKTUR MALAYSIA TIDAK MESRA USIA – BAHKAN UNTUK WARGA EMAS AKTIF SEKALIPUN

Oleh Fong Muntoh

Penuaan bukan satu kecacatan. Namun, di Malaysia, landskap fizikal kita seolah-olah menganggapnya begitu. Walaupun kita sering bercakap tentang "penuaan aktif" dengan bangga, realitinya infrastruktur yang ada langsung tidak menyokong gaya hidup tersebut. Daripada papan tanda kecil dan samar di pusat beli-belah hingga ke lantai yang licin dan jalan tidak rata, warga emas aktif masih lagi diketepikan—secara halus tapi nyata.

Ini bukan sekadar isu kerusi roda atau keuzuran. Ini tentang bagaimana warga berumur 50-an, 60-an, dan 70-an—yang masih sihat, aktif dan berdikari—turut dipinggirkan hanya kerana kita membina ruang awam dengan hanya orang muda dalam fikiran. Sudah tiba masanya kita bersuara.

Tulisan Terlalu Kecil, Masalah Terlalu Besar

Cuba jalan-jalan di hotel, pusat membeli-belah atau hospital di Malaysia. Cuba baca papan tanda arah. Jika anda berumur 40-an atau 50-an dan sudah mula memanjangkan tangan untuk baca menu, anda tahu apa saya maksudkan. Saiz huruf terlalu kecil, dan warnanya pula samar—perak atas latar beige, kelabu atas putih. Nampak ‘elegan’ bagi pereka grafik, tapi menyeksakan bagi mata warga emas.

Apabila umur meningkat, pupil mata mengecil dan kanta jadi kurang jernih. Kita perlukan cahaya lebih terang dan kontras lebih jelas. Jika seseorang terpaksa merenung, condong kepala, atau guna lampu suluh hanya untuk cari tandas atau pintu keluar, itu tanda kita sudah gagal.

Lantai Yang Menjerat

Satu lagi masalah besar—lantai. Bukan sekadar jalan berlubang atau jubin pecah (yang memang banyak). Tetapi jubin licin yang berkilat, permukaan batu kasar yang tidak rata, atau perbezaan aras lantai yang tidak ditandakan langsung.

Satu tergelincir boleh mengubah hidup seseorang warga emas. Tapi punca bukan selalu fizikal—kadang kala lantai yang tidak mesra. Reka bentuk yang cuai menjadikan lantai sebagai musuh, bukan sokongan.

Rampa, Pemegang & Reka Bentuk Yang Prihatin

Ramai sangka bina rampa sudah cukup. Tapi bagaimana pula dengan pemegang tangan di tangga, tempat duduk rehat di koridor panjang, atau eskalator yang kerap rosak tanpa pilihan lif? Warga emas mungkin tidak perlukan kerusi roda, tetapi mereka perlukan sokongan.

Satu pemegang tangan boleh membezakan antara keyakinan dan ketakutan, antara berdikari dan bergantung.

Dari Umur 40 ke 80 – Infrastruktur Perlu Tua Bersama Kita

Kita tidak tiba-tiba "jadi tua" pada usia 70. Penuaan berlaku secara berperingkat. Dari umur 40-an lagi, penglihatan, keseimbangan dan tindak balas sudah mula berubah.

Seseorang pada umur 45 mungkin mula perlukan cermin mata membaca. Umur 55, mereka mula elak memandu waktu malam. Umur 65, mereka semakin bergantung pada pencahayaan yang baik. Sepatutnya kita bina persekitaran yang mengikuti perubahan ini—bukan tunggu hingga berlaku kecederaan.

Reka Bentuk Mesra Usia Bukan Kos Tambahan

Reka bentuk mesra usia bukan kebajikan. Ia perancangan negara yang bijak. Menjelang 2040, Malaysia dijangka menjadi masyarakat super-tua, dengan lebih 14% penduduk berumur 65 tahun ke atas.

Ciri-ciri mesra warga emas seperti papan tanda besar, pencahayaan sekata, lantai anti-gelincir, tempat duduk rehat—semuanya tidak mahal. Yang penting ialah niat dan kesedaran dalam reka bentuk.

Kos Tidak Bertindak

Bila infrastruktur kita menafikan hak bergerak warga emas, kita sebenarnya memaksa mereka untuk duduk di rumah, menyendiri dan akhirnya kurang menyumbang kepada masyarakat dan ekonomi.

Kita sering bangga bahawa kita masyarakat berteraskan keluarga. Tapi keluarga juga perlukan ruang awam yang menyokong semua peringkat umur.

Sudah Masa Kita “Nampak”

Malaysia sudah banyak capai dalam bidang kesihatan warga emas. Tapi perjuangan ini bukan hanya di hospital atau pusat jagaan. Ia juga di tandas awam, stesen LRT, dan kaki lima. Dalam setiap elemen harian—kita boleh pilih untuk menyokong atau menyisihkan.

Penuaan aktif tak patut jadi cabaran. Ia patut jadi norma yang disokong oleh ruang kita.

Sudah masa infrastruktur kita pakai cermin mata. Supaya ia boleh “nampak” dengan lebih jelas.

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Siapa Saya

Fong Muntoh merupakan pengusaha kanan dalam bidang penjagaan warga emas dengan pengalaman lebih 25 tahun. Beliau adalah rakyat Malaysia pertama yang diiktiraf sebagai Pakar Operasi Penjagaan Warga Emas oleh Kementerian Sumber Manusia. Beliau kini mengetuai Komune Care Centre, dan aktif dalam memperjuangkan hak, maruah dan kehidupan bermakna bagi warga emas di Malaysia.

 

From Strength to Grace — A Personal Sharing

 From Strength to Grace — A Personal Sharing

I want to share something that’s been stirring in me lately—something that speaks not just to where we are in life, but who we are becoming. It’s this idea of moving from strength to grace.

You see, I remember what it felt like to be strong. I remember the days when I could carry my children in one arm and groceries in the other. I remember making decisions at work, running around without needing to sit down every few minutes, being the one others leaned on.

Strength used to feel like certainty. Like control. Like something I could depend on. But these days… things have changed.

Now, the stairs feel a bit steeper. My memory, well—it sometimes takes the scenic route before arriving at the right name. I forget what I walked into a room for. I find myself needing help more often. And you know what? That’s not weakness. That’s the beginning of grace.

I used to think grace was only for the times I messed up. But I’ve come to see it’s also for the times I slow down. Grace shows up when I stop trying to prove I’m still the same. It meets me in the letting go. And maybe that’s the point—we spend the first part of life building, doing, holding everything together. Then we reach a point where God says, Now let Me hold you.

It’s not easy. I’ll be honest—I don’t always like being on the receiving end. I’ve always been the giver, the planner, the caregiver. And now, someone’s helping me up the stairs, driving me to the clinic, reminding me of dates and appointments. And I have to bite back the instinct to say, No, no, I’ve got this.

But grace whispers, It’s okay. You’ve carried others long enough. Let yourself be carried.

There’s a verse in Isaiah that comforts me: “Even to your old age and grey hairs I am He, I am He who will sustain you.”

It reminds me that I’m not forgotten. Not left behind. And neither are you. We’re not just the people we used to be—we are the people we are still becoming. Grace doesn’t stop working when our hands stop building. It begins to deepen in our hearts. In our stories. In our presence.

And maybe that’s one of the gifts of growing older—we have time to look back. To reflect. To say, God was good then. And He’s still good now. We have stories that carry the fingerprints of His faithfulness. And now, we get to pass that on.

Not through sermons or lectures, but through the way we live. Through how we forgive. How we smile. How we sit beside someone who’s grieving and simply stay. That, too, is ministry. That is grace in motion.

And when I think of what’s ahead—of heaven, of going home—I don’t feel fear like I used to. There’s a peace now. A quiet trust. The kind that only comes when you’ve seen God come through again and again and again.

So yes, the muscles may soften. The pace may slow. But the soul—it ripens. And the spirit—it shines.

We are not in decline. We are in transformation.

We are moving from strength to grace.

And grace, my dear friends, is where God does His best work.

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