If you’d told me at fifty that my best mental years might be ahead of me, I would’ve laughed and changed the subject.
Yet here I am, in my seventies, surprised—and a little delighted—by how sharp and alive my mind still feels most days.
I’m not a neuroscientist, just a granddad who took up writing after retirement and who likes to pay attention.
Over time, a few simple routines have made a real difference to my memory, attention, and mood.
None of them are fancy—in fact, most are laughably ordinary.
But that’s the magic, isn’t it? Brains love what we do consistently.
Let me share the eight routines I protect like treasure.
You don’t need special equipment, a gym membership, or a monk’s discipline; you only need a bit of curiosity and the willingness to show up for yourself:
1) I walk with purpose every single day
Yes, I walk but not the aimless kind where you shuffle around the block and call it exercise.
I head out with a small “mission”: notice seven blue things, read three street signs out loud, or remember the names on the park’s donor bench plaques and recite them backward on the way home.
Silly? Maybe, but it turns a stroll into brain training.
When the grandkids join me, we play “curiosity bingo.”
We make a list—bird call, red leaf, something that smells like lemons, a dog with a bandana—and we hunt.
As we walk, my heart pumps, my lungs open, and my mind lights up.
Movement oxygenates the brain, and curiosity keeps it awake.
On days when the weather sulks, I do “indoor miles” in the hallway while listening to an audiobook at 1.25x speed.
2) I schedule new learning the way I’d book a doctor’s appointment
Have you noticed how the word “later” never shows up on your calendar? That’s why I schedule novelty.
Ten to twenty minutes a day is plenty.
Some seasons it’s piano chords.
Lately it’s a new language—just enough phrases to greet my neighbors and butcher a proverb or two.
I keep a “learning ladder” taped inside a notebook—small rungs, one by one: Day 1, learn the C major chord; Day 2, add G; Day 3, switch between them without cursing.
By Day 30, I can play a simple song.
The brain loves progress bars; the key isn’t to be good—it’s to be new.
New forces the mind to build fresh pathways.
Think of it like sweeping the cobwebs from unused rooms upstairs.
Even better, I switch topics every few months so my brain doesn’t get lazy.
Just when it thinks, “Ah, scales again,” I say, “Surprise—calligraphy!” and it has to sit up straight.
3) I lift light but often
If you’ve read me before, you may remember I once wrote about “strength as a kindness to your future self.”
I stand by it.
Twice a week, I run through a short circuit in my living room: sit-to-stands from a sturdy chair, wall pushups, shoulder presses with light dumbbells (canned beans work in a pinch), and a farmer’s carry walking the hallway with a tote bag in each hand.
Five to ten minutes—that’s it.
Here’s the surprising part: Strength training is about attention.
Try a set of heel-to-toe balance walks while spelling your grandchild’s name backward, and you’ll feel your focus switch on like a porch light at dusk.
Stability work forces the brain and body to cooperate, and that cooperation spills into everything—less brain fog, steadier moods, quicker recall when someone asks, “What was that author’s name again?”
When I started, I used a broomstick for deadlifts to learn the movement.
No heroics, no pulled hamstrings—just steady practice.
The reward is being able to hoist the picnic cooler without wincing and a brain that feels freshly polished.
4) I practice “quiet minutes” instead of chasing perfect meditation
I’ve tried the full lotus and the whole “empty your mind” thing.
Lovely idea.
My brain, however, behaves like a bag of popcorn in the microwave.
So, I changed the rules: Five minutes after breakfast, five minutes before bed—eyes soft, feet planted, breathe in for four, out for six.
If thoughts show up, they’re allowed.
I just return to the counts like I’m strolling back to my seat after saying hello to a friend.
On busy days, I use “doorway breaths.”
Every time I walk through a doorway at home, I take one slow breath in and one slow breath out—that’s it.
The repetition is the teacher.
After a month, I noticed I could catch myself before spiraling into worry.
That little pause cracks open space, and in that space my better ideas live.
As an old saying goes, “If you don’t have time to breathe, you don’t have time to think.”
I’ve found that to be true. My memory is kinder when my nervous system isn’t revving like a teenager’s sports car.
5) I treat my social calendar like a prescription
Brains are social organs.
When I look back at the foggiest periods of my life, isolation was lurking nearby.
Now, I engineer connection.
Monday mornings, I text two friends and ask a simple question: “What’s your small win this week?” Wednesday afternoons, I stroll to the café and chat with the barista about the playlist.
Fridays, I FaceTime a cousin and swap family stories—no agenda, just voices across a bridge.
I also keep a little “talk-to” list in my wallet: the neighbor with the rescue dog; the librarian who recommends mysteries; the kid at the park who’s learning to skateboard.
I check off a couple each week.
It sounds contrived, but it keeps my world wide.
The surprise benefit? Conversation sharpens language, memory, and empathy all at once.
Remembering people’s names and details is a delightful puzzle.
When I mentor younger folks—about careers, relationships, or just how to roast a chicken—the act of explaining reinforces my own learning.
Teaching is brain fertilizer.
6) I make and teach
When the grandkids come over, we make things: bird feeders from pinecones, quick watercolor postcards, homemade playdough dyed with turmeric and beet juice.
Messy projects are the best because they’re memorable, and memorable experiences stick to the brain like burrs to a sock.
Even when the house is quiet, I “make” daily.
Bread, a paragraph, a doodle.
There’s something about moving hands through space that stitches attention to the present moment.
If you’ve ever kneaded dough until it sighs under your palms, you know what I mean.
The second step is teaching.
After I learn a chord or a proverb, I try to explain it to a grandchild or a friend on a walk.
They ask questions I hadn’t considered, and my understanding deepens.
If you want to test what you know, try showing a curious nine-year-old.
They’re merciless and marvelous.
A little quote I keep taped above my desk: “What I hear, I forget. What I see, I remember. What I do, I understand.”
Doing is the glue.
7) I protect my sleep like it’s a family heirloom
In my thirties, I wore sleep deprivation like a badge—big mistake.
Now I treat bedtime like a ceremony.
Same steps, same order: dim lamps after dinner, cup of herbal tea, phone parked face-down in the kitchen, five “quiet minutes,” then a book that’s interesting but not thrilling.
I keep my room cool and dark.
Earplugs and a soft eye mask live on the nightstand.
If I wake at 2 a.m.—and I often do—I don’t battle it.
I breathe and mentally list the park trees in alphabetical order: acacia, birch, camphor… Usually, I’m snoring before eucalyptus.
Here’s the funny part: Protecting nighttime starts in the afternoon.
I cut caffeine after lunch and stop heavy news after dinner.
My brain thanks me with cleaner recall in the morning, like someone tidied the shelves overnight.
Sleep isn’t lazy as it’s maintenance.
You wouldn’t drive your car forever without an oil change.
Brains need their tune-up too.
8) I write “morning pages” and finish with three lines of gratitude
Every morning, before news or email, I fill a page in a cheap notebook.
Not literature, just whatever is rattling around in my head—worries, ideas, the weird dream where I was late for a ferry that never arrived.
Once the mental dust is on paper, my mind feels oddly spacious, like I just cleaned out a closet.
Gratitude—done consistently—reshapes attention.
Instead of doom-scanning for what’s wrong, my brain learns to notice what’s steady, kind, and nourishing.
That shift has made me more patient with myself and, frankly, more fun to be around.
I also keep a small “ideas log.”
If a thought flits through the day—an angle for an article, a question to ask a friend, a memory to record—I jot it down.
Capturing sparks prevents the “now what was that?” frustration that used to follow me around like a lost puppy.
A gentle nudge
I’ll be honest: I didn’t adopt these routines because I’m virtuous.
I adopted them because I like feeling mentally alive, I enjoy remembering where I put my glasses, I like finishing a chapter and actually being able to tell you what happened, and I like the way my grandson’s eyes light up when I recognize the chorus of the song he’s playing and even hum along, deeply off-key.
If you try even one of these this week, you’ll give your brain a helpful nudge.
Two or three? You’ll start to feel a lift.
If you stick with them long enough, you may look back like I do and think, “Huh. Maybe getting older isn’t just loss. Maybe it’s focus.”
That’s the quiet gift of routine: It frees your mind to be more of itself.
Which one are you going to start with tomorrow morning?
