Today I Choose to be Limber – How to be Limber

I bent down to grab a laundry basket and immediately felt that familiar pull in the back of my legs. “Well, that’s new,” I muttered, groaning like I’d just run a marathon when all I’d done was pick up socks. Curtis smirked from the couch: “Need me to call in a crane?”

I laughed, but it stung — not his joke, but the reminder that I’m not physically limber anymore. And yet… in other ways, I bend every single day. Switching from CFO mode to caregiver mode. Dropping my work stress at the door to sit and listen when Tyler needs me. Pushing through exhaustion to find another way forward when the ground shifts beneath me. My body might resist bending, but my life has made me flexible in ways my 30-year-old self never could’ve imagined. That’s its own kind of limber.

The laundry basket incident has become family lore. Now every time I bend down, Curtis makes crane noises. Tyler bought me one of those grabber things for Christmas — “So you don’t have to bend, Mom.” Jesse just quietly picks things up before I have to. They’re all acknowledging what we don’t say out loud: Mom’s body doesn’t move like it used to.

But here’s what they don’t see: the thousand ways I bend that have nothing to do with hamstrings or lower back flexibility.

The Physical Reality at 61

Let’s be honest about the physical unlimberness. Getting out of bed requires a three-point turn. Putting on socks is a strategic operation. Reaching something on the bottom shelf involves careful calculation of knee bend versus back bend versus just leaving it there.

Yoga? I tried. The instructor said “touch your toes” and I laughed out loud. Touch my toes? I can barely see my toes past this belly. And when I tried to bend forward, my body offered a firm “absolutely not.”

The flexibility I had at 30 — when I could sit cross-legged for hours, bend in any direction, move without thinking — is gone. My body has boundaries now. Firm ones. Non-negotiable ones.

The Other Kind of Limber

But limberness isn’t just physical. It’s mental, emotional, spiritual flexibility. And in those areas, I’m more limber at 61 than I ever was at 31.

At 31, I was rigid. One way to parent. One way to work. One way to be a wife. One definition of success. I couldn’t bend without feeling like I’d break.

Now? I bend constantly:

• From spreadsheets to sympathy in seconds when an employee needs support
• From crisis management to comedy when Curtis needs lightness
• From professional to personal when Tyler calls mid-meeting
• From exhaustion to energy when grandkids visit
• From plan A to plan Z when life laughs at my agenda

This limberness didn’t come naturally. It was forced by life refusing to follow my rigid plans.

The Caregiver Stretch

Nothing teaches limberness like caregiving. When Curtis was in the hospital, I had to bend in ways I didn’t know were possible.

CFO at 9 AM, advocating with doctors at noon, insurance fighter at 3 PM, gentle wife at 6 PM, researcher at midnight. Each role required different muscles, different energy, different versions of me.

The rigidity of “this is who I am” had to give way to “this is who I need to be right now.” That’s limberness — not physical flexibility but identity flexibility. The ability to shape-shift as needed without losing your core.

The Work-Life Pretzel

Running 18 companies while managing life requires contortionist-level limberness. Not physically — mentally.

Yesterday: Budget meeting interrupted by Curtis’s doctor calling. Switched from P&L analysis to medical advocacy mid-sentence. Then back to budgets. Then to insurance paperwork. Then to making dinner. Then to crisis call with Al.

Each transition requires bending. From analytical to emotional. From leader to supporter. From problem-solver to problem-haver. If I stayed rigid in any role, I’d snap.

The Emotional Gymnastics

Tyler calls, needs emotional support about work. I switch from my own work stress to mom mode. Listen, validate, support. Hang up, switch back to CFO mode for a conference call. Curtis needs attention. Switch to wife mode. Jesse texts about something. Switch to cheerleader mode.

This emotional limberness is exhausting but necessary. The ability to bend from one emotional state to another, to hold space for others’ feelings while managing your own, to be what’s needed when it’s needed — that’s advanced limberness.

My 30-year-old self couldn’t do this. She was too rigid in her emotional responses. Happy or sad. Stressed or calm. No mixing, no quick switching, no complex emotional positions.

The Exhaustion Factor

Being limber in life while unlimber in body is its own challenge. My mind can pivot quickly but my body can’t keep up. My emotions can flex but my energy can’t sustain it.

After a day of mental/emotional gymnastics, my body is done. Not from physical exertion but from constant bending in every other way. The unlimber body carrying the hyper-limber life.

Sometimes I wonder if my physical rigidity is compensation. Like my body is saying, “You’re bending everywhere else. We’re going to stay firmly inflexible to give you some structure.”

The Grace in Unlimberness

There’s something freeing about accepting physical unlimberness. I don’t have to prove I can still touch my toes. Don’t have to pretend bending down is easy. Don’t have to compete with my younger self’s flexibility.

The grabber thing Tyler bought? I use it constantly. Curtis’s crane jokes? I laugh and agree. Jesse picking things up for me? I let him.

Accepting physical limitation allows energy for other flexibility. I don’t waste effort on physical limberness I’ve lost. I invest in the limberness that matters now.

Generational Limberness

Watching my kids navigate life, I see they’re limber in ways I never was at their age. They switch careers without existential crisis. Change plans without panic. Adapt to new technology without resistance.

Maybe each generation gets more limber. Or maybe limberness looks different at each stage. Their physical flexibility allows different choices. My life flexibility comes from fewer physical options.

The Unexpected Benefits

Physical unlimberness has unexpected gifts:

I move more deliberately
No more unconscious movement. Every bend is considered. This makes me present in my body in ways I never was when movement was easy.

I ask for help
“Can you grab that?” isn’t admission of defeat. It’s acknowledgment of reality. And people like helping. It creates connection.

I’ve stopped proving
No more showing I can still do everything. No more competing with younger versions. The freedom of “I can’t do that anymore” is profound.

I appreciate what works
My knees might protest, but my hands still function. My back might ache, but my mind is sharp. Gratitude for what bends, acceptance of what doesn’t.

The Daily Flexibility Practice

Every day requires different kinds of limberness:

Morning limberness: Getting this body moving, switching from sleep fog to work clarity

Workday limberness: Constant pivoting between tasks, people, crises, solutions

Evening limberness: Transitioning from work self to home self, from productivity to presence

Emotional limberness: Holding space for everyone’s everything while maintaining my own center

Mental limberness: Learning new things when my brain wants familiar patterns

None of this requires touching my toes. All of it requires flexibility my younger, physically limber self didn’t have.

Today’s Choice

Today, choose to be limber in the ways that matter now. Not the yoga-pose, touch-your-toes limberness of youth, but the life limberness that comes from experience.

Bend when life requires it. Pivot when plans change. Flex when rigidity would break you. Switch roles, emotions, energies as needed.

And when your body won’t bend? Use the grabber thing. Ask for help. Make crane jokes. Accept that physical limberness has been traded for something more valuable — the ability to bend with life’s demands without breaking.

That laundry basket? Curtis eventually got it for me. Not because I couldn’t eventually manage it, but because limberness at 61 includes accepting help gracefully. That’s a flexibility my 30-year-old self, touching her toes easily, never had.

My hamstrings might be tight, but my life is flexible. My back might be stiff, but my mind can pivot. My body might resist bending, but my spirit has learned to flow.

That’s limberness at 61. Not in the body, but in the being. And honestly? I’ll take life limberness over toe-touching any day.