Dude, It’s Not About Age

155 pounds slams into the rack on the 10th rep.
Metal hits metal.
A hard exhale.
A slow rise from the bench.

“Damn, I’m getting old.”

I hear that line weekly. And it’s almost never about age.

Ten years ago, D.R. was pushing 225 for reps.

I know because that’s the story he told immediately after.
When 225 was a regular set of 10.
When he was under 10% body fat.
When everything was “dialed.”

But that ain’t today.

Today, 155 is work.
And today he felt it. The gap.

The space between what he used to be capable of and what he can do now.

That gap stings. And “I’m getting old” is a convenient explanation.

It’s clean.
It removes responsibility.
It softens the edge of what’s really being felt.

Because he wasn’t feeling age in that moment.

He was feeling drift.

The Weight of Drift

Drift doesn’t happen dramatically.

It’s not one bad year.
It’s not one missed season.
It’s not one busy cycle.

It’s small choices stacking quietly in the wrong direction.

Training that gets less consistent.
Recovery that gets postponed.
Stress managed with food or distraction.
Other priorities that feel urgent enough to push the body down the list.

Until one day, the bar feels heavier than it used to. And suddenly, the evidence is undeniable.

There’s emotional residue in that moment.

Shame for the years of drifting.
Embarrassment that it’s visible.
Sadness for what feels lost.
Anger directed inward.

But instead of naming any of that…

“I’m getting old” bypasses the truth.

It keeps you safe from feeling the weight of your choices. And avoiding those feelings keeps you from ever making real change.

Because if you don’t take responsibility for the drift, you’ll drift again and blame age, stress, work, kids… whatever takes the sting away.

And the worst part?

Deep down, you know you’re bullshitting yourself.

That tightness in your chest when you shift responsibility somewhere else?

That’s not age. That’s your true self calling out your ego.

The Split-Second Decision

In moments like that, I have a choice. Do I let it go and focus on the workout? Do I call it out and risk him getting defensive? Do I ask what’s underneath and give him permission to be seen? Or does that just make the workout heavier than the weight on the bar?

Sometimes I stay quiet.
Sometimes I lean in.

This week, I stayed quiet and let him relive the glory days.

But what I’m learning is this:

It’s not about correcting the statement. It’s about staying close enough to the moment that if he wants to go deeper, there’s space. Because it’s rarely about getting back to 225.

It’s about whether he’s done drifting.

Age Is Inevitable. Drift Isn’t.

Age happens.
Bodies change.
Recovery shifts.
Margins narrow.

That’s real.

But drift is optional.

Drift is what happens when we avoid looking at the gap.
When we soften the truth instead of facing it.
When we blame time instead of choices.

The barbell tells the truth.

It doesn’t care about your title.
Your income.
Your former PRs.
Your stories about who you used to be.

It reflects what you’ve been practicing.

And that reflection can either sting…
or wake you up.

The men who rebuild don’t deny the gap. They own it.

They say:

“Yeah. I drifted. And it brings up some uncomfortable shit.”

Then they choose not to drift anymore.

Honest enough to own it.
Courageous enough to feel it.
Committed enough to act before more years quietly stack up.

That’s a different kind of strength.

Question for you to sit with today:

What statement are you using to avoid responsibility in your life right now?