Why I hate the anti-aging movement.
From a 29-Year-Old in Venice Who Just Wants to Run His Cafe in Peace
There’s this weird thing that happens when you’re 29. You’re technically still “young,” but the world starts poking at you like you’re already behind. Your knees creak once, Instagram listens and suggests collagen powder. You have one slow morning and suddenly there’s an ad for biohacking your circadian rhythm. It’s exhausting.
I run a cafe and restaurant in Venice, CA. On paper, I live a pretty romantic life — strong espresso, salty air, regulars who treat our spot like a second home. I wake up early, go to bed late, and spend my days doing work that feels real: hands in dish-pits, eyes on a tickets, heart in the room. It’s not always glamorous, but it’s full of presence. And presence is the thing that the anti-aging movement seems to want to rip away from me.
Because here’s the thing: anti-aging culture isn’t really about health. It’s about fear. Fear of time, of loss, of change. Fear of not being “hot” enough, fast enough, optimized enough. It preys on this anxiety that we’re all slowly becoming obsolete — unless we buy this serum, take this supplement, or do this obscure Scandinavian cold-immersion-breathwork protocol.
I’m not against taking care of yourself. I’m all for nourishment, sleep, movement, hydration, therapy. I love to feel good, to surf every morning and to go to bed early. But I think we have to be really clear-eyed about the difference between care and control. The anti-aging industry isn’t about care. It’s about control. It’s the illusion that if we just do everything “right,” we can outrun the truth that time never sits still and we are aging. That we are impermanent. That we are, as the Buddhists say, compost in progress.
I was in Japan last year, sitting quietly in an onsen, steam curling off the water like it was exhaling. An older man was showing his grandson how it all worked — the ritual of washing before entering, the rhythm of the heat, the silence. He wasn’t rushing it. He wasn’t apologizing for the way his back cracked when he moved. He was teaching, passing down wisdom not from a book, but from living. And the kid? Locked in. Watching like it mattered. Because it did. There was nothing anti about his age. His age was the point.
And the irony is, aging is not the enemy — disconnection is. I’ve met 22-year-olds who are already bitter, and 70-year-olds who radiate joy. I’ve seen regulars in their 60s walk into our cafe with more vitality than people half their age because they’re engaged. With life. With their bodies. With people. Not obsessed with perfection, but invested in presence.
It can feel like the world is full of folks chasing youth like it’s a lost wallet, especially in Los Angeles. And I get it — the beach, the mirrors, the juice bars. But I also think we need more people who are okay being in their age. Not trying to be 24 forever, but being 29 with curiosity. Or 43 with grace. Or 61 with stories.
Running a restaurant has taught me a lot about cycles. You prep, you cook, you serve, you clean. The day dies and comes back again. You get older. You do it better. Hopefully. Not younger. Just better. More connected, more human.
So no, I don’t want to “biohack” my way out of aging. I want to show up for it. Fully. Lines, losses, creaky knees and all. I want to age like wine. I want to be around people who aren’t afraid to change, to soften, to slow down. People who know that some things — like a well-seasoned cast iron pan or a really good espresso — get better with time.
And honestly, if aging means I get to sit outside my cafe with my dog Russ & my wife, with the sun on my face, and a cappuccino in hand — I think I’m okay with that.
Cheers,
Nick