My wife and I haven’t lived in an apartment since the 1980s. Soon the three of us will be sharing a two-bedroom apartment while we figure out what’s next.

That’s a massive change.

Less space.
Less privacy.
Less quiet.
Less nature.
Less room to spread out.

And honestly, some of that scares me a little.

Because over the years I’ve realized how much my environment quietly supports my health.

Here, I have walking loops through the neighborhood. A pool nearby. Beaches and springs within reach. A backyard where I can read, swing a kettlebell, grow food, sit with my bare feet in the grass, or simply notice things growing.

I need floor space.
I need movement.
I need sunlight.
I need access to the outdoors.
I need places to walk, run, skip, swim, and breathe.

The older I get, the more I realize these things aren’t luxuries for me.

They’re maintenance.

And maybe that’s part of what this move is forcing me to think about:

How do we continue caring for ourselves when life changes shape?

Because eventually it always does.

Kids grow up.
Parents age.
Jobs change.
Bodies change.
Finances change.
Homes change.

Sometimes we choose change.
Sometimes change chooses us.

Either way, healthspan can’t only exist under perfect conditions.

At some point we all have to learn how to recreate healthy rhythms inside imperfect environments.

Maybe that means finding new walking routes.
Maybe it means mobility work in a smaller living room.
Maybe it means growing herbs on a balcony instead of food in a backyard.
Maybe it means driving farther to find nature.
Maybe it means intentionally protecting time outside instead of accidentally having it.

This won’t be our first leap into uncertainty.

We got married in 1991.

In 1995 we quit our jobs so we could build a life together and work for ourselves.

In 2005 we left the Chicago area — the only home I’d ever really known — and moved to a beach community in the Florida panhandle.

In 2011 we walked away from everything again and rented a house in Colorado Springs while trying to understand why my health was collapsing.

Two years later we moved back to Florida healthier than we’d been in years… but with no real income.

And now here we are again.

Another transition.
Another unknown.
Another season where life is asking us to loosen our grip on certainty.

Part of me still gets scared every time.

I like familiarity.
I like rhythms.
I like finally figuring life out just enough to exhale a little.

These days I drive a shuttle bus in the evenings around a golf and beach resort community. I’ve done it for about ten years now.

I drive in circles talking to people from all walks of life.

And honestly, I’ve grown comfortable there.

I know the routes.
I know the pace.
I know who I am there.

Now I’ll have to figure something else out again.

And at this stage of life, that’s a little unsettling.

Not because I expect life to be easy.

But because every transition asks something from you.

Energy.
Adaptability.
Humility.
Faith.
Willingness.

Maybe one of the greatest healthspan skills isn’t optimization.

Maybe it’s adaptability.

The ability to keep caring for your body, mind, and spirit even when life no longer provides ideal conditions.

To keep moving when your space gets smaller.
To keep seeking sunlight when your routines get disrupted.
To keep finding beauty when familiar comforts disappear.
To keep choosing connection and purpose even when change feels uncomfortable.

Maybe resilience isn’t built during perfect seasons.

Maybe it’s built during transitions like these.

I don’t fully know what this next season will look like yet.

I don’t know what kind of work I’ll end up doing.
I don’t know what apartment living will feel like after decades in houses.
I don’t know how much I’ll miss this backyard once it’s no longer mine.

But I do know this:

The goal isn’t preserving a perfect life setup forever.

The goal is staying alive, capable, curious, connected, and adaptable as life keeps changing around us.

And maybe that’s part of real healthspan too.