Author Archives: Amy Gage

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About Amy Gage

A community relations director in higher education and mother of two adult sons, Amy Gage spent the first 20 years of her career as a journalist and public speaker in St. Paul and Minneapolis, Minnesota. The issues addressed in her award-winning newspaper column, "On Balance: Issues That Affect Work and Home," remain relevant today. In "The Middle Stages," she continues the vital conversation about women's work and lives, with a focus on the challenges and contradictions of aging, the mixed blessings of forsaking family time for the more immediate rewards of a career, and how middle-aged women can continue to forge full lives even as their priorities and sensibilities change.

Why Seniors Should Ride Mass Transit

Before we get rolling, understand that my recommendations will apply to older people only if they are physically mobile and relatively fit — and lucky enough to live in a city or community where mass transit is readily available. Being a regular exerciser would be a plus, but what I’m proposing will help people of any age get there.

And my proposal is this: Ditch the car or SUV as often as you reasonably can and commit to trying what we multi-modal enthusiasts call active transportation. That means getting around by foot, bike, bus or train — or some combination of the four — as often as you can.

I use the term “senior” because that is how Metro Transit, my system in the Twin Cities, defines the fare structure for people who are 65 and older. As of January 1 of this year, the bus fare for any senior — call yourself “older,” an “elder” or “young-old,” if you prefer — has dropped to a buck a ride, including during the weekday “rush hours” that COVID rendered almost meaningless.

“We’ve seen travel patterns change,” says Lesley Kandaras, general manager of Metro Transit, who rode every bus and train route during her first year on the job. “We no longer have those weekday peaks of ridership in the early morning and the late afternoon.”

A Metro Transit bus in downtown Minneapolis. Photo by weston m on Unsplash

Transit fares includes a transfer window of two and a half hours, meaning I can meet a friend for a leisurely coffee or attend a yoga class and swing by the grocery store afterward and still get back home on only a dollar.

You can’t drive that cheaply. More importantly, driving robs you of exercise, contemplative time and contact with the outside world, all of which I find to be essential as I age. For those who balk, who say they don’t have time to ride a bus or train, who claim that driving is simply faster and more convenient, I agree with you. It’s why almost 92% of all households in America have at least one vehicle (the most popular being some type of truck).

But consider the following reasons — beyond the obvious value to our warming climate — why active transportation will help sustain you in body, mind and spirit.

No. 1: You exercise more.

I spent a total of $4 the other day riding the bus to and from my volunteer gig at Planned Parenthood North Central States (Route 63 there and 87 back) and then to the iconic Riverview Theater in Minneapolis to see the Oscar-winning “Anora” (don’t bother) with a friend (Route 21).

One route is half a mile from my house, the other five blocks and the third barely two blocks. I’d have saved 60 to 90 minutes of travel time had I driven. But I’d have walked far fewer steps than the 15,000 I amassed that day, and I would have missed the chance to really see my city: to greet people on the sidewalk, chat with a bus driver, notice the colorful murals on the sides of old buildings. To be present in a way you can’t be in a car.

Half of all Americans fail to get the recommended 30 minutes a day of physical activity, according to the National Library of Medicine, and those numbers decrease for both aerobic and muscle-strengthening exercises as women and men age. Using transit can help, because it invariably involves walking: to and from the stops and, in my case, to the next stop — or the one beyond that — if the bus or train is running late.

No. 2: You forge your independence.

My husband and I deliver Meals on Wheels every Friday, and we see plenty of old people who no longer have the physical capability to leave their apartment without assistance.

I remember this well with my own parents: Mom eventually was confined to a room, and my dad, though never wheelchair-bound, gradually lost the ability to pursue the activities he enjoyed, including jogging, golfing, skiing and even walking outdoors. Much as I fear losing my mobility, I recognize the time will come when I no longer can stride to the train station or run to a waiting bus.

That’s why I am grateful to be able to use mass transit now. It keeps me healthy and helps me feel part of the world at an age — post-career — when people’s worlds start to shrink. I feel more independent the less I rely on a car, and I get to meet people I otherwise might not encounter, including the folks I chatted with (below) during opening day festivities for the Gold Line bus rapid transit that now serves downtown St. Paul and the eastern suburbs.

No. 3: You engage with the elements

Why live in Minnesota if you shrink from each season’s particular joys and challenges? Earlier this year, on the coldest day of winter, the dental receptionist and mammogram technician were astonished that I had bused to my healthcare appointments. I was equally mystified why they would scrape their windshields and drive on icy roads.

To prove my point, I drew up a list of practical tips for riding mass transit, whether the weather is below zero or cresting 100 degrees. Chief among them: Learn the tools to plan your travel. (ProTip: The Transit app is great!)

How people dress for a bus ride when it’s minus 4 degrees.
  1. Exchange mobile numbers with whomever you will be meeting. Buses and trains, at least in my town, often run slightly off schedule.
  2. Protect yourself from crime by investing in a sturdy backpack so you can walk with your arms free and keep valuables out of sight. I’ve been annoyed by loud music and occasional public drinking on a bus, but no one has ever threatened me. The light-rail trains can be intimidating to ride, with less access to a driver. But Metro Transit has reduced trains to two cars — removing the middle car, where drug use was often visible — and begun employing trip agents who check fares and provide a reassuring unarmed presence.
  3. Pack a water bottle, Kleenex (especially useful in cold temperatures) and sunscreen, important in any season. An extra hat or scarf during the winter and a bill cap to shield your face from summer sun are also useful.
  4. Catch up on your reading. I often stuff newspapers inside my backpack, and I read my digital subscription for the New York Times or a book I’ve downloaded on my iPhone.

No. 4: You get to practice patience.

Transit ridership falls off after age 55, according to Metro Transit research, and is miniscule for people 75 and older. But that 20-year window is a time when many of us, if we’re lucky, still have relatively good health. Kandaras, the general manager, hasn’t researched the question of why seniors stop riding transit, “but we want to make it more attractive to adults who are older,” she says.

I can think of several incentives to get my peers out of their vehicles:

  • The reality that driving gets harder as your reaction time slows, and people seem to be driving ever faster these days.
  • It feels good not to be contributing to the carbon emissions that are killing our planet. In fact, says Kandaras, one group of older adults “said to hit home with climate.”
  • Mass transit is more calming than driving. You can read, or just watch the world go by.

That last reason is the most compelling for me. After an adult lifetime of pushing, achieving, trying to live up to expectations, doing what, in hindsight, feels like too much — likely because I no longer can multitask — I appreciate the chance to sit back and relax while I get where I need to go.

“Leave the driving to us,” the old Greyhound Lines slogan said. It was coined in 1956, the year before I was born, when the U.S. automobile market was starting to boom. Turns out, the slogan was meant to woo people who had the option to drive, which is exactly what transit agencies must do if they want to return to pre-pandemic ridership levels.

Mass transit will never win in an argument about convenience, especially among middle-class people who own a car and, therefore, have choices. But peace of mind? Any of us, at any age, could use more of that.

Dry January: Don’t Confuse It with Sobriety

I had never paid attention to Dry January, now winding to a close as “Feb Fast” winds up, until a colleague reached out before the New Year to tell me he was “sober curious” and intended to stop drinking for a month. He had seen my reference in an earlier blog post to being sober and was looking for support and affirmation, which I happily provided.

That’s what those of us in the recovery community are called to do.

Since then, I’ve been awash in information about Dry January, from recipes for mocktails — my own go-to is orange juice and club soda — to guidance about how to “cut down” if you’d rather not quit outright (“Not Drunk, Not Dry,” a New York Times headline calls it) and what to tell people who wonder why you’re not drinking. Apparently “that’s my business” doesn’t suffice, especially at a work function.

“If you decide to quit alcohol for a month but still have the identity of a drinker, then any change can feel unsustainable.”

Amid all the podcasts and magazine articles and the interesting statistics — one third of adult Americans participate in “some form” of Dry January, according to Newsweek, while nearly half of young adults try to abstain — have come two serious, significant milestones:

  • The U.S. surgeon general issued a report in early January linking any use of alcohol to a greater risk for cancer. That led one wine aficionado (otherwise called an oenophile, which I won’t pretend I can pronounce) to decry the warning as a “very unnuanced, binary solution to what feels like a very nuanced problem.”
  • I celebrated 15 years of sobriety on January 10, 2025, a hard-won victory for which I am humbled and grateful — and, yes, not a little bit proud. Acknowledging and accepting myself as a problem drinker (say it, an alcoholic) remains a daily practice of outreach and introspection. And it is something entirely different than gritting your teeth and giving up alcohol for a month or a few weeks, or even a year. Trust me, I tried.

“If you decide to quit alcohol for a month but still have the identity of a ‘drinker’— physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually and relationally — then any change can feel dissonant and unsustainable as we’re only addressing a part of the problem,” wrote psychologist Amanda Charles in an article a year ago about why Dry January often fails.

Well-intentioned, likely health-conscious people equate not drinking with sobriety when they toss around terms like “sober curious” and “sober-ish.” They’re not aiming to be sober, with the lifelong dedication that requires; they just want to feel better for a while: to clear their head, lose some weight, improve their sleep. I applaud their efforts, even as I know firsthand that some of these temporary teetotalers are deluding themselves, unwilling or unable to face a larger problem.

Photo by M.S. Meeuwesen on Unsplash

I first talked about my sobriety publicly back in 2016, when I published a blog post at six years sober. My mother, who had seen me through outpatient treatment at Hazelden in 2010, had died the year before, and though I shared the post on Facebook, I didn’t point other family members to it. If any of them read it, they never said anything.

This year, I wanted to be different. More open, less ashamed.

I texted my three surviving siblings on the morning of my 15th year anniversary (the fourth sibling, my older brother, died of acute cocaine toxicity back in 1988, a tragedy that underscores the importance of my sobriety). My younger brother and I exchanged texts about the distinction between being dry — or clean, the more common term for drug users who are abstaining — and sober. “Clean is not using,” he said, repeating what an acquaintance of his younger son had told him. “Sober is more about making good decisions, if I recall.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and following the steps” — meaning the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, a worldwide society that is becoming less secretive in a digital, more enlightened age. “The steps,” I told him, “are about owning our own shit, helping others and recognizing what we can and can’t control.”

If you can’t control or stop your drinking, you will have to set aside your ego and ask for help.

My shorthand, somewhat crude description speaks to a more eloquent and essential truth: If you can’t control or stop your drinking, which I could not — despite all the self-discipline in other areas of my life — you will have to set aside your ego and ask for help. It’s both the hardest and the best decision I’ve ever made.

That is where AA comes into play. The 12 Steps require chronic alcohol abusers to examine why they drank, whom their drinking harmed (for years, I fooled myself that my consumption hurt only me, even though I didn’t get sober until my sons were 15 and 18) and how they will live a moral, more honest life. My favorite is Step 10 — “We continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it” — because it helps me try to be a better person every day.

Photo by Fabian Moller on Unsplash

When my older sister praised me for helping others, I explained that unity, service and recovery are the three pillars of AA: “The first word in the first step is ‘we.’ No one gets sober alone,” I said, “or at least I couldn’t.”

Rather than viewing that as weakness, we have to learn to see humility as a necessary strength. My sponsor put it this way during one of our weekly phone calls: “If we could have put the pause on our drinking, we would have,” she said. “The great, great joy is in the connections we are now able to make. We learn how to be vulnerable and share our beautiful brokenness.”

The gift of being sober is so much more than putting down the bottle, and it’s something that Dry January alone will never teach you.

All Is Calm . . . Now That It’s All Over

It’s early Christmas morning. The only other being awake in a house now occupied by more animals than people is Q.D., the three-legged cat that my older son left behind when he went off to graduate school in London. My dog is still asleep in the large bedroom down the hall, and my husband’s dog, Gabby, is on a couch in the basement.

She’ll stop by soon and start angling for a walk: nudging my hand, doing down-dog on the wooden floor.

Meanwhile, my coffee mug warms my arthritic left hand. No workaday traffic desecrates the dark silence outside. As I balance the checkbook at my computer, a daily habit I learned from my mother, I notice how much money I have spent at grocery stores the past few days, preparing to host a dinner on Christmas Eve and a lunch today, making my deliciously caloric “soccer mom bars” as treats for my neighbors and the beleaguered postal carrier.

Even though I lead the holiday preparations in our household, I’ve never wanted my sons to assume that the annual traditions are necessarily women’s work. That was the norm during my childhood — women in the kitchen, men watching football on TV — and it has soured me on Thanksgiving, especially, for years (not that I care a whit about watching football).

“Cooking is a gift to people,” I like to tell my sons, hoping they will recognize (and one day emulate) the effort as an expression of love, a service to friends and family.

In fact, my favorite presents this holiday season have been consumables: the hearty loaf of zucchini bread that my friend brought over for Christmas Eve dinner, the tray of delicate Scandinavian cookies that my neighbor bakes each year, the bag of coffee beans with oversized mugs from the friendly folks next door.

Despite the undeniable magic of the day itself, barely a week ago I was feeling burdened by Christmas — weighed down with the expectations that come from marketing and media illusions of what the holiday should be, feeling wistful about the many extended family members who are gone. Wondering why my husband and I — neither of whom count ourselves as Christians — continue to put ourselves through this year after year.

We are often referred to not as citizens but consumers. So it’s really important to put the brakes on consumption through practices like gratitude and reciprocity.

Author and scientist Robin Wall Kimmerer

One morning in early December I recycled a pile of year-end appeals from homegrown organizations that all do good work. Every last one is worth supporting:

  • Gillette Children’s in St. Paul, which offers “specialized care to help children with cerebral palsy live fuller lives.” My uncle was chief medical officer there for years.
  • Friends of the Saint Paul Public Library, which helps to “ensure strong public investment in our Library.” There’s a branch three blocks from my house, and I routinely check out books on Libby, the digital app.
  • History Theatre, where I’ve seen numerous education-focused plays staged by local actors with regional topics, often with discussion and “reflection” sessions afterward.
  • Minneapolis Institute of Art, where I enjoy the monthly book-inspired public art tours and appreciate the mission to “make art available to all.”

“It’s giving season!” the MIA postcard declares. Indeed. Two days after Christmas, a plethora of emails continues, wringing the most from tax-related year-end appeals.

Although the health of the U.S. economy is measured against growth — how much we produce and consume in a capitalist society — “giving,” I have come to realize, doesn’t have to equal shopping. Three years ago, I started a tradition among my siblings, asking that we forego the exchange of material gifts in favor of contributing to one another’s chosen nonprofit organizations.

Mine was my local Animal Humane Society this year. AHS has provided me with three loving dogs over the past decades, and I value the organization’s efforts to educate current and potential pet owners.

  • My sister in Maryland chose Laurel Cats, which rescues and rehabilitates abandoned felines. “As the ongoing housing crisis continues in our community, families are facing eviction, and pets continue to be left behind in record numbers,” the newsletter declares, describing a pregnant cat abandoned before a snowstorm.
  • My dog-loving sister in suburban Denver again chose the Colorado Pet Pantry, which donates pet food to shelters and food shelves so people in financial stress can keep their beloved dogs and cats.
  • My stepsister in my hometown of Mankato, Minnesota, each year selects Vine: Faith in Action, a community center that “offers a one-stop shop for aging adults.” She knows older people who have moved to Mankato “primarily because of what we have to offer them.”
  • This year, my brother chose the Trustees in Boston, an environmental organization that protects “exceptional and special places” throughout Massachusetts, where he and his wife raised their sons.

One sibling chose not to donate to my nonprofit this year, and that’s OK. I love to buy people presents — the floor of my office closet is filled with gifts I buy throughout the year, waiting for just the right occasion to bestow them. But to spend money for the sake of it, when you don’t feel inspired to do so, contradicts my growing belief that Christmas should be more about choice than obligation.

One of the great gifts you can give another person is the gift of seeing them, the gift of paying attention.

New York Times columnist David Brooks

In the unhurried hush between Christmas and New Year’s, when the flurry of cooking and cleaning and wrapping presents is over but deadlines and other to-dos remain around the corner, I am thinking about what went right this holiday season.

It was doing the unexpected: foregoing a church service on Christmas Eve in favor of seeing a preview of the new Bob Dylan film, A Complete Unknown, and then discussing that and so many other topics over dinner with my husband and a friend. It was texting loved ones on Christmas morning rather than mailing holiday cards that would have gotten clogged up in the postal system anyway. It was staying out of cheaper suburban big-box stores and patronizing local shops that lend character to my urban neighborhood.

I’ve also been analyzing what didn’t work, like insisting that my younger son and his partner spend time with us on Christmas Day when they’d already had two gatherings with her extended family the day before. Next year, I plan to suggest that we celebrate instead on Sunday, December 28, the day after her birthday.

In mid-December a favorite podcast of mine, “The Opinions,” asked listeners to submit “what brought you joy in 2024.” It was the big things, to be sure: the elevation of Kamala Harris as the Democratic candidate for president, her choice of my state’s ebullient, unpolished governor as her running mate. But in the dark of December, it’s been appreciating what I have, not what I long for — whether that’s better relationships with certain family members or the impossible belief that I should have vanquished all my insecurities by this age.

I restarted the gratitude practice this week that I learned when I first got sober, ticking off five things I am thankful for during my morning dog walk.

Today it’s these:

  1. A warm, comfortable home in a cold, four-season state with a growing population of unsheltered people.
  2. A sister who helped me recognize how holiday traditions and expectations change once adult children have families of their own.
  3. The anticipation of a walk-and-talk this afternoon with a dear friend, who lately is witness to her husband’s failing health.
  4. Physical mobility, even with an aging, sometimes aching body.
  5. The determination, next year, to craft a meaningful Christmas that leans less into what is supposed to be than what feels right, what evolves — and, yes, what brings joy, to me and others.
Artwork by Ed Steinhauer