Like a fine wine (maybe a little corked)

Getting older is a strange thing.

No one really tells you how quietly it happens. No bell rings to announce you have crossed some invisible threshold from young to seasoned, from eager to experienced, from apprentice to elder. One day, you notice that you have begun to say things like, “I remember when…,” or you hear a younger voice ask you for advice, and you realise with a small shock that you have become someone who is expected to have answers.

Most people resist aging. We joke about it, fear it, dye it, stretch it, deny it, and I have done them all.  Society worships youth with an almost religious intensity: smooth skin, quick energy, boundless possibility. Growing older is framed as a slow loss: of time, of opportunity, of vitality.

But storytellers are different.

Storytellers, it seems, age like fine wine.

Not because we escape time, but because time itself is our greatest ingredient.

The Paradox of the Young Storyteller

When I began my journey as a Storyteller, I was young, far younger than many in the circles I entered.

I carried enthusiasm in abundance. I had passion that burned hot and bright. I had memorised tales, practiced voices, refined gestures, and poured myself into performance with a kind of relentless determination that only youth can sustain.

But there was something I did not have.

Experience.

Or at least, not enough of it.

I remember the subtle glances from older tellers, not unkind, but measured. The polite encouragement that carried an undertone of doubt. The careful words that often circled the same quiet truth:

“You’re talented. But you need more years.”

At the time, I bristled against this.

I thought it was gatekeeping. I thought it was a tradition holding too tightly to its past. I thought skill should matter more than age. After all, I was working harder than many, performing constantly, travelling, refining my craft with almost obsessive dedication.

Surely effort counted for something. Surely commitment proved readiness. And yet, the older Storytellers kept returning to the same idea: storytelling is not simply performance.

It is a lived experience shaped into meaning.

At the time, I heard their words, but I did not fully understand them. Because understanding takes time. And time cannot be rushed.

Apprenticeship in a Living Art

Storytelling is one of the oldest human traditions. Long before written language, long before theatres, microphones and stages, there were voices in the dark sharing stories to make sense of the world.

Because of this, storytelling has always operated on a kind of apprenticeship model. You do not simply learn technique, you absorb perspective. You do not merely memorise tales, you grow into them.

In many ways, an apprenticeship in storytelling is less about being taught and more about becoming. When I was starting, I approached storytelling like a craft to be mastered through effort. I measured progress in performances given, audiences reached, and miles travelled.

And I worked tirelessly.

There were years when I was performing constantly, building momentum, gaining recognition, and earning opportunities that many tellers take decades to reach. Some experienced Storytellers noticed this. They saw the work ethic, the dedication, the relentless pursuit of growth. And they supported me strongly, sometimes passionately, arguing that my output and commitment surpassed many active tellers.

They advocated for me to move forward in my apprenticeship. They said the work itself proved readiness.

And in some ways, they were right.

Work matters. Practice matters. Persistence matters.

But they are only part of the story. Because storytelling is not just about what you do. It is about who you are when you do it.

What Time Teaches That Practice Cannot

There are lessons no amount of rehearsal can provide. You cannot rehearse grief. You cannot practice loss. You cannot simulate the quiet transformation that comes from loving deeply and then letting go. You cannot rush the slow accumulation of wisdom that emerges from living long enough to see cycles repeat, joys returning, mistakes resurfacing, truths unfolding layer by layer.

Time changes your voice in ways technique never will. It softens certainty. It deepens empathy. It shifts focus from performing to connecting.

As a young Storyteller, I believed my role was to tell stories well.

As an older Storyteller, I understand my role is to hold space for stories to live.

That difference is everything.

The Illusion of Mastery

Youth often brings confidence, sometimes even a sense of mastery.

I certainly had moments where I believed I understood storytelling deeply. I had studied its traditions, honed my delivery, and earned recognition.

But time has a way of humbling us.

Because the longer you tell stories, the more you realise how vast storytelling truly is.

You begin to see that every tale has layers you once overlooked. Every audience carries experiences that change how they hear the same words. Every performance is shaped by invisible emotional currents that cannot be predicted.

And you realise something profound:

You never master storytelling.

You simply grow alongside it.

This realisation does not diminish confidence; it transforms it.

It replaces certainty with curiosity.

And curiosity is the storyteller’s greatest ally.

When the Experience Was Right

There is a moment that arrives in every Storyteller’s life, a quiet turning point where you realise they were right. Not completely, perhaps. Not in every detail. But in the essential truth they were trying to convey.

I have reached that moment. Looking back now, I can see clearly what I could not see then.

Yes, I had talent.

Yes, I had discipline.

Yes, I had passion.

And most certainly Yes, I had too much ego.

But I did not yet have depth. Because depth comes from living through enough seasons to understand the weight of human experience. It comes from losing people you love. From facing your own fears.

From learning that stories are not simply entertainment, they are survival tools. They are how we process grief, celebrate joy, transmit wisdom, and make meaning from chaos. No one was trying to hold me back.

They were trying to prepare me.

Aging as an Asset

In most professions, aging can feel like a disadvantage. In storytelling, it is an extraordinary gift. Every year adds texture to your voice. Every hardship adds resonance to your words. Every moment of joy adds warmth to your presence.

Audiences sense this, even if they cannot articulate it. They feel that when a Storyteller speaks from lived truth rather than theoretical understanding. They feel that a pause carries genuine reflection rather than rehearsed timing. They feel that when a story is being told not to impress, but to connect.

This is why Storytellers age like fine wine.

Time does not diminish their value.

It deepens it.

The Shift from Performance to Presence

One of the greatest changes that comes with aging as a Storyteller is the shift from performance to presence.

When you are young, storytelling often revolves around doing, projecting, shaping, entertaining, and proving. As you grow older, storytelling becomes more about being, listening, holding, witnessing, and sharing. You begin to understand that storytelling is not about controlling an audience’s attention. It is about creating a space where attention naturally gathers.

You no longer chase applause. You seek moments of silence, the kind that signals deep listening.

And when that silence arrives, you know something sacred is happening.

The Responsibility of Experience

With age comes not only wisdom, but responsibility.

Older Storytellers carry a dual role:

They continue telling stories.

And they become stewards of the tradition.

They guide younger tellers, not by imposing rules, but by offering perspective. They share what time has taught them about patience, authenticity, and resilience.

They remind newcomers that storytelling is not a race. It is a lifelong relationship. And like all meaningful relationships, it evolves.

Reconciling Youth and Age

Looking back at my younger self, I feel both affection and understanding. I see the urgency, the hunger, the desire to prove myself. I also see the impatience. I see how strongly I wanted to accelerate a process that simply cannot be accelerated.

But I do not regret that intensity. Because it was part of the journey. Youth gives you the fire to begin. Age gives you the clarity to sustain.

Both are necessary. Both are valuable. Both belong in the story.

The Ongoing Journey

The truth is, getting older as a Storyteller does not mean reaching an endpoint. There is no final stage where you declare yourself complete. There is only continual growth. Each decade brings new perspectives. Each life experience reshapes your understanding of old tales.

Stories you once told with excitement, you later tell with tenderness. Stories you once saw as adventurous, you later recognise as tragic. Stories you once told for entertainment, you later realise carry profound wisdom.

And so, the journey continues.

Aging Gracefully Through Story

Perhaps this is why storytellers fear aging less than others. Because we see aging not as loss, but as accumulation. We know that each year adds to our narrative’s richness. We know that wrinkles are not just signs of time passing; they are marks of experiences lived. We know that slowing down can mean deepening rather than fading.

Storytelling teaches us to embrace time.

To see life not as something slipping away, but as something unfolding.

A Quiet Gratitude

Now, when I think back to those early days, to the older Storytellers who doubted me, challenged me, supported me, and guided me, I feel a quiet gratitude.

They were not obstacles. They were guardians. They understood something I had yet to learn: That storytelling is not just about telling stories. It is about becoming someone capable of carrying them.

And that becoming takes time.

The Story Still Being Written

I am older now than when I began. Not old, perhaps, but older. And I can feel the difference in my voice. In my pacing. In the way I listen. In the way I tell.

I understand stories differently now. I hold them differently. I respect them more deeply.

And perhaps most importantly, I understand myself more clearly within them. Because every Storyteller is telling two stories at once:

The one spoken aloud.

And the one being lived.

Both are shaped by time. Both grow richer with age. Both continue unfolding.

The Final Truth

So yes, no one likes getting older.

But Storytellers?

We learn to welcome it. Because every year adds another layer to our voice. Another shade to our understanding. Another story to tell.

And if we are fortunate, if we keep listening, keep learning, keep living, we discover that aging is not the end of our storytelling journey.

It is the deepening of it. Like fine wine, we do not simply endure time. We are transformed by it.

And in that transformation, we become not just better Storytellers…

But better keepers of the human story itself.