WHERE GRACE HIDES

Aging, Incontinence, and the Invitations We Resist

What does grace look like when our bodies betray us?

It’s an uncomfortable question—one we often avoid. We speak of grace as if it always arrives clean and well-composed, trailing beauty and light behind it. But those of us who are aging—or loving someone who is—know otherwise. Sometimes grace slips in through the side door, disguised as weakness or loss. Sometimes it shows up wearing a bib and bearing a walker.

And often, we miss it entirely because we’re looking for something more… dignified.

This post is my attempt to name a few of the places where grace hides in plain sight—and to explore what keeps us from receiving it. Especially in those spaces of incontinence, dementia, and frailty. Places where we are rarely taught to expect holiness.

Grace in the Leaky Places

Let’s begin with something many don’t talk about until they have to: incontinence.

It can feel like the final insult, can’t it? We who have potty-trained children, managed corporate schedules, planned holidays down to the minute—now find ourselves making decisions based on the location of the nearest bathroom. Or needing assistance in cleaning up what once would have humiliated us.

But here’s what I’ve learned: when we begin to lose control, we often start gaining compassion.

Grace may show up in the hands of someone who helps us without flinching. In the moment, we let go of the shame that tells us we’re “less than.” In the day we finally say, “I need help,” and someone shows up without judgment.

There is dignity in being loved without condition. In being cared for without performance. But first, we must walk through the door of humility.

And that door doesn’t always open easily.

The roadblock?

Shame.

We’ve been told that to be “graceful” is to be in control. What a narrow definition. The older I get, the more I believe grace begins where control ends.

Grace in the Forgetting

Dementia takes many forms. Some subtle, others abrupt. But all involve a kind of vanishing—of memories, abilities, names, even identities.

To witness it in someone you love is to feel unmoored. I’ve held hands with friends who could no longer remember the names of their grandchildren, or where they lived, or how to make tea. And yet—there were still moments. A flash of recognition. A softening smile. The old laugh that broke through like sunlight through blinds.

Is that not grace?

Grace in dementia is rarely tidy. It asks us to love someone not for what they remember—but for who they are in this exact moment. To believe that the soul is still whole, even when the mind is fractured.

I think of grace here as a kind of staying power. The decision to show up, again and again, even when the one we’re loving cannot return the gesture.

Even when they forget our name.

The roadblocks here? Grief. Fear. Our deep attachment to reciprocity.

But grace doesn’t wait for a thank-you note. It loves anyway.

Grace in the Weakness

I used to walk without a cane. I used to walk faster than I do now. And once upon a time, many years ago, I used a wheelchair. So, when I say that weakness can be a teacher, I don’t say it lightly.

I have learned—through experience and resistance—that grace can be found in the slowness.

That walking with a cane isn’t just a concession to safety, but an invitation to notice more.

We don’t like to talk about weakness. We prefer stories of recovery, not stories of steady decline. But the truth is, some things don’t get “better.” Some things just change—and ask us to change with them.

Grace in weakness is often found in moments of asking. In saying yes to help, without apology. In laughing at the absurdity of a body that once danced all night and now complains about getting out of a chair.

The roadblock here? Pride. A culture that celebrates independence and sidelines those who can’t keep up.

But what if grace isn’t about standing tall—but about allowing yourself to be held?

What Keeps Us From Receiving Grace?

It’s worth asking: why is grace so hard to receive?

I think it’s because it feels like surrender. I, like most of those reading this now, was raised to earn everything I receive—to be capable, competent, efficient—the idea of grace is difficult if not offensive. To receive what we did not earn, especially when we cannot repay it, stirs something in us.

Maybe even shame. Or fear. Or the belief that we’re no longer worth the effort.

But that’s where grace does its best work. Not in the “I’ve got it all together” places. But in the “I’m not sure I can do this” places.

Grace, real grace, doesn’t require us to be cleaned up and composed. It moves toward us even when we’re leaking, forgetting, limping. It waits by the bedside. It pulls up a chair. It changes the bedding. It listens when words are gone.

What Grace Looks Like (And What It Doesn’t)

Let’s be clear: grace isn’t tidy. It doesn’t always feel good. It rarely arrives on schedule.

But grace looks like presence. It looks like someone staying with us, not because we can entertain or impress, but because they love us.

It looks like forgiving ourselves for what we can no longer do.

It looks like choosing not to disappear—even when the culture tells us we’re past our prime.

Grace isn’t about avoiding the difficult parts of aging. It’s about not doing them alone.

Maybe grace doesn’t just show up in the weakness or forgetting. Maybe it’s in the rest we never quite take.

I wrote in my journal the other morning about how a symphony depends on its rests. Without them, even the most beautiful music becomes noise. What if aging is our invitation to finally honor the rests? To stop reaching for the next note, and instead listen to the space in between?

An Invitation

Aging is not a punishment. It’s not a failure. It’s not a gradual erasure of value.

It is, in many ways, a stripping down. And beneath the layers—of performance, control, memory, and strength—what remains is who we truly are

So ask yourself:

Where am I resisting grace?

And where might it already be quietly showing up—waiting for me to notice?

If this reflection resonated with you, I invite you to share it with someone who may be facing one of these invisible thresholds.

We don’t always choose the ways we age—but we can choose how we respond.

Grace, I believe, always leaves the light on.