I like to think I get better with age, but maybe absence makes

The luminous artist Bonnie Raitt, whose voice carries both the ache of experience and the grace of resilience, once said: “I like to think I get better with age, but maybe absence makes the heart grow fonder.” In this humble reflection lies a truth that shines like a candle between laughter and wisdom. It is a confession of both growth and humility, of the artist who has walked the long road of time and looks back not with pride alone, but with wonder at the strange way memory softens the past. In these words, Raitt captures the delicate balance between aging and affection, between the self that endures and the image that others hold in their hearts.

The origin of this quote can be traced to the later seasons of Raitt’s life and career — years after her fiery youth, when her songs of love, loss, and longing had already carved deep lines into the soul of American music. Having stepped back at times from the glare of fame, she spoke these words as she reflected on her journey — on how the world perceives her, and how she perceives herself. She had known both triumph and obscurity, applause and silence. Thus, her words are not the boast of one who believes she has mastered time, but the musings of one who knows that time itself is the true teacher, and that perhaps what we call “getting better” is simply learning to be at peace with the flow of our years.

When she says, “I like to think I get better with age,” she speaks for all who strive to ripen rather than wither. There is a dignity in her phrasing — the desire to believe that with each passing season, wisdom deepens, expression sharpens, and the heart grows more compassionate. This is the hope of every artist, every soul: that age does not dull us, but refines us. Yet even as she claims this, she tempers it with the gentle uncertainty of the second half: “but maybe absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Perhaps, she wonders, it is not her improvement that makes others love her more — but the space she left, the longing born of her absence, that rekindles affection in those who remember her.

This duality — between growth and nostalgia — is as old as time. In the ancient world, the Greek poet Sappho wrote that memory makes beauty eternal. Lovers, heroes, and artists fade from sight, yet their absence magnifies their essence in the minds of those who loved them. So too does Raitt understand that when one steps away from the world, one’s spirit may grow even more luminous in recollection. We humans are creatures of longing; we remember what we miss with greater tenderness than what we possess. Thus, she offers this wisdom lightly, but it carries deep weight: that sometimes, what others cherish in us is not what we have become, but what we have been — the echo, not the voice.

And yet, in this reflection there is no bitterness. Raitt’s words are a celebration of continuity, of the bridge between past and present. She does not resent nostalgia; she honors it, even as she acknowledges her own evolution. For the artist who grows older, the greatest challenge is to reconcile the past self — the one immortalized in songs, paintings, or memories — with the living self, who continues to change. To get “better with age” is not only to refine one’s craft, but to make peace with one’s reflection. It is to recognize that every stage of life has its own beauty — the raw fire of youth, the depth of maturity, the quiet glow of later years. The heart learns to see them not as rivals, but as verses of the same song.

The meaning, then, reaches beyond the artist’s life to touch every soul that walks the path of time. Each of us, in our own way, wishes to believe that we grow wiser, stronger, and kinder with age. And yet, we must also understand that those who love us may see us through the lens of memory — that to them, we are not just who we are now, but who we once were. Absence, whether brief or eternal, shapes affection as powerfully as presence. It reminds us that love is not static — it ripens and transforms, just as we do. In the end, both truths coexist: we do grow better with age, but those who cherish us grow fonder too, through the passage of time and the sweetness of remembrance.

The lesson is this: embrace both the growth that time brings and the tenderness that memory preserves. Do not fear aging, for it is the artist’s true palette — each year adding new shades to the canvas of the soul. Yet do not dismiss nostalgia, for it is the proof that what you once were still matters to the hearts of others. Continue to create, to love, to give, but also allow yourself to step away — for in your absence, others may rediscover their affection for you. Whether through your words, your music, or your simple being, leave behind something worth longing for.

Thus remember, O child of passing seasons, that to age is not to fade, but to deepen. Like wine maturing in the dark, or the oak growing slow and strong, your worth increases not through perfection, but through presence — through the courage to live fully and then step aside when the moment calls. Let your life sing as Bonnie Raitt’s does: a melody of growth and grace, touched by both time and tenderness. For in the end, it is not only the living who shape love, but the distance between hearts — the absence that makes affection eternal, and the wisdom of age that makes love complete.