One problem with age is that patience begins to ebb.

Carl Hiaasen, with a voice both wry and wise, declared: “One problem with age is that patience begins to ebb.” These words, though light upon the tongue, carry the heavy weight of truth. For they reveal the paradox of life: that as the years grant us wisdom, they also strip us of the gentleness to wait. Time, which once stretched endlessly before the young, becomes compressed, urgent, and precious. Thus, patience, the companion of youth, often deserts the elders who most understand its value.

The meaning of this saying lies in the shifting perception of time. To the young, an hour is an ocean, a day a mountain. They can wait because they believe they have eternity. But to the aged, every moment is counted, every hour felt as a flame burning lower. Age sharpens awareness of mortality, and with it comes a growing restlessness—a desire to cut through nonsense, to speak plainly, to seize what remains. Hiaasen captures this truth: the older we grow, the less patience we have for delay, triviality, or deceit.

History bears witness to this phenomenon. Consider the fiery statesman Winston Churchill in his later years. Where once he maneuvered with caution, age left him brusque, demanding, and often unwilling to indulge wasted time. Or think of Michelangelo, in his final decades, who worked with furious speed, unwilling to linger, carving marble with the urgency of one racing death. Their impatience was not weakness, but a sharpened focus: an unwillingness to squander what little remained. This is the ebbing of patience—less tolerance for delay, but more hunger for essence.

Yet there is another side to this truth. The loss of patience with age can also be a gift. For what is impatience but clarity in disguise? The elder who interrupts empty chatter, who refuses meaningless tasks, who demands honesty and substance, is not merely impatient, but purified. Time has burned away the trivial, leaving only the core. What seems to others as irritation may in truth be the wisdom to discern what matters from what does not.

But the danger lies in letting impatience sour the spirit. Too much disdain for the slowness of the world can turn to bitterness. The challenge, then, is to balance urgency with compassion, clarity with kindness. Even as patience ebbs, the wise must strive to remember that others still walk at different paces, that the young must stumble and tarry before they understand. Thus, the elder’s role is not to scorn, but to guide—to use their sharpened urgency to illuminate, not to wound.

The lesson for us is profound: honor your time, but do not despise the slow unfolding of others. Let the knowledge of mortality push you to focus, to cut through distractions, to live deliberately. But temper this urgency with understanding. Practice small acts of patience even when it is hardest—listening fully, waiting gently, guiding without haste. For though patience may ebb, it can also be replenished through compassion, reflection, and love.

Therefore, O seekers of truth, take Hiaasen’s words as both a warning and a gift. Age will strip away the illusion of endless time; it will press upon you the urgency of life. But let that urgency sharpen your choices, not sour your soul. Use what remains not in restless irritation, but in meaningful action. For when patience and urgency are held together in balance, the elder becomes not merely weary of delay, but a beacon of wisdom for all who follow.