David Bowie’s 1971 hit song “Changes” called to me from the speaker across the kitchen as I stood at the sink, wrists deep in soapy water. The clink of dishes. The swish of the sponge. Then that unmistakable chorus commanded my attention:
Ch-ch-ch-changes…
I froze, plate in mid-air. That stutter wasn’t just Bowie’s voice; it was mine — the choppy, uneven breaths of someone who’d been shoved – not nudged, not tapped, but shoved — into a new reality she hadn’t seen coming.
We’ve all had our twists and turns. Maybe a detour here, a fender bender there, some metaphorical gravel in our shoes. But, if you’re like me and have hit your 60s, the odds go up that change stops being the scrappy indie film of your life and starts to feel like a chain of natural disasters.
That’s what happened during what I now refer to — only half-jokingly — as my Shipwreck Period. My husband, Fred, and I had been paddling along in our cozy double kayak of married life when the storm hit. In that instant of hearing the song, I was back in the wreckage of Fred’s cruel decline from frontotemporal dementia.
Suddenly, the man I’d expected to grow old with was a stranger. And I? I was shipwrecked. Our tight, two-person vessel cracked open, and there I was, bailing like crazy while the sea monsters of the disease laughed in my face. To be honest, I nearly drowned. I cried in the car. I cried to my dog trainer. I wanted my old life back. I wanted my old Fred.
And here I was, seven years after Fred’s death, still pining for what I’d lost. Ch-ch-ch-changes. The dramatic stutter echoes the theme of the song. Don’t we all hesitate when we’re being shoved somewhere we don’t want to go? It’s as if the singer is tripping over the word itself, unsure whether to leap into it.
Ch-ch-ch-changes.
Then came my favorite line in the song: Turn and face the strange. That lyric wasn’t a suggestion — it was a command. Not to erase what had happened. Not to deny my grief. But to refuse to let the sea monsters take the rest of my life along with Fred’s.
What saved me were the lifelines tossed my way — friends who checked in, family who showed up, former coworkers who showed up with pizza and homemade pies. I poured myself into writing projects like they were rescue rafts. My dog and I set out in every kind of weather because the rhythm of paws on the trail felt like proof that life could still move forward.
Yes, I turned and faced the strange alright. What could be stranger than dating in your 60s? Somewhere along the way I stumbled into Wordplay Wonderland — a new writing partner who brought me my first-ever rhyming dictionary.
Hearing Bowie’s voice that day at the sink, I realized my “strange” might not look like his. I’m not one to perch atop a colossal spider set or descend from the ceiling in a silver chair, as the rock star did in his most flamboyant performances. But I, too, have faced the unfamiliar. Each new step — whether it was hosting a fig-themed potluck to kick off a new Food Interest Group (FIG) or booking a trip to Nashville with my girlfriends — was a quiet reinvention.
And here’s the thing: turning toward the strange doesn’t mean the fear disappears. It means you look it in the eye anyway. The first steps are wobbly — you may even stutter, like Bowie — but movement matters more than perfection.
Now, “Changes” feels like my own theme song. The stutter reminds me that hesitation is normal — after all, storms leave scars. The chorus reminds me that the world doesn’t wait for us to be “ready.” And the command reminds me to live bravely, even when the shore is unfamiliar.
If you’ve weathered your own storm — loss, illness, upheaval — you already know how strong you are. You’ve seen the sky at its darkest and the sea at its wildest, and you’re still here. That’s no small thing.
And when you feel yourself hesitating, hear Bowie’s stutter — and maybe my voice, too — urging you: Turn and face the strange. We all hit the rocks. But we also have the potential to climb back onto shore, seaweed in our hair, and vow to live our lives to the fullest for those who can’t. The waves will carry you somewhere new.
Joan Axelrod-Contrada is a writer who lives in Florence. Sign up for her free newsletter by emailing her at joanaxelrodcontrada@gmail.com.