Ask a five-year-old what they want to be when they grow up and chances are they will say firefighter, rockstar, pilot, doctor, or maybe Spider-Man: something or someone they see as heroic, cool, or unique. Me? When I was five years old, I wanted to grow up to be old.

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Reaching old age is not something that everyone gets to do; it’s a privilege. Growing up, I was incredibly lucky to not only know my grandparents but to count them among my closest friends. They undoubtedly shaped my views on aging and led me to leave medical school to instead pursue a career in community and residential aged care–a vocation where I was constantly inspired by people in their final years. Yet, while I was seeing these heroes in real life, I rarely saw them on the page.

In recent times, there’s been a heartening increase in older protagonists in literature, but when you look at these celebrated texts, some of the most cited examples of “old” characters include the utterly fabulous Ove, who is only fifty-nine, or the wonderful Harold Fry who is just sixty-five.

Can these gentlemen really be included in the same demographic as the lovable Allan Karlsson from The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared? We wouldn’t group a five-year-old protagonist with an eighteen or forty-year-old, so why do we apply the same broad brush to our older characters?

I witnessed this same generalization in nursing homes, where residents can often be seen as a homogenous group despite the large generational gap between an eighty-year-old and someone who’s one hundred and five (and old enough to be their mother).

Truly older characters remain very rare in literature, with around only two to three percent of protagonists aged eighty or above.

Truly older characters remain very rare in literature, with around only two to three percent of protagonists aged eighty or above. As a positive aging advocate, this saddens me greatly, not only because it highlights a gap in representation for our aging population, but also underscores the attributes that society deems worthy of fiction.

Despite recent strides against ageism, society still idolizes youth. This is reflected on the page and screen, where many stories only showcase older adults who prove they’ve “still got it” and can wear stilettos, start companies, ride motorbikes, and fight crime in their eighties.

If we only value older individuals for their youthful traits and abilities, what happens as they age and lose those abilities? When Aragorn wields a cane instead of sword? Are they still worthy of being heroes of their stories? If art is reflective of life, then I would answer a resounding yes.

After graduating from University with a Health Promotion degree, I developed a local government program teaching older widowed men how to cook. By the end of the course, participants, who had never so much as boiled an egg, were not only cooking full roast dinners but also inviting new friends over for a meal.

They could have remained stagnant and chosen to continue receiving Meals on Wheels. Instead, despite their bereavement and grief, they dared to try something new, challenging the traditional gender roles of their generation. They wore aprons instead of capes, but they were heroes, nonetheless.

My journey of discovering the remarkable capacity of older people took a personal turn when my grandfather Fred was diagnosed with dementia, and I followed my heart into his nursing home where I became the social support coordinator. My role was to help every resident find creative ways of fostering connection and purpose regardless of physical health limitations or dementia diagnosis.

I strived to give each person agency and to ensure that they remained the lead character of their own story rather than mere onlookers, incapable of change. I became a seeker of connection and hunted for pockets of joy in the darkness, passionate about challenging assumptions of what older people enjoy and are capable of. After all, just because life ends in a nursing home, living doesn’t have to.

Despite his dementia diagnosis, my grandfather never lost his superpower: his unconditional kindness and remarkable ability to make every person he met feel special. Years after he died and I had left to raise a family, I brought my daughter into the nursing home to meet my former colleagues. After a warm hello, one of my grandfather’s former caregivers led me to the staff room.

Stuck inside her locker door, was a photo of my grandfather Fred, placed there after he passed away. She told me that he reminds her daily to be kind to those around her. I simply cannot think of an ability more momentous than that. That is the sort of protagonist I wanted to read about.

My experience during these years has truly led me to believe that some of the biggest and most aspirational character arcs can be found in older characters. Having lived through many stages of life, they carry the weight of past choices, relationships, and regrets, making their transformation more poignant.

When they confront limitations or find new purpose, it highlights their resilience, often defying societal expectations of stagnancy. Despite aging bodies and minds, they can still have a profound impact on those around them. Their arcs show that growth and connection are possible at any age, offering a deeper, more nuanced exploration of identity, love, and redemption that feels especially powerful and inspiring.

In my debut novel, The Borrowed Life of Frederick Fife, I wanted to showcase not just an older character but an older hero who inspires hope and shows that worth, unlike eyesight, does not diminish with age or declining ability. My grandfather provided the perfect inspiration. Fred is remarkable not because he can still have a big weekend in Vegas or ride a jet ski, but because he embraces old age as a natural and valuable part of life, rather than clinging to youth for a sense of purpose.

I intentionally wanted to write a book that unfolds aging humanity in all its glory, from misbehaving prostates and excess gas to creaky knees, failing minds, and unhidden wrinkles. Yet here, in this book set in a nursing home, you will also find older characters who display profound inner strength, the capacity to grow, heal from trauma, find peace, and greatly impact others in their later years.

Fred exemplifies a hero who genuinely saves those around him, not by rescuing them from physical danger but by holding space for them, offering wisdom and unwavering, unconditional compassion–something which is arguably harder. Luckily, he’s had eighty-two years to practice.

In my debut novel, The Borrowed Life of Frederick Fife, I wanted to showcase not just an older character but an older hero who inspires hope and shows that worth, unlike eyesight, does not diminish with age or declining ability.

If I am fortunate enough to become an octogenarian, I hope to be surrounded by books and films that define successful aging not by how tightly you can hold onto youth, but by how well you let go of it and embrace aging as an equally valuable and meaningful part of life—one that not everyone is lucky enough to experience.

And when selecting your next read, don’t overlook older protagonists who defy conventional notions of heroism or vitality. They may not have the strength of their youth, but they know how to lift others up. They may not be able to touch their toes, but they remain flexible, bending over backward to help others. Their stature might have diminished, yet they continue to grow in ways that can truly inspire. Just as in great books, the richest and most rewarding chapters are often the final ones.

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The Borrowed Life of Frederick Fife by Anna Johnston is available via William Morrow.