Nothing Has Made Me Feel Older Than My Relationship With Passwords...

There are many ways a person comes to terms with aging. Some notice it in the mirror. Others feel it in their knees and back while exiting a chair, a car, a bed, etc. A few brave souls acknowledge it when music from their youth starts playing in grocery stores.

For me, however, aging arrived quietly... Without ceremony or fanfare, in the form of a password reset screen. I didn’t pull a muscle. I didn’t lose my hair. I simply forgot how to log into something I personally created. And basically, I never recovered.

Once upon a time, passwords were simple. Honest. Cooperative. You picked one, you remembered it, and you went about your day. Maybe you added an exclamation point if you were feeling adventurous. That was enough. Society trusted you. Computers respected you, and no one laughed at you for using 1234. It was a simpler time...

That era is gone... Today, passwords are no longer a security measure. They are a psychological endurance test designed to expose your weaknesses, question your memory, and eventually convince you that you were never meant to access your own information in the first place.

The modern password does not merely protect an account. It judges you passively and aggressively for not using biometrics! It asks, "Were you born in a cave?" with no words.

The first sign of trouble usually appears innocently enough. You attempt to log in. You type what you are certain is the correct password. The system pauses, as if considering your effort, and establishes whether or not a Gold star is appropriate for the moment. Then it responds with cold authority:

“Incorrect password.”... Incorrect. Not “almost.” Not “close.” Incorrect! You try again. Carefully this time. Slowly. Deliberately. You consider capitalization. You consider symbols. You consider whether the younger version of yourself made choices you now have to answer for.

“Incorrect password.”

At this point, a subtle panic sets in. Because you know, deep down, that the password was right. Which means the problem cannot be the password. The problem must be you.

Eventually, you do what every modern adult must do several times a week: you click “Forgot Password.” This is where the true humiliation begins. The system sends you a verification code. You retrieve it. You feel briefly competent. The illusion does not last. You are now instructed to create a new password. And this is where the rules appear. Not rules, exactly. More like commandments etched into stone tablets by a deeply suspicious god.

Your new password must be at least twelve characters long, contain one uppercase letter, one lowercase letter, one number, one symbol, one hieroglyph, and the blood of a bat on a full moon. It must not resemble any password you have ever used before, including passwords you used briefly in 2012 and immediately forgot. You comply. You invent something complex. Something layered. Something that looks like it might open a portal if typed incorrectly.

The system reviews your offering. “You’ve used this password before.” This is the moment you realize you are not dealing with technology. You are dealing with memory warfare from an AI rolodex that can see in the past, present, and future all at once.

Because you have absolutely no recollection of ever using this password. You do not recognize it. You do not feel emotionally connected to it. Yet somehow, at some point in your life, possibly during a flu or microbrew binge, you chose it.

You try again. Now the password is rejected for being “too similar” to a previous password. A password you cannot remember. A password you are forbidden to know. A password that exists only to block your progress and watch you squirm.

Eventually, you create something so unhinged that even you resent it. The system accepts it. Victory feels hollow after all the effort.

The next problem is remembering it. You will not... not ever, even with a gun to your head. It ain't happenin'! You tell yourself you will. You assure yourself this one is different. It's so different, there is no way you couldn't remember it. It's not different. You will forget it immediately after logging in.

This is how adults end up with notebooks labeled “Passwords” hidden in drawers like drug cartel contraband. This is how sticky notes become modern-day frescos. This is how people with advanced technology resort to writing things down with pens like medieval monks.

Of course, writing passwords down is discouraged. By pretty much everyone with a pulse. This advice is often delivered sternly, as though the alternative, remembering dozens of impossible strings of characters, is simply a matter of personal discipline.

Meanwhile, every system demands its own password. Email. Banking. Streaming services. Medical portals. That website that sells socks. Each one insists it is the most important account in your life. None of them coordinates, which is the bane of your existence.

And heaven help you if one of them suffers a data breach. You will receive an email written in a tone of deep regret and suspicion, informing you that “out of an abundance of caution,” you should change your password immediately. Out of an abundance of caution, you will choose something worse. Your sanity...

Then there is the security question phase, which appears designed to expose your vulnerability to anyone willing to guess the name of your childhood pet, high school, the name of your first friend, or the mix-tape you made in junior high.

“What was the name of your first school?” I don’t know. It was a building. It burned down...

“What is your mother’s maiden name?” Not sure, she changed it after being in the Witness Protection Program.

“What was the name of your first car?” It was a mistake. 3 of its 4 cylinders actually worked, and the passenger window wouldn't roll down. I don't want to talk about it...

These questions assume a level of certainty about the past that simply does not exist anymore. Eventually, biometrics arrive, promising relief. Fingerprints. Face recognition. The future is here!

It works flawlessly, until you’re tired, or sick, or wearing glasses, or not wearing glasses, or slightly angled, or emotionally different from how you were when you set it up.

“Face not recognized.” I am the face. I am FACE!!

At some point, you realize this entire system has quietly shifted the balance of power. You no longer access accounts. You petition them. You prove yourself repeatedly. You verify codes. You answer questions. You accept cookies. You acknowledge terms you did not read. You comply.

And if you fail, the system does not apologize. It simply locks you out. For your own protection.

This is when you understand that nothing, not birthdays, not aches, not cultural references, has made you feel older than standing in front of a screen, asking permission to use something you already own. We are told this is progress. We are told it is necessary. And to some extent, it is.

But there is a quiet sadness in knowing that the greatest obstacle between you and your own information is no longer a lack of access; it’s remembering whether you capitalized the third letter and added a dollar sign or an underscore.

Here’s the thing. We didn’t become forgetful. We didn’t become incompetent. We adapted the best way we knew how. The world became more complicated, and we tried to keep up.

So if you see someone staring blankly at a login screen, know this: they are not confused, and they are not lost. They are simply negotiating with a system that remembers them far better than they remember themselves.

Be patient with the elders, they're doing their best. And somewhere, in a dusty drawer, with petrified rubber bands and a Master lock key that unlocks nothing... There is a notebook that knows the truth!