When I was in my early 20s, I had a brief period of total confidence in my body. In my teens, I had had the clearest skin in my family of seven siblings.

By 25, however, things changed. The reasons for this were more psychological than physical: I was asked to engage in a one-year experience, which needed me to travel abroad and leave my job (one that I had learned to love) — for a bit.

But that is getting ahead of my story.

As a young adult and even to this day as a senior, I pride myself in doing a job that I am seldom, if ever, absent from. So when a family emergency required me to go abroad for a few months, I was not happy about it, yet realizing the need to be present for my family, I went.

A year later, I came back, having successfully answered the call of care for my elder brother and his family. The job that I left the year before told me that they would love it if I came back — happy as I was, I returned to the job I left.

In spite of this (or it is because of the stress that came with the year that passed), I had developed a bad case of psoriasis, an autoimmune illness that manifests on my skin. My skin… my pride and joy.

I remember being told after I had been biopsied that, indeed, what I had developed was psoriasis and there was no ‘magical’ cure to it…much like my asthma — it was an illness that I would have to live with.

All of this, I assumed, would only get worse as I aged — as it did, I guess. Starting in my early 40s, the self-criticism began to quietly dial itself back. This surely had something to do with a newfound stability: I was developing a sense of community, my work was growing stronger and I, more confident. How I looked became a minor concern compared to how well I did my job.

My standards had become more realistic. Shortly after I hit 50, I looked at my skin and thought, it’s better than I expected. I don’t know if I actually was healthier or stronger, but I felt my vitality in a way I had not before. Perhaps I benefited from the inculcation of age-dread. In comparison to what I had been taught to anticipate, what I got was pretty great. Part of this was luck.

I expected this all to collapse in the next decade or so, and sure enough my appearance has become, well, even less perfect into my 60s. However, there was another development that almost compensated — just in the sheer irony of it. At the age of 63, I went to the doctor because my psoriasis seemed to be showing up more. Stress, I assumed.

Eventually I got an a few blood tests and was told that I need to take an anti-cancer drug under strict doctor supervision.

A few months later, the psoriasis became more evident with people asking me what was wrong with my skin.

That brings me to the point of this article: the unexpected delight of getting older.

Yes, my psoriasis has its up and down moments. But now I don’t fret about it. I accept life for what it brings me, stress-caused psoriasis and all.

I guess there are unexpected joys in growing older — about no longer being too conscious of how I look like is one. The other is being content with being able to still do my work and keep the stress (that so often shows up on my skin) under control better than when I was young.

This is a joy for us who age. After all, aging is inevitable, and keeping our good looks matters less than being able to control the stress that has so often disturbed my life as I was growing older.