Lately, I’ve been watching a show called A Taste of History with Max Miller.
It’s meant to be a light food series, but it keeps pulling me into something deeper. As he walks through the historical context of each dish, I find myself thinking about how young so many of these people were—leading, building, changing the world. And how differently we’ve come to view youth today.
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In my generation—Generation X—we were raised to believe that wisdom only came with age.
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” they told us. And we believed them. We were taught to listen, not speak. Respect our elders. Wait our turn. Because we hadn’t lived as long, our voices were dismissed as inexperienced, invalid, even foolish. (Or female.)
We were meant to watch and learn until some invisible line was crossed, and then—someday—we’d finally be old enough to matter.
But when is that day?
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Looking back through history, it’s hard not to notice how often that idea just doesn’t hold.
Joan of Arc was only 17 when she led an army.
Alexander the Great became king at 20.
Phillis Wheatley was 20 when she became the first African-American woman to publish a book of poetry.
Even within our own American history, people in their 20s and 30s were founding nations:
Edward Rutledge, 26, was the youngest signer of the Declaration of Independence.
George Washington, 22, was commanding troops during the French and Indian War.
Mary Shelley, just 20, published Frankenstein—a work that shaped literature for centuries.
They didn’t wait their turn.
They didn’t ask permission.
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Did we break the cycle?
Did we teach the next generation to think for themselves?
To speak up, to question what they’re told, to use their imagination?
Did we give them the confidence to shape the world they’re inheriting?
Did we learn to listen to them?
Maybe the question isn’t how old you have to be to be wise.
Maybe it’s this:
What if the age of wisdom isn’t an age at all?
A Stitchin’ Hot Mess 