The Woman in the Window: Why I Still Want to Be Betty #51

How a stranger’s early morning ritual changed the way I think about aging.

The first time I lived alone, I picked an apartment complex where I felt safe enough to walk my Dalmatian, Scrappy, at any hour. One morning, long before the birds stirred, Scrappy and I headed out. He tugged at the leash, nose buried in the grass, determined to sniff every inch of the lawn, one damp patch at a time. As we passed the mailboxes, a soft light glowed from one of the apartments. The blinds were open.

Inside, a woman with a perfectly white coif sat at her dining room table, mug in hand, newspaper spread before her. She looked completely at peace. I smiled. We hadn’t met, but I felt an instant connection.

At the time, I was in my mid-twenties, bouncing from one substitute teaching job to another while I tried to land something permanent. Life felt temporary, like it was always on hold. I needed to launch my career—so I could build the kind of life she seemed to have.

Later, I saw her again—walking briskly, a round bag swinging at her side. I waved. Maybe I was trying to make a friend, or maybe I was just doing what my mom always taught me: say hi, especially when someone stares at you. That advice stuck. It became my default.

Each time we crossed paths, she’d smile, wave, say hello, and keep moving. Gradually, I started seeing her more often. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe part of me was finding ways to be near her.

What I loved most was her rhythm. She was the only person I’d ever seen actually live out those serene movie mornings—up before sunrise, coffee in hand, newspaper open, completely unbothered. Her ritual didn’t just look peaceful. It looked purposeful. I didn’t want to just wake up early. I wanted to wake up early with joy, sip something warm, and read The New York Times.

One morning, she waved as I passed with Scrappy. I waved back—maybe a little too enthusiastically. And one day, when I spotted her at the mailbox, I rushed to check my mail just to be near her.

That’s when I finally introduced myself and told her how much I admired her mornings. That’s when I learned her name: Betty.

Until then, the only Bettys I knew were Betty Crocker and Betty Rubble.

This Betty was retired and thriving. She didn’t stay up for the 11 p.m. news. Instead, she woke early to drink her coffee and read the paper. She met friends for morning mall walks, ran errands in the afternoon, bowled in the evenings, and even took cruises. She didn’t just fill her days—she filled them with joy. Her life was full, flexible, and real.

Right then and there, I told her: When I grow up, I want to be like you.

Now, at 55, I often wake before 6 a.m. In those still, blue-gray moments, I think of Betty. The house is quiet. The coffee is warm. The world hasn’t made up its mind yet—and anything feels possible.

But I also know this: I might not get to be Betty’s age. And if I do, there’s no promise I’ll have the strength or freedom to live like she did. I live with a physical disability that could stop me from reaching 56, let alone retirement. Just getting older doesn’t guarantee I’ll get to enjoy slow, joyful mornings.

Still, I hope I do. I want that. I want to be like Betty not just in spirit, but in years—in routines and small pleasures and the rhythm of a well-loved life. That hope keeps me grounded. It reminds me to stay present. To savor the quiet. To love the stillness. To be grateful for every morning I can pour a hot cup of coffee and sit with the rising sun.

And yes, I still want to be like Betty when I grow up.
In all the ways.

If there’s a “Betty” in your life, tell them. If you’re trying to become one—keep going.

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