Never Too Late to Bloom: The Inspiring Legacy of Rose

It was the first day of college. Our professor stood at the front of the classroom, looking out at our sea of eager faces, and gave us a simple but important challenge:
“Find someone in this room you don’t already know, and introduce yourself.”

I stood up, scanning the room, when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned around—and there she was.

A petite woman, dressed with care and beaming with a joy that seemed to glow from somewhere deep within her. Her white hair was curled just right, her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her smile lit up her whole face.

“Hi, handsome,” she said, her voice playful and warm. “My name is Rose. I’m eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course you may,” I said, and she wrapped me in a surprisingly strong embrace.

We sat down together after class, sipping chocolate milkshakes in the student union. I asked what brought her to college at her age.

With a twinkle in her eye, she replied, “I’m here to find a rich husband, get married, and have a couple of kids.” Then she grinned and said, “No, really—I always dreamed of getting a college education, and now I’m finally doing it.”

That was the beginning of one of the most beautiful friendships of my life.

For the next three months, Rose and I became inseparable. After class, we’d walk and talk for hours. She called herself a “time machine,” and I quickly understood why. Her stories, her wisdom, her sense of humor—they were endless. And she had this incredible way of making you feel like everything in the world was still possible.

She became a campus icon. Everyone loved her. She dressed up for classes, walked with confidence, and lit up every hallway she entered. She brought joy into every conversation. She was 87 and living life more vibrantly than most 20-year-olds I knew.

At the end of the semester, we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. She had prepared a written speech, but as she stood at the podium, her note cards scattered to the floor. Without missing a beat, she leaned into the mic and said with a smile,
“I’m sorry I’m so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent, and this whiskey is killing me!”

The room erupted in laughter.

Then, without her cards, she spoke straight from the heart:

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing.
There are four secrets to staying young, being happy, and finding success:
You have to laugh and find humor every single day.
You have to dream. When you lose your dreams, you die.
Too many people are walking around dead and don’t even know it.
There’s a big difference between growing older and growing up.
Anyone can grow older—that doesn’t take talent.
But growing up? That’s about finding opportunity in change.
Have no regrets. Most people don’t regret what they did, but what they didn’t do.
The only people who fear death are those with regrets.”

And then—without warning—she began to sing “The Rose.” Her voice was shaky, but strong with feeling. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

She ended her speech by challenging all of us to look up the lyrics, memorize them, and live them out.

And Rose didn’t just speak about living fully—she lived it.

That spring, Rose finally completed the degree she had started decades earlier. One week after graduation, she passed away peacefully in her sleep.

Over two thousand college students came to her funeral. Not because she was famous, or wealthy, or powerful. But because she was unforgettable. She had shown us how to live without fear. How to love without hesitation. How to laugh, and grow, and keep dreaming—at any age.

So here’s what I hope you remember, passed on in loving memory of Rose:

Growing older is mandatory.
Growing up is optional.

And…

We make a living by what we get,
But we make a life by what we give.