I've always had the distinct sense that I was born 60 years too late and some administrative error had placed me in the wrong generation.

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Even as a child, my tastes were less contemporary than pensioner-preferred: old music, stories from simpler times and the company of people with a few decades on me - especially my grandparents, who were my best friends.

Later, when I began studying medicine, that attachment to older people began to shape my path.

Although I thought I'd become a doctor like my wonderful dad, halfway through my studies I found myself increasingly drawn to a malady medicine alone couldn't fix: disconnection.

From community, purpose and the activities that once brought joy - disconnection from the version of themselves they'd spent a lifetime becoming.

It led me to a question that has shaped both my work in aged care and my novels: how do we help people retain dignity by remaining themselves - and staying visible - as they age?

Leaving medicine to pursue answers led to one of the most formative experiences of my career: developing a local government cooking program for widowed older men.

Participants arrived isolated, surviving on toast, frozen meals and loneliness. On paper, the course taught practical skills. What emerged was far more profound.

As the men began cooking, confidence returned. Friendships formed. Memories of childhood meals were exchanged across kitchen benches. Former bankers, electricians and teachers who had barely left the house since their wives died, began going to the supermarket, choosing ingredients, and hosting the family Sunday roast or baking with grandkids.

Jackie French writes: beware the ghost providers of home care

The sandwich generation: heartbreaking choices and quiet sacrifices

Rachel Lane writes: what to consider before going into aged care

What mattered was not just learning something new, but reclaiming agency........

© Canberra Times