63 IS THE NEW 63

They say “act your age.” Fine. I act 63, reckless, hungry, and allergic to bullshit.

Here’s the thing: 63 isn’t the new 40. It’s not the new 30. It’s not some bullshit AARP rebrand where we slap an Instagram filter on crow’s feet and pretend we’ve hacked time.

63 is the new 63

It means you’ve got scars and stories. It means you’ve been on enough planes to know the drink cart clink by heart. It means you’ve watched people burn out, sell out, or fade out, while you’re still here, still hungry, still making things that matter.

But try telling that to an industry that worships at the altar of youth.

The Gods We Looked Up To

When I started, the first ten years were ruled by names whispered like gospel. Dan and David, Rich and Jeff, Lee, even Hal. The gods of West Coast advertising. The East Coast had their own, so did every market worth a damn.

And here’s the thing, we looked up to them. Older creatives weren’t invisible, they were the sherpas. They weren’t saints, but they were legends. They carried the map, the scars, the bad habits, and the brilliance.

And that’s why it’s such a bitter joke now. Because instead of passing the torch, this industry loves to toss the torch, along with anyone holding it, straight into the trash. We don’t call it what it is, but let’s: ageism.

Fuck ageism.

Call It What It Is

Yes, you may notice that I swear. If that offends you, then stop reading. I’m not forcing you.

And of course, I know how to behave myself in a client meeting. Le fucking duh.

The point is, ageism is eating this business alive. Not because older creatives lose their spark, but because agencies stop seeing it. They’re too obsessed with “culture fit” and chasing whatever’s trending on a platform that’ll be dead in five years.

I’m not asking for nostalgia. I’m not asking for a parade. I’m saying the flame doesn’t die at 50, 60, 63. If anything, it burns cleaner. Hotter. Sharper.

The Cult of the New

Advertising loves the shiny. The just-graduated-with-a-portfolio-of-pitch-decks generation. Millennials and Gen Z, latte in one hand, TikTok trend in the other, ready to save the world with a carousel post. Agencies line up for them like it’s sneaker drop day, while the veterans, the ones who actually bled for campaigns, who shot in the rain and cut film in the middle of the night, get ghosted.

Over 50? You might as well be radioactive. Too old for the junior roles, too “out of touch” for the senior ones. A creative director with 30 years of experience gets passed over because some HR algorithm says they don’t “fit the culture.” Translation: they’re not 27, wide-eyed, and willing to work 14 hours for cold pizza and “exposure.” Some of my best memories were all nighters before a pitch. And winning the business made it even sweeter. It created a true team mentality. And we celebrated those wins, and mourned the losses. Together. As a team. No matter the age.

It’s backwards. It’s fucking insane. The very people who know how to take a fragile, billion-dollar idea and keep it alive through client tantrums, last-minute budget cuts, and endless “Can we make the logo bigger?” meetings are the ones being shut out.

Everyone drools over AI like it’s a silver bullet. But guess what? AI isn’t dreaming this shit up from scratch. It’s trained on decades of blood, sweat, late nights, and ideas from the same older creatives you’re ghosting. You want the machine but not the makers. That’s not progress, that’s theft.

Old Is a Choice

Here’s the secret: you don’t get old because of candles on a cake. You get old because you start acting like it.

You start moving with the herd of elder lemmings, marching in slow, sad formation toward irrelevance. Trading curiosity for nostalgia. Trading boldness for “back in my day.”

Fuck that

You want to look old? Think old. You want to die young at 40? Start saying no to risk, no to change, no to whatever’s next. That’s when the wrinkles hit, not your skin, your mind.

The number is nothing. Attitude is everything.

People ask me what’s my secret to the fountain of youth. Well, I surround myself with people who inspire me. That’s the real Botox, curiosity, energy, conversation. Maybe it’s because I swim in the ocean every day. I go under, let the salt sting my eyes, and then with both hands I gently wash my face with sand from the seafloor. My own ritual. I call it the daily raw rinse. A way of scrubbing off the layer of bullshit and tiredness that wants to stick.

Retire When?

There’s this saying, worn out like a bar mat: “If you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life.” Cute. Not true.

If you love what you do, you’ll work every goddamn day of your life, and you won’t want to stop.

Retire? When I stop loving this. When the smell of ink on a fresh comp doesn’t hit me in the chest. When the hair on my arms doesn’t rise in an edit at 2 AM because the cut finally sings. When I stop getting high off the perfect line that makes a client lean back in their chair and mutter, “Oh, fuck. That’s good.”

Until then, the answer is never.

63 Is the New 63

The fix for ageism isn’t begging for another seat at their table. It’s proving, over and over, that the work speaks louder than the birthdate. It’s building your own table when theirs gets too small. It’s stacking teams with people who give a damn, no matter the year they were born.

The truth is, this industry doesn’t need fewer voices with experience, it needs more. More scars, more instincts, more hands steady enough to steer fragile ideas through the storm.

So don’t call me 40. Don’t dress it up. I’m 63. I own it. I wear it. And I’ll still out-create half the room because I’m not trying to be young. I’m still dangerous.

That’s the difference.

That’s the answer.

Branson Veal is 63. Creative director, filmmaker, survivor of late nights and bad clients. Still restless, still dangerous, still allergic to mediocrity. More at www.vaka.studio