Happy birthday, Attila Gorilla.

Some stories come from memory.

Others come from imagination.

This one came from a coffee-fueled conversation about aging at a gas station table sticky with sugar packets.

I wrote The Wisdom of Attila Gorilla for a dear friend who shares my love of group fitness and dry humor—and who also shares my tendency to turn everyday chats into deeply philosophical tangents. We met for our usual heart-to-hearts at the gas station coffee shop (yes, it’s a vibe), and after joking that I was going to write about him someday…I did.

I came back from the world’s least inspiring bathroom to find him misty-eyed over a fictional gorilla. It was beautiful.

This friend recently celebrated a birthday, and his perspective on aging, purpose, and presence has reframed how I think about growing older, moving slower, and showing up wiser. This story is for him, for anyone who’s ever wondered if they still matter, and for everyone ready to listen a little more closely.

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The Wisdom of Attila Gorilla

In the heart of the jungle, where golden sunlight filtered through emerald leaves and a warm breeze carried the scent of ripe fruit, lived Attila Gorilla—a silverback whose life was rich with adventure, family, and wisdom.

His house stood tall, nestled back within a sturdy tree, home to not only himself but three generations of his family. His children and grandchildren filled the space with energy and laughter, their voices echoing through the branches. He loved them dearly, yet lately, he had begun to feel…invisible.

At meals, conversations zipped past him, filled with stories of new findings, fast-paced travel, and changes he didn’t fully grasp. When he tried to share his own tales—of climbing the tallest mountains, learning tai chi from a wise old panda, or discovering healing herbs in the jungle—he often saw polite smiles, nods, and a quick shift to another topic.

For the first time in his life, Attila felt…old.

One evening, he made his way to the quiet glade by the river where the ground always felt steady. He padded toward his well-worn patch of earth, and as he moved slowly, he felt the energy flow through his limbs. He moved just as his old panda teacher had shown him decades ago, and as he shifted into a graceful pose, he heard a flutter.

A tiny wren perched on a low branch, watching him with wide, curious eyes.

“You move like the wind,” the little bird chirped. “And yet, you are strong like the earth.”

Attila chuckled, finishing his form. “Tai chi teaches us that strength and softness can exist together. It keeps me balanced.”

The wren hopped closer. “I’ve been watching you for days. You are so…different from the young ones. They rush, they chatter, they dart from one thing to the next. But you—your movements have meaning. Your voice carries stories. I want to learn.”

Attila blinked. No one had said that to him in a long time.

“You do?” he asked, settling onto a smooth rock.

The wren nodded enthusiastically.

So, Attila began to share. He spoke of his travels, his lessons, and the wisdom he had gathered like treasures along the way. He spoke of the importance of moving with intention, listening deeply, and embracing the transitions of life—not fighting them.

The wren listened with rapt attention, occasionally chirping excitedly or fluttering with anxious energy at a thrilling tale of woe.

As the sun set, Attila felt something shift inside him. He wasn’t outdated. He wasn’t invisible. He had knowledge and experiences worth sharing—the kind that only time could provide.

That night, as he climbed back into his treehouse, he didn’t feel so left out.  Instead, he felt a quiet pride swell in his chest.

The next morning, as his family gathered for breakfast, Attila cleared his throat.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I learned tai chi in the mountains?” he asked.

To his surprise, his youngest granddaughter, barely old enough to climb, clapped her hands. “No! Tell us!”

And just like that, Attila Gorilla realized that wisdom, like a river, was meant to flow—not demand attention, but to be offered freely, so that those ready to receive it would drink it in.

And so, he kept telling his stories.

And the jungle kept listening.

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