Five years ago, I thought we were getting somewhere with the pro-aging movement. Now, I’m not sure. I think we might be losing ground.

I’m 51, and I’ve been active in the pro-age space for years. I’ve gained a reputation for being truthful about my own aging experience, and for helping other women to embrace theirs.

I’ve always maintained that my aim is to challenge the culture, not criticize the individual. But lately, I’ve been wondering if that stance is actively harming pro-age progress.

Last week, I saw footage of Madonna at Paris Fashion Week. I’ve been a fan of hers since before I was a teenager. In fact, her Blond Ambition tour was my first ever concert, at Wembley Stadium in 1990.

A few years ago, I wrote an article about the backlash Madonna received after attending the Grammys. She was heavily criticized for being “unrecognizable” after cosmetic work, and the internet went to town calling for her to “give it up, Grandma.”

At the time, I defended her right to have autonomy over her own body. I voiced my frustration that the bulk of the backlash wasn’t because she’d opted for cosmetic surgery, but because she’d taken things “too far.” The suggestion being that having cosmetic treatment is acceptable as long as it’s not noticeable—essentially, just another standard women are supposed to maintain in secret.

I still stand by my statement that our bodies are ours to have agency over.

And yet, it’s also true that I wouldn’t write that same article now. Because my hunger for the representation of women aging naturally is far more intense today than it was three years ago.

I want to be clear that I’m not conflating aging naturally with “aging gracefully.” Aging gracefully is a label that carries a strong air of judgment. It suggests that there’s a “bad” or a “wrong” way to age. It places a heavy emphasis on how we look, as well as how we behave. Honestly, I find it boring and utterly uninspiring—a continuation of the Good Girl rhetoric that we’ve been socialized to accept as a norm.

But as I scroll through my social media feed, which incidentally is far from a shrine to all things anti-aging, I want to weep at the sea of sameness I find myself wading through.

The Disappearing Face of Aging

We’re not only witnessing the erasure of lines and lived-in faces; we’re losing the visibility of aging itself.

It isn’t just that women are looking younger than their age. It’s that they’re starting to look alike. The same unlined foreheads. The same particular kind of smoothness. Features adjusted toward a single aesthetic until the variations that make one face distinct from another have been wiped out entirely.

What we’re losing isn’t wrinkles. It’s visual proof that women can age differently—that there are other faces possible at 50, 60, and 70 than the ones currently being served back to us as aspirational.

For a long time, I held firmly to the position that criticizing another woman’s choices about her body isn’t my place, and I still believe that. The way the media in the nineties and early noughties surveilled women’s appearances was relentless and damaging. It prompted a cultural correction which I championed.

But something has gotten tangled in that correction. We’ve become so vehemently pro-individual choice that we’re reluctant to admit how those choices are collectively shaping a culture that feels more toxic than ever. The anti-aging industry appears to be getting more powerful, rather than less. But we’re not supposed to talk about it because comments about bodies are strictly off-limits.

Lately, I keep thinking that our silence serves these toxic industries. It doesn’t serve us.

When we refuse to make the connection between personal choice and collective culture, we miss the opportunity for new societal values to emerge.

This is equally true for diet culture. For months, I’ve read, listened, pondered, and processed as I’ve paid attention to the rising popularity of GLP-1 medications. Some people herald these drugs as medical miracles. Others warn of long-term side effects and the dire consequences of shrinking ourselves all the way back to the “heroin chic” era.

I’ve found myself hesitating to share my thoughts and feelings about GLP-1s, concerned about being accused of personal attacks, body-shaming, or violating someone’s medical privacy.

But I also believe that supporting someone’s right to choose is not the same as celebrating the choice itself.

I can support a woman’s right to get cosmetic surgery while still openly critiquing the patriarchal beauty standards that made her feel she needed it.

I can support a person’s right to take a GLP-1 while still fighting against a diet culture that equates thinness with moral superiority.

Multiple truths can co-exist.

The Ache for Representation

Paulina Porizkova recently posted a reel sharing her thoughts on the public discourse surrounding Demi Moore, 63, and Rachel Ward, 68. Both women have sparked commentary about what aging can or should look like.

In Paulina’s words: “Both appear absolutely confident, both are extraordinary, both are beautiful, both are aspirational. But only one is free... One has achieved confidence by conforming to social expectations and the other by giving social expectations the proverbial finger.”

Paulina went on to voice her frustration that she feels stuck between the two, wanting a bit of Demi’s glamour and all of Rachel’s freedom, but unsure that they can co-exist.

I shared my own thoughts on that post:

“For me, conforming to anti-aging and diet culture standards means disconnecting from my own inner compass. I don’t see true confidence from Demi, more a desire to seek approval and receive validation. Which is understandable given the industry, but I so wish there were more trailblazers opting out of patriarchal beauty ideals. Particularly when so many of them are rooted in pedophilia.”

My comment garnered quite the response. Some people enthusiastically agreed with me; others hurled insults. I was accused of projecting my own insecurities onto other women, and for fabricating the existence of the patriarchy.

One person claimed that the women she knows “work on looking better mostly so they don’t scare themselves when they look in the mirror. They want to continue seeing the same face they are used to seeing.”

And I get it. Kind of. But our faces are supposed to change. Our bodies are supposed to change. Would we struggle quite as much with self-acceptance if we had more people showing us this?

In the last six months, I feel as though I’ve had an aging spurt the way teenagers have growth bursts. In my mid-40s, I worked hard on making peace with my rapidly changing reflection, and I thought I was in a pretty good place.

But lately, on more than one occasion, I’ve found myself stretching back the sagging skin under my chin, marveling at how doing so transforms my neck. And then noticing how devastating it is to remove my hands and watch gravity immediately stake its claim.

Would it really be so bad to nip, tuck, or tighten? I ask myself in the privacy of my own bathroom.

And that’s when I feel the sharp ache of wanting more representation. That’s when I’m acutely aware of how few women are flying the flag to age without intervention. And yes, I know the flag is being flown. But I can’t help thinking we could have so much more.

The Missed Opportunity

To bring it back to Madonna. No, I don’t think she, or anyone else, should be held personally responsible for spearheading a movement. But damn, it feels like a missed opportunity.

She spent decades positioning herself as a woman who refused to conform. She confidently refused to edit herself for anyone else’s comfort. The whole architecture of her persona was built on being something other than what was expected.

She possessed the specific credibility and the global platform to change the narrative around aging—to be proof of concept that another way exists outside of the relentless glorification of youth. I champion her right to choose for herself, but I mourn that she had the chance to be the most high-profile example of a woman refusing to buy into anti-aging culture. Instead, she co-opted it.

It’s hard for me to find anything cutting edge about that. For someone who built an identity on being radically different, what she’s doing now looks exactly the same as everyone else. That’s the part that surprises me most.

Beyond the Good Girl Script

I refuse to shame individuals for navigating a culture that punishes aging and fatness. But I refuse to pretend this cultural shift isn’t happening, either. We’re watching the wholesale erasure of natural human diversity in real-time. My hunger for ‘real,’ unaltered bodies isn’t a condemnation of those who choose to alter theirs; it’s a plea for a culture where we don’t have to medically modify ourselves just to be deemed worthy of respect.

If we muzzle our ability to critique harmful trends in the name of politeness, we’re still sticking to the Good Girl script, even if we can’t see it. That’s not a legacy I’m interested in leaving.

Hi, I’m Skylar, midlife guide and pro-aging advocate.

For over a decade, I’ve been creating personalized experiences that help women get clear about who they are and how they want to live.

We’ve been sold a story that aging is something to fight or fear. I believe midlife is when women get honest about what we actually want.

You can find out more about my work here.

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At 2am, post-surgery and somewhere between drugged and awake, I was asking my nurse questions like a curious five year old. Did she have a dog. Was it a fluffy dog. Did she like yogurt. The kind of haphazard directness that surfaces when medication muffles the part of you that’s been trained to small-talk your way through life.

She brought me ginger ale, which led to me asking if she watched Heated Rivalry. (For anyone who doesn’t know, it’s a queer hockey romance series that’s become a somewhat unlikely lifeline for a lot of people I know, including me.) Her face lit up. Yes, she’d watched it. Then we were off, having a middle of the night conversation about consent, safety, and what it looks like to find healing and hope in the clutches of the current structures we’re living within.

She was probably twenty-five years younger than me and I’d never met her before that night. She was helping me to the bathroom and finding me earplugs because the hospital noise had me in sensory overwhelm. She was making sure I was hydrated, and I was checking that she was too. Even though I was the patient, I knew I was one of many on her shift. I wanted her to know I saw her.

Hospitals are intrusive. There’s no version of being post-surgical where you get to keep your armor on. Someone is going to help you pee. Someone is going to see your body in a state you wouldn’t normally show a stranger. The choice you have, the only choice really, is whether to meet that with more armor or to let it go.

I let it go. And what came back, in return, was one of the most honest encounters I’ve ever had.

There’s a distinct intimacy that gets created when two people meet each other in an unexpected moment and they end up talking about art as a form of survival. About what it means to be a human in this world, at this time. About what breaks us or mends us or asks us to forge forward. It’s not friendship, or therapy. It’s a moment of being stripped back and seen. And it’s life-giving.

The thing I keep coming back to from that night is how badly we underestimate the impact of this.

I work with women who feel unseen in their own lives. Women who are at the center of everyone else’s story and somehow missing from their own. Most of them aren’t looking for advice. They’re looking for someone who can see them in the version of themselves they’re becoming.

Ceremony is one way I create that on purpose. But these moments find us in other ways too. In random encounters where the armor we’ve collected over a lifetime gets set down long enough for the truth to come through.

There’s something to be said for permitting ourselves these moments of vulnerability and intimacy. For allowing ourselves to be witnessed where we are, and in the versions of ourselves we’re becoming.

You don’t have to wait for the hospital bed.

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I got out of the shower the other morning and caught sight of my heavy, sagging breasts in the mirror. Immediately I felt an old instinct arrive right on cue: Look away. Cover up.

But this time I didn’t.

Instead of turning away, I did this thing I’ve been doing lately. I looked. Stared, in fact. And I talked to myself like I was auditioning for a role in a film where the main character has lost the plot in the most wonderful possible way.

“Wow. Look at my breasts. They are SO beautiful.” A pause. “My goodness, my stomach is incredible.” Another pause, accompanied by a dramatic gesture towards my legs. “Oh HELLO. Would you look at how amazing you are?! I can’t even with you!”

It’s completely over the top. And that’s the point. The absurdity seems to be the thing that gets past my defenses, because somewhere in the ridiculousness of it, something registers. I am remarkable. My body is remarkable. And if I have to perform a one-woman show in my bathroom to get there, fine.

Let me back up a bit.

For the past couple of months, I’ve noticed some body-image issues resurfacing for me. Always in front of a mirror when getting dressed or undressed. I catch sight of the usual suspects, and I feel what I can only describe as disgust. Yes, disgust.

The first time it happened I was caught off-guard. Me, the woman who has been loudly and proudly talking about celebrating our aging bodies for years now. Celebrating MY aging body. With photos, no less, that I’ve intentionally shared on social media and my website. Not artsy, softly lit pics either. I’m talking no-filter, no-fucks to give images that do nothing to detract from my so-called flaws, but pointedly highlight them instead.

I do this because I’ve found that the surge of power I feel when I celebrate the parts of me that I’m supposed to shun could power a small village. Truly. There’s no lotion, potion, or serum that has ever made me feel more worthy than turning my cellulite-ridden, crepe-covered, scarred body toward a camera and allowing myself to be seen.

So, it was somewhat of a surprise to me to be back in a place I’ve worked so hard to get away from. Body-image issues? Again? I genuinely thought I was past that point.

And in many ways, I am. I don’t punish myself the way I used to by dominating my days with disordered eating and a constant critical monologue. I’ve done enough work on myself over the past few years to know that my 51 year old self is my 6 year old self, and I am not going to be mean to that sweet baby. Not ever.

But my reflection has been bringing up some “stuff” for me recently. Old stories I thought were long burned. It’s been less of a crisis and more of a wobble.

But me being me - and being a voice in the pro-aging, body-acceptance space - I wanted to examine my reaction honestly. To really delve into Why. And what came up was something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since.

I turned 16 in 1990.

I spent my late adolescence absorbing the aesthetics of a decade that gave us heroin chic and super waif as aspirational categories. I watched Victoria Beckham get weighed by Chris Evans on TFI Friday, two months after she’d given birth. I witnessed Kate Moss being widely celebrated for saying that “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”. I internalized BMI as a health metric and a moral measurement.

These weren’t fringe ideas. They were everywhere. And I embraced them completely, the way you do when you’re young and the popular culture is handing you a template and telling you this is what desirable looks like. This is what acceptance feels like.

But where did those standards actually come from? Who introduced them, who benefited from them, and who upheld them?

Because while women are collectively spending extraordinary amounts of energy criticizing our appearance, picking apart our reflections, and funding an industry built entirely on the premise that we are not enough as we are, the Epstein files have resulted in no meaningful repercussions for anyone.

Peter Attia’s weak apology and Deepak Chopra’s continued social media presence (with comments turned off if you don’t mind) are straight out of the patriarchy-playbook. Distance yourself from the actual fuckery, let the news cycle move on, let the outrage die down, then resume business as usual.

As I pull at the thread of who informed the beauty standards we remain steadfastly loyal to today, and when I sit with what we know about the men at the center of that world and what they actually wanted from women and girls, something in me goes very still and feels very sick.

I don’t need to connect specific dots to ask a bigger question: who was at the top of the fashion industry, the entertainment industry, the media industry during the decades that these standards took hold? And what do we now know, or are beginning to know, about the culture that existed in those rooms?

Because when I look at what the “ideal” female body actually looked like during the years I was forming my sense of what I was supposed to be, I notice something. It wasn’t womanly. It was pre-womanly. Slim to the point of erasure. Not much in the way of curves or softness. As close to a girl’s body as you could get while still technically being in the frame of womanhood. And the women who came closest to that ideal were the ones on magazine covers, billboard campaigns, and movie screens.

We were told this was just the aesthetic of the times. Every era has one, right? But I’m asking a different question now. Whether the men who had the power to decide what we saw and what we aspired to, what we spent our money and our mental energy trying to become, whether some of those men had reasons of their own for wanting women to look as young and as small as possible.

Could it be, that being slim-bodied, smooth-skinned, luscious locks up top but hair-free down below, are actually beauty ideals that were steeped in the preferences of predators? Men whose attraction to “underage women” (who are, in no uncertain terms, children) rippled outward into a culture that rewarded the erasure of female maturity.

Anti-aging culture is not an accident. And while we’re busy shaving, plucking, and smoothing ourselves into compliance, we’re inadvertently helping to shape a more sinister culture. One where young girls are sexualized and everyone looks the other way.

Every single insecurity we have about our appearance is by design. The beauty industry can’t make its billions if we’re all walking around feeling worthy and whole. And how many women do you personally know who feel a deep sense of contentment and confidence in who they are and how they look?

Not enough, I’d wager that much.

I’ve been in Zoom rooms where every single woman on the call had something negative to say about her body. I’ve looked around at the squares on my screen, at the sheer brilliance of these women, women who are intelligent, creative, innovative, and capable, and I have wanted to weep with the knowledge that this is what we revert to. Our hang ups. Our desire to hide away. Wanting to be different. Smaller. Less.

And I now know, with a clarity that didn’t exist for me at 16, 26, or 36, that we didn’t arrive at this naturally. We were taught it. How curious, not to mention convenient, that women were duped into seeing other women as a bigger threat than the men whose attention we vied for.

This is not separate from my work. This is exactly my work. If I’m going to help women feel a sense of peace, ease, and purpose in their bodies and their lives, I want to tell the truth and name the red flags about what we’ve been conditioned and socialized to aspire to. Because the conditioning doesn’t simply fall away as we get older. If anything, it intensifies.

Anti-aging is a booming business because, if we buy into it, our desire to look younger only increases as our proximity to youth decreases.

I want women to reclaim the attention they’ve been spending on themselves as objects and redirect it toward themselves as human beings. As whole, beautifully-designed, wonderfully unique, worthy-of-their-own-time humans who don’t have to accept the fetishization of girls as a cultural norm, much less a beauty blueprint.

My ridiculous bathroom performances are part of that, too. The over-the-top compliments, the dramatic gestures toward my low-hanging breasts and thick legs. It’s ludicrous. It’s also medicine. Because the voice that says look away is so old and so loud that sometimes the only way past it is to be louder.

I will be 52 this summer. I am further away from girlhood with every passing day. Why on earth would I want to chase a beauty ideal I’ll never hope to meet? Why would I willingly choose to be cruel to myself?

Again, my body is remarkable. I am remarkable. And I will say those words like a mantra, over and over again, until every ounce of shame that has ever clung to me has no choice but to disintegrate.

Every time I extend compassion to my midlife body, my inner teen and twenty-something experiences another wave of healing. And my future self is smiling at me, with her deep wrinkles and belly rolls, cheering me on all the way.

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When Kate Winslet described the current state of beauty culture as chaos, she wasn’t exaggerating. At 50, the Titanic star has watched an impossible bind tighten around women: we’re told to “age gracefully” (code for naturally), then criticized the moment we actually do.

Her recent comments in The Times were about naming the insanity of what’s happened as a result of that double standard.

Winslet talked about seeing young women who look like cartoons, their faces so altered from eyebrows to lips to lashes that you can’t tell what they actually look like. She mentioned the rise of weight-loss drugs, the normalization of cosmetic procedures, and the way people save up to inject things into their faces without understanding what they’re putting in.

But what struck me most was her remark that some of the most beautiful women she knows are over 70. And then, the real gut punch: “Young women have no concept of what being beautiful actually is.”

I’d call that a pretty accurate cultural diagnosis.

The impossible standard that created the chaos

What Winslet is describing is the result of a society increasingly obsessed with anti-aging. Show up at 50 with a face that’s actually 50? You look “tired” or you’re “letting yourself go.” Get work done to meet the youth standard? You’re vain, fake, or “trying too hard.”

The message is clear. Natural aging isn’t acceptable, but visible intervention isn’t either. The only acceptable option is expensive, medicalized youth maintenance that nobody can detect.

I see it in my work. Women describe feeling trapped between two bad options: age naturally and become invisible, or pursue procedures and risk being ridiculed. There’s no winning move. So the interventions escalate, aiming for a kind of youth that passes as natural but requires increasing amounts of money, time— not to mention risk— to maintain.

My philosophy has always been to challenge the culture rather than criticize the individual. Given the cultural pressure, it’s unsurprising that so many women succumb to tweakments or procedures of some kind. But the aggregate effect is a kind of uniformity that erases individuality in the name of meeting an impossible standard.

What the chaos costs

Winslet connected this directly to mental health, and she’s right to do so. The baseline for what faces should look like isn’t solely coming from Instagram or red carpets anymore. It’s your co-worker, your neighbor, your sister, or your gym friend. Your own face starts to somehow look wrong by comparison.

It’s not just about beauty standards being high. It’s about the complete erosion of any cultural permission to look like a human being who has actually lived. When everyone around you is altering their appearance, choosing not to becomes a radical act.

I’ve been called “brave” many times for showing photos of my sagging skin on social media. When did it become such a bold statement to be at ease in an aging body?

What gets lost in the chaos

The deeper cost isn’t just individual. It’s cultural. What happens when multiple generations grow up without ever seeing what women’s faces naturally look like as they age?

We lose the visual vocabulary for aging. We lose the ability to recognize character or experience in a face. We lose intergenerational connection because we’re all morphing into the same age bracket. A 50-year-old face that’s actually 50 becomes jarring, foreign, weird even.

I think about this in my own work with midlife women. They describe looking at their mothers’ generation and seeing a different landscape. Their mothers aged visibly. They wore their years. Whether they wanted to or not, they provided a template for what getting older looked like.

That template is disappearing. And in its absence, we have no shared understanding of what’s normal, what’s healthy, what’s even real. Just an escalating race toward a moving target of youth that benefits the beauty industry enormously and leaves women exhausted, confused, and increasingly disconnected from their own lives.

The few holding the line

Winslet isn’t alone in pushing back. She mentioned Helen Mirren, Toni Collette, Andrea Riseborough, and Sigourney Weaver as women who are trying to redress the balance and “keep being real.”

But what does “being real” actually mean in this context? For me, it’s not about judging women who make different choices - it’s about maintaining some visible connection to what aging looks like. It’s about not letting the enhanced version become the only version. It’s about providing a counterpoint to the chaos, a reminder that lived-in faces still exist.

Representation matters. When you’re visibly fifty in a room where everyone else is trying to pass for thirty-five, you’re doing cultural work whether you intended to or not. You’re maintaining the possibility that aging naturally is still an option, still acceptable, and still very much human.

If this resonated, there's more. I create personalized meditations and threshold ceremonies for women in midlife because I believe that when women reconnect with our power, the cultural noise about our bodies becomes irrelevant. Find out more at skylarlibertyrose.com.

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This month marks five years since I chose to stop drinking.

I didn’t make a big deal of it at the time. There wasn’t a fanfare or any kind of public declaration. Just a private commitment to see what life might look like on the other side of that nightly glass of wine.

When I first began exploring sobriety in midlife, I was feeling my way through unfamiliar territory. I didn’t know if I’d stick with it and I was more than a little afraid of what I’d discover. I certainly didn’t expect the ways this single choice would reshape my relationship with myself.

Now, at 51, with five years of clarity behind me, I can see gifts I never anticipated.

Liberation from Attachment

I spent years binge-drinking before I eventually dwindled down to a nightly glass of wine. Mostly because my body couldn’t process more than that. Since it was only one glass I’d tell myself that it wasn’t a big deal. But it was a big deal when I couldn’t have it.

I was carrying a low-level anxiety about alcohol all the time. Did we have wine at home? Would I need to stop on the way back from somewhere? If we were going to someone’s house, would they have wine available? And if they didn’t, how would I manage that feeling of being slightly on edge?

I was attached to that glass in a way that made me uncomfortable when I actually paid attention to it.

I’d always told myself that wine helped me relax. That it was my way of unwinding after a long day. But the perceived relaxation was brief, and the anxiety it created was constant. I was managing a habit, not genuinely giving my body a break.

It felt strange to open up that space at first. Dinner seemed incomplete. But to my surprise, and in less time than I’d anticipated, I was able to let go of the habit and enjoy nourishing my body with good food and not depleting it with a chemical cocktail.

I’m no longer spending mental energy making sure I have alcohol on hand. That freedom feels bigger than I expected.

Engaging Fully with Life

Although I wasn’t using alcohol to get drunk anymore, even that one glass blurred the edges slightly.

I wouldn’t read in the evenings when I was drinking because I couldn’t focus properly on a book. And I love reading. So I was choosing wine over something that genuinely brought me joy and engagement.

I was much more likely to put on a show and tune out than be present with anything creative or challenging.

What I’ve discovered in these five years is how much more fully I can engage with my life when nothing is dulling my senses. My thinking is sharper. My awareness extends further. I’m actually present for my evenings instead of just numbing my way through them.

Sleep Quality I’d Been Sabotaging

This was a big one. I’ve dealt with poor sleep patterns for years, and perimenopause made it worse. I kept convincing myself that wine would help me relax into sleep, even though I knew the science showed otherwise.

That’s the power of marketing and the romanticized myths we absorb. Even when we know better, we convince ourselves that what we want to do is without repercussion.

Alcohol might initiate sleep, but it disrupts sleep quality throughout the night as your body metabolizes it. You’re less likely to get the REM sleep you need and more likely to wake up still feeling fatigued.

I still have to be mindful about sleep hygiene as I move into menopause. Unfortunately I’m no stranger to 4am. But I’m not actively choosing to ingest something I know will make my sleep worse.

Confidence Without a Crutch

When I was drinking, alcohol went hand in hand with social situations. I’d even drink something I didn’t particularly like rather than have nothing at all if my options were limited. As an introvert, alcohol felt like a magical potion that could transform me into someone more outgoing.

I remember being at a retreat once where no alcohol was allowed. I felt on edge about it at first, but I soon forgot I wasn’t drinking because I was so engrossed in connecting with people on a deeper level. It opened up an opportunity to go beyond the superficial that I might not have experienced otherwise.

I’ve had to navigate many social situations since becoming alcohol-free. My confidence has genuinely improved now that alcohol is no longer a prop. I’m not hiding behind anything and I’ve come to accept and celebrate my often-sensitive self rather than feel I have to rely on booze to slip into character. I don’t need to be the biggest personality in the room because I’m not that person. I get to consistently be who I truly am and it’s such a joy to feel at ease with that fact.

Laying the Foundations for Elderhood

These middle years feel crucial for laying foundations for the next chapters of life and, hopefully, eventually becoming an elder.

I no longer have the nagging feeling that I’m sabotaging my long-term health. When I go to the doctor, it feels good to check the “Not Applicable” box next to questions about alcohol consumption.

I make better food choices too. When I was drinking, I’d crave sugar. I’d always have chocolate with wine which meant I was getting sugar in the alcohol itself, plus more sugar on top of that, and then wondering why I couldn’t sleep.

Without alcohol, I usually opt for foods that aren’t going to put my system under more stress. Do I always make the healthy choice? No, because I’m human and after years of disordered eating I no longer punish myself by equating food with morality. But mostly I do opt for foods that support me, and that’s easier when my judgment isn’t impaired and I don’t have additional sugar circulating in my system triggering cravings.

Sobriety as Legacy

I believe in legacy as a living practice - the small, daily choices we make create the pattern of our lives.

Choosing sobriety is one thread in that pattern. The quality of presence I bring to my days. The authenticity I offer in my relationships. The clarity I have when making decisions about my work, my time, my energy. These things matter to me and I hope they have an impact on the people I connect and interact with. These are gifts that keep revealing themselves, five years in.

If You’re Curious…

Maybe you’re reading this and feeling a spark of yearning about what your life might look like if you changed your relationship with alcohol.

I’m not here to tell you what to do, but I’d definitely encourage you to get curious about the conversation your body might be trying to have with you now.

Five years ago, I couldn’t imagine what this choice would open up for me. I was simply willing to explore what might be on the other side of my attachment. That willingness changed everything.

(If personalized support would help you establish new patterns around alcohol or any other midlife transition, learn more about Elevations here.)

If you’ve explored sobriety - even briefly - what gifts did you find along the way?

A recent article in The Cut shares something unsettling happening in affluent circles: women in their 40s are getting $45,000 to $300,000 facelifts designed to be so subtle that friends can only sense something has changed, not identify what. The goal, as one surgeon puts it, is to look "genetically dominant to other people."

I’m sorry, what?

The article describes how elite facelifts have spread "like a contagion" through social networks. Anne Kavanagh gets her procedure after seeing her friend's natural-looking results. Sandy Leong attends a wedding, sees Kris Jenner's work in person, and starts planning her own surgery.

But these women aren't just changing their faces. They're changing the visual landscape everyone else has to navigate.

The trend toward undetectable cosmetic procedures represents a depressing evolution in how we're marketed to as midlife women. The industry has recognized that we've grown sophisticated enough to reject the hair-pulled-back-too-tight look of previous decades. So now they're offering us something that sounds better: procedures so subtle that people will just think we look "rested" or "refreshed."

What's definitely detectable is this: we're still being told our faces need fixing.

I have to say, the messaging is brilliant in its manipulation. It acknowledges our desire to look natural while still convincing us that our natural faces aren't acceptable as they are.

FACELIFT FUNDS ARE A THING

The "undetectable" facelift promises to give us back our younger faces without anyone knowing we've had work done. But in reality, we're being sold the idea that the best possible outcome is to look like we haven't aged, while pretending we haven't done anything to achieve this impossible standard.

I got chills (not the good kind) when I read that women are refinancing mortgages and opening high-interest credit cards to fund these procedures. Online forums even offer tips for building "facelift funds" in high-yield savings accounts. The message seems to be that if you can't afford to stop visibly aging, you can't afford to be seen.

What if instead of pursuing cosmetic work that passes the society scrutiny check, we pursued the revolutionary idea of accepting our own aging faces?

What if we stopped viewing the lines around our eyes as problems to solve and started seeing them as evidence of laughter, concentration, or decades of animated expression?

Personally, I'd prefer to acknowledge and appreciate what my body has done for me, rather than cataloging what I need to (subtly, of course!) refresh.

LOOK LIKE YOURSELF, ONLY “BETTER”

This trend is particularly calculated because it preys on our desire to age "naturally" while still maintaining that natural aging is unacceptable. These procedures cost more than most people's annual salaries, require significant recovery time, and carry real risks. But they're marketed as self-care-style investments in looking "like yourself, only better."

The fact is, I already look like myself. As do you. And "better" is nothing but a moving target designed to keep us all spending. I'm over being over it.

I feel as though I always have to add the caveat that I'm not here to shame anyone who chooses cosmetic procedures. Our faces are our own, and our choices about them are personal. As I often say, I'm here to challenge the culture, not criticize the individual.

But I’m also here to question why we're being sold increasingly elaborate ways to hide the fact that we're alive and have been for five, six, seven or more decades. Is it really so terrible for our faces to tell the truth about our lives? For allowing people to see that we've experienced summers in the sun, times of worry, moments of pure joy, and the simple but oh-so-privileged act of literally staying alive?

When we choose to age without interventions, we're making a statement: that women over 40, 50, 60 and beyond don't need to pretend to be younger to be valuable or beautiful.

SAGGIER AND SEXIER

One of my favorite comments on a recent post I shared about What I Stopped Buying When I Stopped Buying Into Anti-Aging was this: "Never felt sexier, never been saggier! At 55 I am free to just be, pleased for good health, strength and wiser thoughts."

As soon as I read that, I immediately thought "These are the kind of women I want in my circle." And I really do. I want to be surrounded by aging crones who care more about how they live than what they look like. I want the kind of vibrant energy that can only appear once we've escaped from under the rubble of Never Good Enough.

Something specific I’ve noticed over the last few years is how differently I feel when I’m in company with women who aren’t tearing themselves to pieces. My instant feeling is one of relief. We simply get to be together and focus on things that aren’t tied to the pursuit of youth.

I haven’t got the time or energy to spend hours, or even minutes, running through a list of the latest “miracle” creams or “age-defying” treatments. I simply don’t care. Not anymore. Not because I’ve let myself go. But because I’ve let go of the world’s judgments on what constitutes a worthy woman.

Last year in LA, I snapped the photo that's with this post - sitting in a garden with the sun on my face, a sweet pup beside me, having just enjoyed a delicious lunch. I felt completely nourished and content. And yes, my skin is slack and my neck is sagging, but none of that mattered. I felt enough.

MY FACE, MY STORY

I've survived a string of difficult things in my life. There were a couple of decades of partying far too hard and being intimately acquainted with cheap Pinot Grigio, Marlboro Reds, and London bad-boys. (Thank you, Universe, for no social media existence to document any of that.)

Then there was a failed marriage, a long dance with bulimia, a severe and serious attack of pancreatitis, and some fun times with my friends Anxiety and Depression.

More recently, I had a brain tumor that rocked my world and left me with lingering side effects.

But you know what? I made it. I'm still here. Still living. With my 51-year-old face and body showcasing all of that and more. I have scars and stories that will never be concealed because by doing so I would erase the chapters of my life that shaped me into the woman I am today. And I happen to really like her.

The beauty industry will keep evolving its messaging. They'll find new ways to sell us the same fundamental lie: that aging is optional, and if we're smart enough, rich enough, or subtle enough, we can opt out.

Not falling for it.

Your face doesn't need to be genetically dominant. It just needs to be genuinely yours.

If this resonated, there’s more. I create personalized meditations and threshold ceremonies for women in midlife because I believe that when women reconnect with our power, the cultural noise about our bodies becomes irrelevant. Find out more at skylarlibertyrose.com.

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There's a particular kind of grief that comes with losing a friendship not to betrayal or conflict, but to growth. It's the realization that the person you're becoming doesn't fit the space your relationship once occupied. The conversations that used to feel nourishing now leave you drained or uninspired.

If you're navigating this tender territory, you're not alone. Contrary to the inspirational memes, not every relationship is meant to survive every season of your life.

We often maintain friendships based on shared history rather than current compatibility. This becomes particularly pronounced in midlife when our capacity for authentic relationships increases while our tolerance for inauthentic ones plummets.

When Growth Becomes Threatening

Some of our friendships were built on specific versions of who we used to be. For example, the friend who benefitted from your people-pleasing tendencies might resist your newfound boundary-setting. The person who felt safe with your self-doubt might feel unsettled by your growing confidence.

Research by Dr. Kristin Neff shows that self-compassion is consistently linked with healthier ways of relating to ourselves and to others. That shift in how we treat and understand ourselves can mean we become less available for relationships rooted in mutual criticism, comparison, or commiseration. This can sometimes feel threatening to friends whose connection with you was forged around those foundations. Sometimes your growth becomes a mirror they don't want to face. [1]

I once worked alongside someone who treated every shift as an opportunity to catalog workplace grievances. Initially, we'd bonded over our shared frustrations, but over time I began to dread her arrival in the office. I might start the day feeling optimistic, but within minutes of her sitting down across from me, I’d notice my mood plummet.

It felt awkward. We'd become friends as well as colleagues, but I found myself wanting to spend less time with her. Despite repeated attempts to redirect our conversations toward solutions or different topics entirely, she seemed determined to remain in complaint mode, regardless of whether anything productive might emerge from the discussion.

When I eventually moved to another company, we initially maintained contact. But as her complaint patterns bled into every area of our friendship (her relationships, her living situation, her family), spending time together became exhausting rather than enjoyable. The friendship naturally faded.

Even healthy relationships have their difficult periods, but for the most part they should leave us feeling witnessed and supported rather than drained. When interactions consistently deplete rather than sustain you, your body is providing valuable feedback that deserves attention, regardless of history or obligation.

The Grief of Letting Go

Letting go of a friendship that no longer fits requires its own form of grieving. Unlike romantic relationships, friendships rarely have clear closure rituals or social recognition of their significance when they end or drift.

The experience of a friendship fading (when there’s no clear break or ceremony) is often described using the concept of "ambiguous loss." That term was coined and developed by Pauline Boss to describe grief that lacks clear resolution, and clinicians and researchers (including Dr. Miriam Kirmayer, who writes and speaks about friendship loss) commonly use the idea to explain the slow, unresolved sorrow that comes when a relationship gradually drifts. [2][3]

It's also true that it's not just the relationship itself that we mourn, but sometimes the version of ourselves that existed within it. This grief is valid. Honor it without using it as evidence that you should return to relationships that no longer support your growth.

Creating Space for What's Coming

As you release friendships that can't accommodate your evolution, you create space for relationships that celebrate who you're becoming. This might feel lonely to begin with, but this necessary clearing allows authentic connections to take root.

I’ve come to trust what my body tells me about relationships. I’ve given up feeling guilt about expectations of loyalty, and acknowledged instead that genuine alignment and reciprocity is something I want to prioritize. From this space, I’ve made some incredible new friendships in midlife. It’s been a surprise and a delight.

The friendships that do evolve alongside you will feel different because they're based on who you are now, rather than who you used to be. These friends might not understand every choice you make, but they won't push you to resist changes that are instrumental on your own journey of self-discovery.

Some relationships will naturally fade as paths diverge, and this can happen with mutual respect. Others will require more decisive boundaries when there's active resistance to your growth. Neither outcome reflects a failure to successfully maintain relationships. Both reflect commitment to living authentically, which ultimately benefits everyone involved.

Moving Forward Practically

Consider these concrete steps to help you determine where your friendships are at:

Notice your body's response during and after interactions. Energy that feels heavy or depleted is valuable information, even when your mind tries to rationalize staying connected.

Practice gradual distance rather than dramatic confrontations. We don’t always have to cut the cord completely or have a showdown. Natural spacing can often keep a friendship in tact while still honoring our needs.

Create space intentionally for relationships that energize you. This might mean saying no to some social commitments to make room for connections that actually nourish you.

Remember, you are allowed to change and grow at any age, but especially in midlife and beyond where we may not have as many years ahead as we do behind. Being intentional with our time and energy matters, as does keeping company with those who uplift and nourish us and allow for our continued growth.

1. Kristin Neff — Self-Compassion

2. Pauline Boss — Ambiguous Loss

3. Dr. Miriam Kirmayer — Press / Friendship research overview

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I made a conscious decision at the beginning of 2025 not to use social media to simply regurgitate the news. I’ve been guilty of doing that in the past. Sharing headlines and outrage to my stories. Demanding action and collective attention for a particular cause. I’ve wanted to show that I’m someone who cares about harm and injustice.

But over the past few years, the social media landscape has changed considerably. There was a time where we had a window of opportunity to engage with others and perhaps offer them an alternative angle that might make them reevaluate their beliefs, and vice versa. It felt as though true communication and connection were possible.

Since then, I’ve seen little evidence to support that the vast majority are open to considering different points of view. Comments sections regularly turn into a cesspit of insults and abuse.

This isn’t a clear-cut left/right divide - at least not anymore. People who might usually agree on 8 out of 10 topics are now canceling one another because they’re not 100% in agreement on the entire list.

Witnessing it all can be exhausting. It’s tempting to look away, to scroll a little less, to numb ourselves with distraction. But the truth remains that the world is burning, and turning away doesn’t make it go away.

I’ve been called out this year for not “posting about things that matter.” The implication being that I no longer care about important issues. The irony is that I’ve arguably been doing more offline than ever before. Or, perhaps more accurately, off of Instagram.

Here’s the part where I don’t particularly want to produce receipts for all my “good citizen contributions”. Mostly because it makes me feel nauseous. And honestly, it’s what I intentionally wanted to get away from - the idea that unless we’re showing full transparency to the masses at all times, we’re disgusting humans who lack empathy.

It’s simply not true, nor is it sustainable. In what world does it make sense to constantly post evidence of our efforts? Awareness is amazing, yes. But it feels as though we’ve gone beyond that. We’re demanding that people lay themselves bare to mass scrutiny so we can deem them either caring (enough for now) or callous.

I’ve stopped wanting to participate in the theatrics of it all. Especially because I noticed that I was judging others who I felt were being too quiet or not appropriately concerned. That’s a pretty dicey road to go down.

From Posting to Presence

What caused me to reconsider how I used social media was my impact, or lack thereof. When it comes to pro-aging and midlife content, it’s very easy for me to trace my influence. I’ve had tons of messages over the years from women who share with me that they feel or act differently after reading my posts or practicing my meditations. I can point to tangible change.

However, when I share about political issues or global tragedy, it’s a wildly different story. I either get silence, a handful of replies in agreement, or—overwhelmingly—abuse and unfollows.

Vanity metrics aren’t my thing. I care more about going deeper with the community I have, not scrambling to go wider simply so I can make up the numbers. People unfollowing me doesn’t bruise my ego, but it does make me question the point of screaming into the void.

I’ve been involved in activism since I was 11 years old. I held my first activist meeting in my bedroom. It was for Choose Cruelty-Free, a campaign for make-up and beauty products that weren’t tested on animals. Two people came to the meeting - my mum and my sister. Introvert me panicked and didn’t know what to say. Instead, I had them sign my petition and the meeting wrapped up pretty quickly.

My comfort zone has always been writing, not speaking. But after deciding to write less about pressing political issues on social media, I realized I had to find my voice offline. Because contrary to what the Instagram critics DMs said, I did still care. Deeply.

And so it is that I’ve had a number of conversations this year with people who have different beliefs than me, or different opinions on current world events. Believe me when I tell you these conversations have been hard! Much more challenging than a few words exchanged in an online comment section. I haven't always been articulate. I've floundered and felt flustered often. As though I’m 11 years old again, not knowing how to present my animal-friendly argument to my family.

Still, I’m committed to doing this, because it feels real and important and not a performative post I can pat myself on the back for while knowing deep inside that I probably haven’t created any real change. I don’t post about these interactions online. I conserve my energy for doing, not for telling.

I've lost friends through some of these conversations. Clients and income too. It's the opposite of easy. And I still think it's worth it.

Neighboring Differently

A little over 18 months ago, my husband and I left our vibrant and diverse neighborhood of Jackson Heights in New York City to move to the woods in Upstate New York. Perimenopause had exacerbated feelings of anxiety in me, and I was desperate to be out of the city and immersed in nature.

But I was also concerned about our new environment. Being in an inter-racial relationship means I’m always conscious of safety. Together as a couple, and for my husband as a Black man in a predominantly white neighborhood. When we’d scouted the area, we’d seen a few signs and flags that opposed our political beliefs and I’d made a mental note to actively avoid those neighbors. My philosophy has always been not to cultivate community with those who seek to strip other people of their humanity.

It’s somewhat of a surprise to me that I now know those neighbors’ names. We even have a few of their phone numbers. While we may not be breaking bread with them in the literal sense, we’ve had a number of conversations with them and will continue to do so. Not because we’re glossing over anything, but because from this starting point, chances open up - and chances can change everything.

I’m less interested in setting out to pressure people to agree with my point of view, and more invested in showing others that humanity exists everywhere. This, too, is resistance. It’s less showy and shouty, more subtle and quiet. It’s a refusal to reduce others to a label or a headline.

Did I mention that it’s hard?

I frequently want to judge and point fingers. And sometimes, with our front door closed firmly behind us, I do. But when my default setting of wanting to separate myself from those who don’t meet all my meticulous requirements threatens to kick in, I come back to one thing: the circle of one.

About The Circle of One

I used to only engage with people who thought like me, creating a small but solid circle of perceived safety. The circle was comforting and it fit my world view neatly and nicely. But the more conditions you impose on who gets to access the circle, the smaller it becomes, until eventually you’re alone.

Refusing to make allowances for anything less than perfect alignment can isolate you completely. That doesn’t mean compromising on non-negotiables, but it does mean seeking that starting point. It means being open to possibility, being willing to listen and to see, even in disagreement, the sparks of shared humanity.

I never imagined I’d be this person. At my core I’m Do no harm but take no shit. I’m not especially in favor of Let’s all just get along type vibes when it costs people their safety or sanity. I’m spiritual and sensitive, but I’m not afraid of confrontation.

But that circle of one simply isn’t a solution. And experience has taught me that the further we retreat into our righteousness, the more our collective connection breaks down. Many of us claim to believe in the importance of intersectionality, but when someone else’s beliefs and lived experience intersect in a way that doesn’t perfectly slot with our own, we cast them out.

Regrettably, I’ve been on both ends of this casting out. None of it leads anywhere valuable.

The Work That Doesn't Make Headlines

If we look closely, we’ll find people who care deeply, steadily finding ways to organize and build community. I’ve been active in my local community in ways that feel tangible and grounded. From becoming an ambassador at our local library, to giving regularly to the village resource center, to creating a salon-style group for women to come together to share poetry, art, and ideas that challenge how we see the world, I’m committed to real, deliberate acts of care, rooted in the world around me.

It’s also true that despair can dominate our attention if we let it. Doom and despondency are everywhere. A few minutes of scrolling can leave you wondering if anything we do will ever make a difference. But hope, beauty, resilience, and resistance are also present. They’re real. They’re here. They exist in moments like a neighbor helping to shovel your iced-over driveway, conversations in the library about fascism and freedom of speech, a family in need receiving basic toiletries or household supplies. These moments may seem small, but they ripple outward in ways that are impossible to fully measure.

I’m not ignoring the harm in the world. I’m simply trying to be present with it while shaping another reality. I’m finding ways to hold truth and hope at the same time. To witness what’s burning without being consumed by the fire. To act with intention and without despair. To stay connected and keep showing up, even when it’s hard and humbling. And as I recently heard someone say: “If you're sad and exhausted all the time, you're useless in a fight.”

I think there’s space for all of it. Online and offline, outrage and outreach. It just depends where we are on our own journey and what our capacity looks like on the day.

The world is heavy. But the world is also full of possibility. And possibility often lives in the places we overlook, in the moments we don’t document, in the hands and hearts that carry on.

When I tune out of all the relentless noise, I sense that something worth building is quietly, persistently happening all around us. I want to believe in that goodness, and I’ll continue to contribute to it.

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The last expensive serum I bought promised to "visibly reduce fine lines in just 14 days." I used it religiously for three months. The only visible change was my bank balance.

That was years ago, when I was barely in my 30s. But I'd already been seduced by the anti-aging industry's promises. It took me a few more years to begin paying attention to the ways women are conditioned to criticize ourselves. Longer still before I started looking closely at the words and phrases beauty brands use.

Our list of "must-have" products includes retinol serums, collagen supplements, eye masks, face masks, vitamin C treatments, peptide creams, neck-firming lotions, under-eye patches, facial oils promising to "restore youthful radiance," and devices that vibrate or emit red light and claim to lift what gravity has decided to clutch at. It's not hard to spend more on these treatments than most people spend on groceries.

In my teens and twenties, I lived in a constant state of mild to major dissatisfaction with my appearance, always working toward some future version of myself that would finally be acceptable. As the years went by, I gained more life experience. Travel opened up a whole new world for me. Reading too. Loss and grief impacted me, creativity and adventure shaped me. The more I truly lived and explored, the less intense my self-loathing.

It’s hard to lose loved ones too soon and still begrudge your visibly aging body. It’s hard to witness how harrowing some people’s lives are and still insist on picking yourself to pieces.

On principle, I haven't purchased anti-aging products for years now, but the messaging is as relentless as ever. Despite aligning with the values of very few brands, I'm regularly contacted by companies who praise my pro-aging stance and then proceed to offer to send me products that they believe align with my message and mission. When I visit their website to check their language, they're almost always still pushing anti-aging rhetoric even without explicitly using that phrase.

I used to think that if they weren't specifying the words "anti-aging" then that was good enough. But that was my viewpoint five years ago. I’ve changed since then - in many ways. However, the beauty industry seems to be stuck in a timewarp. They care about their billions, not our self-esteem.

These days I expect more. I don't want to "soften wrinkles" or "noticeably firm" my neck. And I'm tired of the assumption that this is a given for an aging woman. That of course we want to erase or minimize signs of aging. We’re encouraged to adopt an anything-is-still-possible mindset, but we’re not permitted to actually look old when we're saying these things.

The Truth We're Avoiding

We are all going to age, and we are all going to die.

I don't want to sugarcoat that truth. I want to be as blunt about it as I can because that way the message might actually register.

I might have another 50 summers left in my life. I might have five. Or, it's possible that this might be the very last one. My final chance to enjoy perfectly ripe peaches or smell the salt water as I walk along the river. To feel sand between my toes or watch fireflies blink in the dusk. To have long conversations on my favorite trail and watch summer sunsets make magic in the sky.

What a shame, what a tragedy it would be to waste that precious time by worrying about my face and body visibly aging.

What I Stopped Buying Into

The overpriced serum was just the beginning of what I walked away from. I also stopped buying into the idea that my face was a project requiring constant improvement. I abandoned the belief that looking my age (or older) was something to apologize for.

I stopped purchasing clothes designed to hide rather than celebrate my body. No more shapewear that promised to "smooth and sculpt." No more tops with strategic draping to camouflage areas I'd been taught to see as flaws.

I gave up working out and restricting food as a way to stay slim and instead focused on strengthening and fueling my body.

Most importantly, I stopped buying the anxiety that comes from being at war with your own body. The mental energy I spent worrying about my perceived imperfections could have powered a small city.

We say it's all about choice, but really it's about coercion. It's about an entire industry that is set up to find flaws that we didn't even know existed and then constantly convince us we need to part with our time and money in order to fix these flaws. Which we never fully can - but that's really the best part for them. Because in the pointless pursuit of the illusion of youth, we will keep spending. The metaphorical dangling carrot we can never quite catch.

At 51, I'm much more interested in exploring and re-examining my world view than figuring out how to please the world. I want experiences that feel meaningful rather than painstakingly presenting myself for praise or validation. Time with people who see me as more than the sum of my physical parts.

When I do buy beauty products now, it's from a different place entirely. I use moisturizer because my skin feels dry, not because I'm trying to erase decades of living. I refuse to purchase anything from a place of shame.

The money I save is nice, but it's the smallest benefit. The mental space I reclaimed is vast. While I may still be caught off guard by my ever-aging reflection, I no longer catalogue flaws or compare myself to others.

My face tells the story of my life. My body is the map of me. I am evidence of a life fully lived.

The anti-aging industry wants women to believe that looking our age is a failure. I've stopped buying that story, and I'm happy to say it's been one of my better investments.

If this resonated, there's more. I create personalized meditations and threshold ceremonies for women in midlife because I believe that when women reconnect with our power, the cultural noise about our bodies becomes irrelevant. Find out more at skylarlibertyrose.com.

Life can turn inside out in an instant. One minute I was at a podcast taping in Manhattan, the next I was rushing from New York to London to be with Leon's father after he received a terminal cancer diagnosis.

When our circumstances change suddenly, the ground beneath our feet shifts. Everything feels uncertain and unsteady.

The morning after receiving the call from Leon’s dad, sharing that he may only have days to live, we found ourselves at JFK by 5am, exhausted and emotional. Everything felt urgent, chaotic. Previously scheduled plans were canceled, and the days ahead were entirely unknown.

Yet within this disruption, I noticed something interesting: how naturally we humans create patterns and practices that help us be with uncertainty. Not because we consciously set out to create structure, but because rhythm and ritual are what we instinctively seek when everything else feels unpredictable.

You never really know how you’ll handle situations like this until you’re in them. But I do believe our bodies carry an inherent wisdom that guides us toward what we need—often before our minds can make sense of it.

As we grappled with Pop’s diagnosis, Leon and I tried to settle into a temporary new normal in London. Although each day was uncertain—from timelines to return flights—we found a few daily rituals that naturally worked their way into our lives.

Simplicity as Sanctuary

Movement was essential. Neither of us can comfortably sit for hours these days, and we love our daily walks, so continuing them became a priority. Some days it was a couple of miles, often times much further. We were simply doing what felt good, not measuring or punishing ourselves.

Moving our bodies offered both physical relief from hospital chairs and much needed mental space to process everything unfolding around us.

Perhaps the most noticeable shift was our return to simplicity. We ate breakfast in Pop’s kitchen every day since we were staying at his flat. Carefully measured protein shakes were out; the Fruit and Fibre cereal in Pop’s cupboard was in.

Where possible, slow mornings became a kind of sanctuary. Sometimes we had to attend the hospital early to meet with doctors or the palliative care team, but wherever we could, we left our mornings unscheduled.

Sometimes there were tears over breakfast. Sometimes silence. Sometimes unexpected laughter. What mattered wasn't the nutritional profile of the meal, but that we fueled ourselves. In all the ways. Together.

Protecting Our Reserves

One of the most important patterns that emerged was our clear communication of boundaries. There was much we didn’t know, but we knew we needed to protect our reserves.

We were honest with family and friends about what we could manage. We communicated openly about our limits. Nobody had the chance to pile more on us, because we set this tone early on and stuck to it.

Our evenings took on their own quiet rhythm. With hospital visits typically lasting until 8:30pm—we were often the last to leave, stretching past the official end of visiting hours—we had no capacity for social plans (not much change there!). Apart from one meaningful dinner with a friend, our evenings became a retreat into stillness.

The Coexistence of Everything

What struck me most during these weeks was the remarkable coexistence of seemingly contradictory experiences. Woven through the sadness were moments of laughter, the joyful gift of unexpected time with Pop, reconnections with friends, and during breaks from the hospital, revisiting our old stomping grounds.

It still amazes me how grief and gratitude can sit side by side, neither cancelling the other.

This simultaneous holding of opposites is something I’ve noticed repeatedly in midlife. The ability to contain both deep sorrow and genuine joy, anxiety and peace, uncertainty and clarity—all within the same day, sometimes within the same hour.

This isn’t emotional instability. It’s the fluidity of emotional capacity. It’s what happens when we allow ourselves to experience life in its full complexity, rather than trying to categorize each moment as either good or bad.

The Relief of Abandoning Perfection

One unexpected gift from this difficult time was the immediate release from the myth of perfection. All the small ways we try to perfect our days fell away instantly.

Our mealtime schedules were off. We had no yoga mats to stretch on. There was no audio recording or writing for me, no job searching for Leon. Instead, there was presence. Paying attention to what was actually needed in each moment. Eating when hungry. Walking when restless. Resting when tired. Speaking when necessary. Being silent when words failed.

This isn’t to romanticize crisis. The circumstances were painful and remain so. And more than once, I fixated on truly inconsequential things. But there was also a clarity about what actually matters when our world shrinks to the size of a single moment.

Pop was discharged from the hospital last week as per his wishes. Having already extended our stay, we have since returned home, knowing he is being lovingly looked after by other family members and carers. Still, it wasn’t easy to leave.

Settling back into life in our woodland home hasn’t been easy either. Jet lag and anticipatory grief blend with responsibility and commitments that are part and parcel of any life. Everything feels slightly surreal. Especially as we know we’ll need to return to London soon.

If you’re in a season of disruption too, know that I see you and you have my empathy. I hope you can find and trust your own quiet rhythms.

What I’ve discovered is that our bodies and spirits naturally know how to create sustaining patterns, even when everything else feels unpredictable.

The Wisdom Already Within

This experience reminded me how much wisdom already lives within us. Sometimes we just need to pay attention to what we’re already instinctively drawn to: Food as fuel. Movement as medicine. Boundaries as self-care. Quietness as restoration.

These simple patterns don’t emerge because we plan for them. They appear because this is how humans have always navigated life and change. They are how we create islands of stability in seas of uncertainty. How we make meaning. How we honor what matters.

Life continues to unfold in unexpected ways. In the unpredictability, I find more than a crumb of comfort in knowing I can act as my own anchor, receive and give support, and return to the inner knowing of what grounds me, over and over again.

I’ve had the loveliest messages from many of you — thank you for thinking of us during this time. I’ve replied to Substack comments here (which my brain finds much easier to track), but email replies have been a bit more hit-and-miss. If I’ve missed you, please know it’s not intentional. I’m truly grateful for every kind word and thought sent our way. Skylar xo

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If I were to name a toxic trait of mine—or perhaps, since I speak kindly to myself these days, we’ll call it an unhealthy habit—it would be working on the weekends.

On any given Saturday or Sunday, you might find me doing “this one quick thing,” ostensibly so I can “get ahead” for the coming week. Scheduling a newsletter. Updating a web page. Crafting content for social media. The constant hum of productivity rarely quiets, even when it should.

Last Saturday, I managed to break the pattern. I was determined not to work. No laptop open. No planning for Monday. Instead, I settled in to watch A Family Affair, starring Nicole Kidman, Joey King, and Zac Efron. Given the state of… gestures wildly at everything in the world… I craved something lighthearted and enjoyable.

I’ll confess, the first twenty minutes nearly lost me. But something made me stay, and gradually I found myself relaxing into the story as I allowed myself the simple pleasure of being present with a film. Nothing to accomplish.

I’ve always enjoyed Joey King’s work, and Nicole Kidman has been a favorite since I first saw her in Days of Thunder decades ago. Her talent is undeniable. Her presence, magnetic.

Yet as I watched, something kept pulling me out of the story.

I’d recently seen Nicole in The Perfect Couple, so I was already aware of how incredibly smooth her skin is these days, and I think it’s fair to assume she’s had work done. But there’s something about her appearance now that creates a strange disconnect. The dissonance between her age and what we’re allowed to see of it.

Then came a scene where Nicole sits beside Kathy Bates. In that moment, the contrast between them crystallized something I’ve been feeling for years. Watching Kathy, I was captivated, completely drawn in by every expression, every nuance crossing her face. Her presence felt whole, integrated, and truthful.

Watching Nicole, I felt distracted, despite her tremendous talent. There was a barrier. It felt as though she was delivering her performance through a mask.

I felt a sudden, visceral ache for all the faces we’ll never see age naturally. All the stories etched in laugh lines and forehead creases that have been denied, erased, chemically-peeled away. All in the relentless pursuit of youth that isn’t youth at all, just its simulation.

This isn’t about Nicole Kidman specifically, or any individual who chooses cosmetic procedures. We all navigate this culture with the tools available to us, making choices within systems that often leave no good options. The pressure on women in the public eye is particularly crushing. I understand the impossible bind.

But oh, how I miss seeing faces age. I miss watching the beautiful, painstaking process of creating a map of our lives on our skin. A testament to the decades we have witnessed and the ways that we have engaged with the world. These aren’t flaws to fix, they’re stories. Archives. Wisdom made visible.

This hunger for authentic representation becomes more urgent with each passing year. I find myself seeking out the faces of women who have chosen to age naturally, drawn to them like water in the depths of a desert. When I find them - whether in film, literature, or real life - I drink them in, grateful for their courage, their example, their reality.

I’ve long maintained that when it comes to aging, I want to challenge the culture, not criticize the individual. But sometimes I wonder: where are “my” women?

As I sit here, with cellulite creeping on my thighs like ivy, stretch marks tracing journeys across my belly, the slackness and softness that comes with time and gravity’s ever persistent pull, all I do is dream of gathering with my women.

I imagine us on a mountaintop. A mass of women who have chosen to age without intervention coming together in circle, in song, in ceremony, to witness each other’s beauty. Where we look around and truly see one another. Embrace the fullness of our lived experience. Validate the choice to remain visible in a culture that would prefer we disappear.

In the months before my 51st birthday, this is more than a fleeting thought. It’s a plea in my heart and an ache in my bones. I long for it with a yearning that surprises me with its intensity. The hunger to be together. To see and be seen, completely. To honor the faces that tell the truth of our lives.

And honestly, all I see is us hiding. Ashamed of how flawed we are. Believing we’ve failed and that our bodies have betrayed us because they’re no longer a shrine to being twenty-five.

My God, haven’t we earned these lines and landmarks that are the maps of our lives? Haven’t we sweated and toiled and labored and given ourselves away to still be here? Haven’t we died a hundred deaths and survived a thousand heartbreaks to have earned the right to be utterly proud as we point to all our markings of survival and scream from the top of the mountain how damn proud we are of ourselves for all the ways in which we didn’t simply give up and fade into the background?

We’ve weathered storms that could have destroyed us. We’ve built lives, nurtured others, and fought battles. We’ve stayed the course, and some.

But here we are, smoothing away our stories. Stifling our beautiful, exquisite, agonizing lived experiences. And it’s killing me that millions of intelligent, articulate, passionate, capable, credible women have been convinced that our sum worth is a resounding zero simply because we’ve dared to age.

I refuse to believe that our cultural narrative of invisibility after forty is inevitable. I refuse to accept that our only value lies in the simulation of youth. I fucking refuse to disappear.

My resistance begins with my own face. With choosing to see it clearly. With carrying it proudly through the world. With saying, unequivocally, that these markers of time are not my shame but my glory.

So here I am, on top of an imaginary mountain, hoping that the wind carries these words to the women who are meant to find them. Hoping that we grow in numbers, in strength, in solidarity.

Hoping that you’ll join me.

Will you join me?

That mountaintop gathering I imagine? It exists, though we meet on Zoom rather than an actual peak. Women at the Well is a monthly space where women aging on their own terms come together to share poetry, art, ideas, and presence. I’d love to have you join us.

For weekly reflections on aging, midlife, and refusing to disappear, subscribe to The Sunday Six.

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Last week, I posted a reel to Instagram that garnered quite a response. In it, I confessed something that apparently borders on sacrilege: I don't wear sunscreen daily. The comments section duly exploded with everything from enthusiastic agreement to genuine concern to outright judgment.

In the reel, I shared that I only apply sunscreen on sunny summer days when the sun is directly hitting my face. I don’t use it on cloudy days, during winter, or when I’m indoors, even if I’m sitting by a window.

I mentioned that sunscreen use has started to feel non-negotiable, not so much for cancer prevention, but as part of a broader anti-aging narrative. The messaging echoes the same tactics regularly used to sell us wrinkle creams, now repackaged in a health-conscious bow.

I ended the reel by saying I might be opening the floodgates, and indeed I was. The comments section and my DMs quickly filled with passionate responses from all sides. Some were scathing.

What struck me most was the intensity behind many reactions. Why have we become so militant about this particular aspect of “self-care”? Why are we outraged if someone makes a different choice about their own body?

This topic seems to hit a nerve with many. Some commenters shared personal stories of themselves or loved ones being diagnosed with skin cancer (and I certainly don’t take those experiences lightly). Others expressed relief at finding someone who doesn't follow the "wear sunscreen every single day no matter what" doctrine. A few were genuinely concerned I was being reckless.

While some of us are advocating for the freedom to choose what we do with, and what we put on, our own bodies, it seems the one exception to that is sunblock. Opt out, and you risk being treated like a social pariah.

The Selective Nature of Our Health Concerns

But what about other health considerations that rarely prompt the same level of public concern? The sunscreen conversation becomes even more complex when we consider it holistically.

Many sunscreen formulations contain ingredients that are potentially harmful to our health. Chemicals like oxybenzone, octinoxate, homosalate, and octocrylene have been linked to hormone disruption and skin irritation. Some research suggests these chemicals can be detected in bloodstreams after application, raising questions about long-term exposure effects. Yet these concerns rarely make it into the "wear sunscreen every day" mandate.

The environmental impacts are equally troubling. Those same chemicals are devastating coral reefs and marine ecosystems. Hawaii, Key West, Aruba, and several other locations have banned or restricted certain sunscreen ingredients because of their damaging effects on ocean life. Are we considering the planetary health implications when we insist on daily use regardless of circumstances?

Then there's the selective nature of our health outrage. Consider alcohol consumption. The risk of breast cancer increases with each unit of alcohol consumed per day. According to the World Health Organization, there is no safe level of alcohol consumption. Yet posting a photo with a glass of wine rarely prompts concerned messages about cancer risk. The difference in social response is telling.

And let's acknowledge an important point that rarely enters these conversations: the cost of quality sunscreen means it's simply not accessible for everyone. Are we going to scold or shame people who can't afford sunscreen for being reckless with their health?

Let me be clear about something: I understand the science. I know about UV damage and skin cancer risks. I'm not suggesting anyone toss their sunscreen in the bin or bake themselves to a crisp on the beach. I'm simply questioning when protective measures become excessive, and when sensible precaution morphs into another form of control over women's bodies. Because as my dear friend Jane McCann said “It’s definitely marketed towards women as age prevention, and I don’t see men receiving the same urgent message.”

The Beauty Industry's Co-opting of Health Messaging

I believe that the beauty industry has strategically co-opted legitimate health concerns about skin cancer prevention and transformed them into yet another anti-aging imperative. What may have begun as sensible medical advice for specific situations (i.e. prolonged sun exposure, high UV days) has morphed into a must-do to maintain youthful skin.

This clever marketing strategy has normalized the idea that we should be slathering products on our skin every single day without questioning whether it's actually necessary in every situation, conveniently ignoring the toxins that impact both our bodies and the environment. And it's been so effective that even those who consider themselves immune to anti-aging messaging have internalized this particular "rule."

Just to open the floodgates further, here's a contradiction I keep noticing: many people who swear by daily sunscreen for “health reasons” are also completely comfortable with regular Botox injections.

So, some of the same people who warn that skipping sunscreen is irresponsible and risky are also injecting a known neurotoxin into their faces, not for health, but for aesthetics.

This isn’t about shaming either choice, but about asking an honest question: why is one framed as essential self-care while the other is accepted (even celebrated!) despite its known risks? If we're genuinely concerned about what we put in and on our bodies, why does the line between “healthy” and “toxic” shift so easily when beauty is on the table?

The Vitamin D Question

There's another aspect to this conversation that we should also be talking about: Vitamin D deficiency. Studies have shown that midlife women are particularly prone to being deficient in this crucial vitamin, which is primarily synthesized when our skin is exposed to sunlight. Sunscreen, by design, interferes with this natural process.

As one commenter on my reel noted (a skincare professional from Norway): "Being vitamin D deficient is a far bigger problem in my opinion."

This isn't to suggest abandoning sun protection altogether, but rather considering the balance between protection and allowing our bodies to function as designed.

This also isn't an anti-sunscreen manifesto. It's an invitation to examine where our convictions come from and whether they truly serve us. It's a reminder that our daily habits (or lack of them) should be explored rather than repeated unquestioningly.

What I'm ultimately advocating for is the thoughtful consideration of what guides our choices. Are we making decisions based on facts or fear? And if fear is present, is it rooted in health concerns or simply the horror of visibly aging?

I am very much including myself in this call to pause and reflect. I’m not a medical professional, after all. I’m sharing my own personal thoughts and experience. But a huge part of my work is about challenging a culture of anti-aging, and it’s undeniable that our beliefs about the absolute necessity of sunscreen is an intersection of this work.

Perhaps the most revolutionary act isn't whether we wear sunscreen or not, but how intentionally we make these choices, and how we hold space for others to make theirs.

I'm curious to hear from you. What other 'non-negotiable' health or beauty rules have you questioned? Or how do you navigate making choices about sunscreen use in your own life? Share your thoughts in the comments.

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In a recent New Yorker piece, Sarah Miller shares candidly about her Botox experiences without mincing her words: "I liked my younger face. We had a good life together. That face is dead now."

She acknowledges an unsettling truth that many women recognize: as we age, we realize that maintaining societal approval and acceptance requires remaining youthfully alluring.

With Botox and other tweakments widely available (and somewhat affordable) perhaps the pursuit of youthfulness isn’t such a bad thing. It’s a few injections here and there, right? What harm?

But beneath the surface of these seemingly personal choices lies a system that continues to define women's value by impossible standards.

When we buy into the idea that we’re only worthy if we look the right side of 30, we inadvertently reinforce a system that measures women primarily by their appearance and proximity to youth. Not only that, we cement these rules for the next generation of girls and women who are watching us navigate the terrain that they haven’t yet reached.

Many of us maintain that we want to secure better options for the women who will come after us. We don’t want them to inherit damaging diet-culture beliefs. We’re horrified at the thought of them seeing those 90s-style magazine articles that would highlight, and zoom in on, the so-called flaws on female celebrity bodies with judgy red circles.

But we don’t seem at all disturbed that they’re lapping up a huge amount of anti-aging rhetoric that has seen 11 year olds flocking to Sephora to buy age-defying serums.

If we want real change to happen, we need to actively challenge ageist beauty standards rather than conform to them.

THE IMPOSSIBLE STANDARDS WE FACE

Miller captures the contradictory expectations perfectly: we must look younger, but not appear to be trying. Our interventions must be "subtle yet significant." We must care, but not seem to care too much. We're allowed to age gracefully (a highly loaded term in itself), but we’re not permitted to age realistically. And let’s face it, we don’t all have Cate Blanchett's bone structure.

We're expected to fight against signs of visible aging while ensuring our efforts remain invisible. Heaven forbid we're caught trying too hard - that's the cardinal sin. As Miller notes, "possibly worse than looking older is looking desperate to appear younger."

And yet, what options does our culture truly offer women over 40?

WHO GETS TO WIN THIS GAME?

I'm interested in who actually wins this game, because this doesn't feel like a scenario where we get points simply for participation. This is a competition with clear winners and losers, as any comments section on content featuring a woman over 40 will verify (whether she's had "help" or not).

From Madonna to Sarah Jessica Parker, very few women emerge unscathed from the court of public opinion when it comes to our appearance. There’s no truly safe space or route. We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.

Miller admits that her grief about losing her younger face "is as overpowering as anything I've felt over a death or a lost relationship." This isn't shallow. It’s an honest response to living in a culture where a woman's visibility and value are plonked on the periphery as she ages.

BREAKING THE CYCLE

What would happen if we collectively refused to play? If we challenged the notion that a woman's worth diminishes with each passing year? If we celebrated the wisdom, confidence, and authenticity that come with age rather than mourning what is perceived to have been lost?

As always, I’m intent on challenging the culture, not criticizing the individual. Miller's honesty about her Botox journey isn't the problem, I actually find it refreshing. The problem is the culture that convinces us that unless we opt for youthful enhancements, we’ve let ourselves go to ruin. We’ve given up.

What if instead of accepting those "truths," we questioned them? What if we recognized that by stepping away from the pursuit of youth at all costs, we might create space for different values to emerge?

CREATING NEW POSSIBILITIES

When I work with women to create ceremonies honoring their midlife transitions, I see firsthand how meaningful it can be to acknowledge, rather than erase, the passing of time. There's profound power in paying attention to these threshold moments, in witnessing a continued becoming rather than feeling afraid to move on from who we once were.

The real tragedy isn't aging itself but the narrow script we've been handed for how to age. What if we wrote new scripts? What if we created meaningful rituals to honor our evolving selves rather than chasing an illusion of unchanging and unattainable youth?

Miller ends her piece saying, "I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. 'God damn,' I said. 'I really do [look great].'"

I wonder what it would feel like if looking great could encompass the full spectrum of our changing appearance. Wrinkles, sagging skin, and all. What if looking great meant being fully embodied in whatever face or body we happen to have?

I don't have easy answers. Like most other women, I navigate these waters daily. But I do know this: there must be more liberating ways to live a life rather than trying to look like we’ve not been around for more than a few decades.

I'm curious. What would it take for you to step away from the pursuit of "remaining youthfully alluring"? What would you need to feel valued for exactly who and how you are right now?

If this resonated, there’s more. I create personalized meditations and threshold ceremonies for women in midlife because I believe that when women reconnect with our power, the cultural noise about our bodies becomes irrelevant. Find out more at skylarlibertyrose.com.

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I flinched as I saw my reflection, shock flooding my body. I couldn't reconcile the woman staring back at me with the woman I believed myself to be inside.

I was appalled at how old I thought I looked and immediately made a mental note to avoid showing that angle when I was with other people. I couldn’t stand the idea that anyone else might see how slack my skin was.

Around the same time I started to notice that the tops of my thighs had developed a crepe-like texture along with my stomach, breasts and arms. When I looked down at myself, I saw my grandmother’s skin.

It seemed to have happened overnight. I’d gone from feeling fairly good about being in my mid-forties to suddenly having an unwelcome flash of insight that my body and face were changing in ways I wasn’t prepared for. It was a definitive moment. And I didn’t like it one bit.

After sitting with these emotions for a few days, I decided that since I was going to continue aging as long as I was living, I might as well embrace as much of the journey as I could. After all, what was the alternative? Hiding away? Afraid to let people see me? That didn’t sound much like living.

Also, as the very core of my work with midlife women was rooted in truth and courage, to turn away from my own truth felt incongruent and misaligned with what I wanted to represent.

So, within a week of that vanity mirror moment, I posted photos on social media of the unflattering angles I’d been determined that nobody else should ever see. Instead of hiding my so-called flaws, I chose to highlight them. Because I have learned over and over again that shame cannot survive illumination.

Instead of being terrified that someone might inadvertently see my sagging skin in a photo or video, or in real life, I opted to show the world intentionally. Explicitly. In a way that felt empowering rather than shameful.

As I began to make peace with this new chapter, I realized how utterly ludicrous it was that women spend their teens, twenties and thirties being objectified only to reach their forties and fifties and feel as though they’ve aged out of attractiveness and that they’re now becoming irrelevant or invisible.

I thought of the countless hours and dollars many of us have spent trying to make ourselves as attractive as possible in order to cater to the heterosexual male gaze, only to now spend countless hours and dollars trying to minimize or erase the signs of aging.

We’ve swallowed the lie that our bodies are something to be ashamed of. Too thin, too fat, too curvy, too flat, too dark, too pale… why not add “too old” to the list?

Better still, why not burn the list entirely.

It's taken ongoing work for me to reach a place of self-acceptance when it comes to visibly aging. Especially because the changes to my skin and body feel premature. I always thought it would happen later down the line. Maybe my sixties. Certainly never in my forties.

But a few days ago, when I noticed how the camera had captured my scrunched-up fifty year old skin, I experienced a genuine sense of ease about how I look. Because this is the reality of where I'm at. The truth of what it is to be in an aging body. Or at least in my aging body. My skin is never going to look firmer or younger than it does today. It will never be smooth and taut again.

Even as my mind readily conjures up a dozen images of younger me with clear, smooth skin and thick hair, I know I don't want those years back. I don't want to be that young woman again. Because I've changed. And I now realize that contrary to what I first thought in that vanity mirror moment, my body hasn't betrayed me, it's simply changed with me.

The Threshold We Don't Mark

That moment—the first time we truly see our aging reflection and don't quite recognize ourselves—is actually more than a moment. It's a significant threshold. Yet our culture offers no ceremony, no acknowledgment, no framework for processing this profound shift in identity.

Instead, we're bombarded with how to fix the ‘problem’. We’re offered serums and creams. Procedures and fillers. We're sold the idea that this natural process is something to be reversed, fought against, hidden, ashamed of.

What might change if we approached this moment with attention and intention instead? What if we paused to witness this threshold with the same deliberate presence we give to other life passages?

The disconnect between how we feel inside and what we see in the mirror creates a particular type of cognitive dissonance. Researchers have found that many women maintain a stable internal age identity, often feeling about 20 years younger than our chronological age. Our reflection becomes evidence of a truth our minds haven't fully integrated.

This discrepancy isn't something to solve. It's something to notice. To witness. To acknowledge as part of our becoming.

Finding the Pause

The journey from flinching at my reflection to feeling ease (and dare I even say joy) at my appearance has been far from linear. It's been a messy practice of returning to presence again and again. Of cultivating a different relationship with change itself.

Some practices that have strengthened my own capacity for this presence:

• Deliberately looking at my reflection without judgment, simply noting what I see

• Acknowledging out loud: "This is where I am"

• Asking thoughtful questions about what this body has experienced, what it has carried, what wisdom it holds

• Recognizing that my discomfort with aging is separate from the fact of aging itself

• Contemplating what I've gained rather than what I've lost
  

There's something powerful about the phrase "the woman I am becoming." It acknowledges that we are never finished, never complete, always in process. Midlife isn't an end point but a meaningful chapter of continued growth and evolution.

In the photographs that inspired these thoughts, I not only see my past and present selves, but also recognize the woman I'm continuously becoming. All aspects of my being deserve to be witnessed fully, with intention and thoughtful recognition.

What threshold moments have you experienced in your relationship with your changing appearance? How have you marked or acknowledged them?

Ready to integrate all aspects of yourself? Try my free guided meditation on Insight Timer called The Wisdom Walk: Meeting Your Past, Present & Future Selves. This practice invites you to gather all versions of yourself, from childhood to the present moment, and walk together toward your future becoming, acknowledging each version's contribution to who you are now. It will help you view your aging process in a different light.

I never felt pretty growing up. My hair, an unruly bundle of natural curls, made me feel awkward and unattractive around my peers who flaunted sleek and straight styles.

To make things worse, neither I nor my mother knew how to style my hair. Instead of working with my curl pattern, it was most often brushed out into some kind of submission, and it’s fair to say that it didn’t exactly elevate my appearance.

Back then, I yearned for what I considered “normal” hair and I struggled with my natural texture which was more of a burden than a blessing. I was also an introvert who was infinitely more comfortable reading books and spending time with animals than being in groups of people. My weird hair felt like a declaration of my outsider status.

In my teens, I found myself trying to tame my curls with every product and technique possible, convinced that fitting in would grant me the confidence I so desperately sought. I’d use hairspray and hard mousses or gels to try and straighten my hair, even though the end result was far from flattering, and never lasted more than a day. Less so if there was a hint of moisture in the air.

It wasn’t until years later, as trends shifted, that I began to appreciate the very hair I had once wished away.

Suddenly, my curls were celebrated, and as such they became a part of my identity that I felt able to embrace rather than hide. It seemed as though I had finally learned to love the very thing that had once made me feel so self-conscious.

But with the passage of time, the tables turned again.

In 2019, I began noticing that my hair was shedding more than usual. I wasn’t overly concerned at first, telling myself that it was probably a seasonal thing and not too much to worry about. But the shedding continued, and then it worsened.

By 2020 my hair was almost unrecognizable. My curls were limp and flat, lacking volume and unable to hold their shape. I’d wash my hair one day and by the next day it looked like a literal bird’s nest. I had no idea what was causing the change, but I noticed how much my confidence was impacted.

Then, along came a pandemic. Confined to the house, I watched approximately 12,587 YouTube videos on how to revive my curls. I discovered that my hair was crying out for protein, and that the deep conditioning treatments I’d been slathering on a few times a week were too far moisturizing for my fine strands.

Suffice to say there were some interesting homemade concoctions taking place around that time, namely raw egg and yogurt hair masks. (Our bathroom smelled delightful, and my husband was thrilled.)

I also learned a lot about perimenopause and my shifting hormones. I realized that protein had been lacking in my diet as well as my hair products, especially as I’d experienced recent weight loss and had cut out a number of protein-rich food items.

Over the following months, I coaxed my curls back to life and they began to flourish. I felt great and my confidence returned.

But towards the end of 2021, I began having balance issues and within a few weeks I began randomly vomiting. Initially it was thought that I had benign paroxysmal positional vertigo (BPPV) and I was treated with the Epley maneuver and given medication to help counteract the nausea.

Neither of these remedies worked. Eventually, I had an MRI that identified a mass on my brain. I was diagnosed with a hemangioblastoma, a benign brain tumor, and had to have an emergency craniotomy.

Before the surgery, I felt so sick that my hair was the last thing I was thinking of. Still, it was nice to be assured by my neurosurgeon that he would be conservative with the area at the back of my head that needed to be shaved as part of the surgery prep.

After the craniotomy, my recovery was slow and challenging. I was still vomiting and the residual nausea was very stubborn. But, remarkably, my hair was thriving. I felt terrible, but I took some comfort in the fact that I at least looked ok.

However, three months later, my hair started falling out in clumps. I’d mistakenly thought that I was in the clear once the surgery was over. But I hadn’t banked on the fact that it would take my body some time to process such a huge experience.

I tried not to care about the bald patches emerging on my scalp. I tried not to care about the texture of the limp and lifeless strands that were still hanging on.

But I did care.

Yes, I was beyond grateful to still be alive. I was thrilled to have had access to healthcare at such a critical time. I was lucky to have survived such a big surgery. And, it was also true that I felt depressed about my appearance. It was hard to look at myself in the mirror.

I wore a lot of hair scarves at that time, trying my best to hide the worst of my straggly strands. I made the best of it and did everything I could to nourish myself, in all the ways. Diet, movement, spiritual practices. A year and a few haircuts later, I finally felt as though I resembled me again.

In the summer of 2023, my husband and I took a trip to the west coast and my curls were looking better than ever. I received so many compliments from people that Leon jokingly began to refer to it as my comeback tour. My hair dramas were over.

Only they weren’t.

At the end of 2024, we left our rented apartment in Queens to move to a little house in upstate New York.

I was overjoyed to be leaving the city behind. Much as I’ve always loved NYC, perimenopause had exacerbated the feelings of anxiety that I was experiencing, and I craved peace and space.

Still, the move was somewhat of an adjustment (even though I’ve moved 16 times, life definitely hits differently in perimenopause!) especially as we had some renovation work to tend to. But by the spring I was starting to feel more settled.

And then, once again, my hair started falling out. At first it wasn’t overly obvious, but within weeks I could see gaps where chunks were missing. It was especially noticeable when the light was behind me.

Since I now had some previous experience in hair shedding situations, I ran through what I thought might be possible culprits or contributors.

Stress? Possibly. But nothing particularly pressing. Lack of protein? Unlikely. I’d learned that lesson before and I was definitely incorporating enough protein into my diet. Hormones? Maybe. But I was on hormone replacement therapy and not having any other side effects.

It took me a few months to figure out that it was our water.

Our new home, nestled on top of a mountain in the woods, used water sourced from a well supply. And since we didn’t have a water-softening system in place, or a filter on our shower head, there were a number of minerals that were being deposited directly onto my hair every time I washed it.

In addition to this, I wasn’t using a shampoo that was specifically designed to remove this mineral build up, so I kept unknowingly adding to the damage until my hair was brittle and breaking off.

I was relieved to have identified the issue, but dismayed to once again be back in a bad hair phase.

Each time I’d experienced hair loss or visible damage, I’d felt my confidence nosedive. Like many women, my hair felt woven into the fabric of my femininity and self-esteem. Especially as I’d long since believed my hair to be my only worthy physical attribute. I felt vulnerable and exposed, stripped of the one feature that I believed was my only real proximity to beauty.

After trying a few clarifying shampoos to little success, I was thrilled to discover the Malibu C Hard Water Wellness range. It’s no exaggeration to say this literally saved the hair I had left. But I was still left with a complete mess on my head from the shedding that had already occurred.

In addition to the thin strands and brittle texture, I’d started to trial growing out my gray, so my roots were looking a little wild. I also had a reddish tinge to parts of my previously colored hair which was caused by discoloration from the well water. Hair scarves became a daily staple once more.

It took four months, one shower head filter, a toner treatment, and a couple of hair cuts to get me (sort of) back on track.

Which is where I am today.

When I look in the mirror now, I’m still not 100% happy with how my hair looks. I can see the sparser areas immediately. The texture is coarser. I’m not crazy about the color. But, at age 50, I think I’m ready to start separating my self-worth from my good or bad hair phases.

And I know it’s possible because I’ve been able to do this with my body for some years now.

When I first began visibly aging in my mid-forties, I initially felt a sense of shame about “losing my looks”. But then I felt called to explore what was really at the root of my shame. That’s when I educated myself on what a culture of anti-aging is really designed to do, and how it impacts us. Once I had this awareness, the way I viewed my own aging body changed dramatically.

It’s been a harder journey with my hair because that was my One Good Feature. Or, at least, that’s the belief I’d spent most of adulthood reinforcing. Without good hair, what was I even worth?

Quite a lot, as it turns out.

My appearance has nothing to do with my worth. It isn’t related in any way to my creativity, my compassion, my sense of humor, my intellect, or the way I’m able to hold space for myself and those around me. It has absolutely zero impact on my ability to lead with empathy, forge a path forward, or leave a meaningful legacy.

While it’s not always easy to completely disentangle ourselves from societal conditioning, I truly believe it’s a journey that’s worthwhile embarking upon.

Who knows, my hair might begin to thrive again. Maybe I’ll even have another Vegas comeback tour! But I’m making peace with the fact that perhaps my midlife hair is going to be different than it was in my twenties or thirties. Maybe it’s not going to be quite as voluminous or bouncy. Maybe the coarse texture is here to stay. Maybe there will be more thinning or shedding.

I no longer want my identity to be so inextricably linked with my hair, or any part of my appearance, that I feel destabilized when things shift or change.

It doesn’t matter if it’s my hair, my skin, my weight, or my relationship. If I’m measuring myself, and criticizing myself, in a way that lacks kindness and compassion then perhaps I can finally use a phrase that I usually loathe: I’m too old for that.

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I was six when I first became aware of the importance of gaining approval from my peers. I was in the school playground and Samantha Stevens, the prettiest and most popular girl in my class, was holding court. She was surrounded by a circle of her chosen people, the lucky ones who were deemed to be worthy of her attention and affection.

I wasn’t part of her circle, and I desperately wanted to be.

Seeking approval mattered to me because approval meant acceptance. I was shy and awkward with thick frizzy hair that was far from desirable. My family lived on the wrong side of town and I wasn’t one of those kids who had the latest gadgets or fashionable clothing. My mum often used to pick clothes up at the jumble sales she volunteered at. My dad drove a car that had carpet lining the sides of the interior, presumably to hide something even less attractive underneath. I knew nothing about cars but I knew ours was embarrassing.

I had a few friends, but I was no Samantha Stevens. I didn’t understand it yet, but I was a sensitive introvert who loved nothing more than spending time with my cat, and, joy of joys, reading as many books as I could get my hands on.

But even though I was content with my own company, I was also a young girl, and like most young girls I was socialized to prioritize fitting in and gaining approval from those around me. I wanted to be liked and I wanted to be accepted because that’s what I’d been taught mattered most.

My worth was tied to how well I pleased other people. This manifested in various ways, from adherence to beauty standards to placing a higher importance on the needs of others, especially in my personal relationships. My own wants and desires were secondary to everyone else’s.

Because I was often suppressing my true feelings, I created a chamber within myself that held frustration and resentment. I was behaving in the ways that Good Girls were supposed to, the ways that society had told me were attractive and appealing, but there was inner conflict between how I felt and what I felt able to safely express.

Sometimes my frustration would spill over into anger. And because Good Girls are not permitted to be angry, I’d judge myself harshly afterwards, feeling like a failure for not daintily toeing the line. This pattern of behavior became a theme in my teens and was reinforced a little bit more with every passing year. I wasn’t content with my life but I didn’t know that changing it was an option. Certainly not for someone like me.

By the time I reached my twenties, everything revolved around the male gaze. Acceptance from other women became less important to me. Being approved of by men was now the ultimate prize. And because I wasn’t considered to be particularly pretty, I didn’t have a line of men wanting to date me. But I did have men who were willing to sleep with me.

I used every tool at my disposal to make men want me. Even though I had my heart broken over and over again, I didn’t know how to stop the cycle. I’d hand my self-worth over to whichever man showed me a modicum of interest and then I’d accept whatever scraps they gave me back at the end of our, usually short-lived, encounter. I learned how to hide my sensitivity and create a hard-shell exterior. Whenever men would tell me I wasn’t “like other women” a thrill would race through me. I thought it was a wonderful compliment.

Men who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, commit to a real relationship were like a magnet for me. I smoked endless cigarettes and drank too much wine because I thought it made me more interesting. Everything in my life at that time was a prop to hide behind. My greatest fear was seeing myself.

It wasn’t until I was on a date in my mid-thirties and the man I was having dinner with asked me what I liked to do that I suddenly realized I didn’t actually know. The question hung in the air between us.

What did I like to do? Other than pleasing men and drinking too much, I had no idea.

But the question took root in my body and, over time, it triggered a curiosity that I allowed myself to indulge in. I found myself thinking about the photography classes I’d briefly taken during my school days. I remembered a group of us 13 year old students being handed old film cameras, tasked with taking a photo of anything that caught our eye.

Outside the school gates there was a cat on a brick wall, perfectly posing, and most of the class took a photograph of her. But I was drawn to a crumpled Coke can in the gutter. The texture of the curb creating a striking contrast against the smoothness of the metal. I remembered how I felt when I developed the image in the dark room afterwards. And I remembered how I felt when our teacher singled it out as being the most interesting image of the day.

But instead of pursuing something that brought me joy, something I was good at, I focused instead on pleasing the people around me.

My love of photography lay dormant for decades, along with my love of words. It wasn’t so much that I was suppressing what I enjoyed as completely burying it. My career path became a series of jobs that I thought I was supposed to want to do, ones that other people approved of, but very rarely left me feeling any sense of fulfillment.

And then I was hospitalized with severe pancreatitis.

For a week, I was hooked up to an IV as the doctors tried to help my body mend. I was weak and reeling from the suddenness of the attack. Because the hospital was already full, I was placed in a geriatric wing. One night, when I could finally walk unaided, I needed to use the bathroom which was at the opposite end of the long ward. I shuffled along slowly, pulling my IV stand along with me, and I looked at the sickly and sallow sleeping faces around me.

I thought of all the life I wasn’t living. All the ways I had abandoned myself to prioritize other people. And I promised myself that once I got better I would make some fundamental changes.

I started by not dating anyone for a year. Instead, I used my time and energy to focus on myself. I bought a DSLR camera and I found I had a flair for street photography. I’d spend hours in Brick Lane or Covent Garden, taking great pleasure in capturing ordinary and interesting scenes. This time there was no dark room, but I loved the process of downloading and editing my images at the end of the day, getting lost in a creative haven.

I began reading more books than I had in years, and, for the first time, journaling my own thoughts and feelings. I started to get a sense of who I truly was, rather than who the world had shaped me to be.

A year or so later, I went out on a day date with another photography enthusiast who tried to tell me how my composition could be better. I immediately decided not to see him again. I wasn’t quite sure what I was moving towards, but I was certain of what I wasn’t going back to.

I got to know myself in an unrushed and intimate way. Not as a daughter, a girlfriend, an employee, or a supporting character in someone else’s story. But as my very own person. I found there were a lot of things I liked about who I was, and who I was still becoming. I also found there were some things I didn’t like quite as much, but I decided that since I was determined to fully live my life, I was going to bring my whole self along for the journey.

It’s a powerful thing when a woman decides to own who she is. When she stops separating herself into tiny little pieces of Good and Bad, Worthy and Unworthy. When she begins to validate herself and her experiences instead of seeking external approval. When she sticks an un-manicured finger up at the world and says “Not anymore”.

When such an awakening happens, everyone around her is either horrified or inspired. Some turn their heads away in disgust at what they view as a blatant display of selfishness. But others feel a flickering of something deep inside. A yearning. A tiny spark of “Maybe I can, too.”

The hospital experience didn’t have to change me. I could have gone back to who I was before. My old well-established habits. But I knew it had the potential to be a defining moment. One that I’d remember afterwards as an opportunity. So I seized that opportunity, and I’ve never looked back.

This isn’t a fairytale by any means. There were many more heartaches to come. Many more moments where I floundered and failed in My New Life. But I never went back to the woman I was before. Or, perhaps more accurately, the woman I wasn’t.

These days, I have a very strong sense of my own identity. I know when and where I’m prepared to compromise, and to what degree. I stay tethered to what is true for me, and I don’t allow myself to get lost in anyone else’s expectations. Because I already know where that life leads, and how it ends.

If I’m ever uncertain about a choice I need to make, I ask myself, “Is this taking me a step closer to who I truly am and what I really want, or a step further away.”

If the person, project, or opportunity in front of me doesn’t feel aligned then what is it costing me? And am I prepared to make that sacrifice?

The thing about people-pleasing is that it’s impossible to maintain. Which makes it quite unsurprising that it’s often a female trait, because aren’t we simply wonderful at busying ourselves with impossible tasks. Like conforming to beauty ideals. Like having the perfect figure. Like keeping all the balls in the air, all the time, and then apologizing profusely to everyone when we inevitably drop one and make a mess.

But I want us to make a mess, and not apologize for it. I want our lives to be imperfect and full of twists and turns as we figure out what’s true for us now. I want us to pay attention to the longing that lives inside of us and what it’s guiding us towards. I want us to acknowledge our anger and the real reasons it exists. I want us to divest from the idea that our worth is only as good as the last person we pleased.

My younger self missed out on getting to know who she was. But my middle aged self is taking great delight in this journey of continued discovery, bumps in the road and all. It feels good.

If you’re looking for a way to reimagine this chapter of your life, check out my popular audio course, Aging Courageously: A Guide to Goal Setting & Purposeful Living. Whether it's reigniting a long-lost passion, embarking on a new career path, or delving into a creative pursuit, this series will help you find the courage to center your own wants and desires and create a life of purpose and fulfillment.

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Cancel culture used to be confined to celebrities, but now it’s trickled down to the masses and the next sentence that comes out of your mouth might be the one that costs you a friendship.

The repercussions of saying something even slightly controversial are very real, whether it’s running the risk of dismissal from a job, being cast out of a social media space, or losing online income. The speed at which narratives can be shaped and reputations tarnished in the digital age is unprecedented.

However, alongside the potential consequences of publicly sharing an opinion, we’re also siloing ourselves into an ever decreasing echo chamber.

We’re no longer listening, we’re no longer learning. Instead, we’re doubling down extra hard on the beliefs we already hold and we’re insisting that the idea of anything that doesn’t mirror our own thoughts or feelings is unacceptable. Unfriend me. Unfollow me. I’m blocking you.

As someone who deeply believes that boundaries are beautiful, I certainly support creating and maintaining them as part of a true self-care practice. Indeed, our inclination to distance ourselves from those who do not meet a certain criteria is often a means of safeguarding our mental and emotional reserves.

But are we protecting our peace, or are we putting up a plethora of barriers as a Keep Out sign to ward off the opinions of people we don’t agree with?

As a member of Generation X, born in 1974, I had a front-row seat to the evolving landscape of social interactions. We were one of the last generations to have had an entire childhood without social media. In the absence of the technology we have today, we enjoyed a simpler form of connection, one that mostly revolved around face-to-face interactions and telephone calls.

Generally speaking, we didn’t have to deal with an excessive amount of information, or confrontation, and in our then-smaller worlds, we typically surrounded ourselves with people who looked and thought like us. We weren’t overly exposed to much diversity or difference.

Things have changed since then. Considerably. In today’s world, it’s not just our school friends or colleagues that we’re interacting with. Our screens have opened up an extended circle that we have round-the-clock access to. But many of us are struggling to effectively communicate within that circle.

We have apps upon apps stored on a tiny computer we carry around with us everywhere. We sleep with it by our sides. We watch live reporting of disasters across the globe. We absorb instant commentary about who’s right, who’s wrong, or who’s too callous to care. We’re regularly confronted with a whole host of conflicting beliefs, and we might not have honed a skill set remotely capable of helping us navigate our way through any of it.

So we’re shutting down and we’re tuning out. We’re reducing the multitudes of an individual to a handful of comments they might make about any given situation. We’re saying this is non-negotiable and that is unforgivable. We’re criticizing, and canceling, and demonizing, and the circle of those we can count on seemingly gets smaller and smaller every time we log on.

Our tolerance is subsiding and our empathy is eroding. In which case, isn’t the answer to acknowledge our differences, stay open to learning, and above all, keep communicating?

I typically find that sentiment to be one that sounds wonderful in theory, and incredibly difficult, and sometimes damaging, in practice.

After Donald Trump was elected President of the United States in 2016, many of us (myself very much included) struggled with the idea that anyone would willingly vote for someone who bragged about grabbing women by the pussy. And that was just the very tip of the offensive iceberg.

My immediate tendency back then was to keep my circle close and tight. Trusted people only. And, in all honesty, as an introvert this isn’t a million miles out of my comfort zone. It wasn’t particularly hard.

At that time, I saw a number of Facebook posts pleading with people to do the very opposite. “This just leads to more division” they cried. “We have to keep talking to one another.”

But why? I wondered. Why did we have to keep open communication with people who apparently had no care or consideration for basic human decency? As a lifelong champion of women’s rights, I found it insulting to be expected to do anything other than protest loudly and pull my trusted people closer.

If someone is actively voting against the very values that we hold dear, if they are vocalizing their support to a person or party that seeks to attack or destroy what we are striving to build and protect, it’s extremely challenging to retain continued contact with them. It simply doesn’t feel safe.

After the 2016 election, we saw millions unite across the globe in what we believed to be solidarity. There were marches galore and the majority of people were firmly in one camp or the other. A clear line had been drawn. We stand for this. We will not stand for that.

Four years later, we were rising up once more to declare that Black Lives Mattered… or Blue Lives, or All Lives, depending on what sentiment you stood behind.

Except the line wasn’t as clear anymore. Unlike 2016, it wasn’t just a single line that had been drawn. Now, there were multiple lines, all with their own intersections. They weren’t new, they’d always been there. But not all of us had the willingness to see them before now.

We’d oversimplified our shared experiences and overlooked our distinct differences so we could feel good about coming together. We wanted the warm, fuzzy feelings of belonging but we didn’t really want to do the work of examining what was still unfair or unequal within our group of chosen people.

From that space, the intersections seemed to multiply, and as some of us tried our best by Maya Angelou to do better when we knew better, others burned out, or simply got bored.

Life carried on in its cruel or kind way, depending on your luck or your privilege.

And then there was an attack led by Hamas against Israel in October 2023. I’d caught a snippet of the news, but it was a post I saw a few times on social media that day that made me realize the impact of what had happened. “Your Jewish friends are not ok” the post said. And it was my Jewish friends who were sharing it.

I immediately remembered how the murder of George Floyd had gutted the Black community. Beyond anything they were able to describe. This act of despicable violence had broken them in a way I could try to empathize with but could never truly know.

I called my Jewish friends or left voice messages for them. I expressed my sadness at what they were experiencing. I thought the very worst thing I could do was to stay silent. It felt less important if I stumbled on my words, and more important that I at least tried to say them.

It was two months later when I posted a picture of myself on Instagram at a protest outside my local representatives office in Queens, NY. I was holding a sign calling for a ceasefire. Shocked and saddened as I was about the events that took place on October 7th, I felt that nothing could justify the decimation of Palestinian civilians.

The woman who took the picture handed me her Palestinian flag to hold alongside my ceasefire sign. There was no time to think about it, but later, in a moment of fear or panic, I cropped the flag out of the picture before posting. I wanted innocent people to stop being bombed, but there I was, afraid of a flag and the ire I thought it might incite.

As it turned out, the photo without the flag was enough to cause a huge reaction. I lost hundreds of followers within the hour and more over the coming days. People who had supported my work for years, specifically citing my core values of truth and courage as a reason for doing so, suddenly removed themselves from my social media circle.

Two brands that I was working with stopped responding to me. I lost Substack subscribers, financial support, and a close friend. I also received the most abusive messages I’ve ever had in 15 years of sharing content publicly.

Other people I knew who were also calling for a ceasefire received a similar response. But then I realized that people who weren’t saying anything at all were far from safe, and were being attacked for their silence.

Those who tried to hold the space for “both sides” were accused of not having the courage to do “the right thing”. Those who tried to “love and light” their way through it all were accused of spiritually bypassing.

Alongside the continued abuse, I received messages from people sharing that their decades-long friendships had hit an impasse because they couldn’t agree on what was fair and just as far as Israel and Palestine were concerned. One woman said that she “simply couldn’t bear to remain in contact” with a childhood friend because they had such opposing beliefs.

Then, the Block Party became a thing, and celebrities and public figures who had refused to speak up about the conflict were blocked en masse as a way of hitting them where it hurt.

I partially understood the frustration. These days I do have a greater expectation that people speak up about the things that require our urgent attention, whether they’re in the public eye or not. It often feels painful to see people turn away and refuse to comment on critical issues saying they “don’t want to get involved with politics”.

I found myself vacillating between sitting in judgement of others, for either their stance or their silence, and feeling increasingly aware that we were fracturing ourselves from one another.

In a conversation with my husband I shared with him that I’d never seen anything as polarizing before, online or offline. Personal circles were shrinking and most of us could only stand to hear the echoes of our own beliefs.

As always, I reflected upon my own actions. What was I doing? How was I helping or harming?

Was I happily following many different people with wildly different beliefs so I could confidently state that I was someone who was well-rounded in my gathering of information?

No, not really. As a sensitive introvert I often find the overwhelm of busy digital spaces too intense to be useful. In the same way that a loud, crowded room practically gives me a panic attack, I tend to find comfort and value in a more intimate setting.

If I felt triggered by what someone was posting, I’d unfollow them. If I noticed that a particular person had unfollowed me, I acted on impulse and unfollowed them too in (somewhat childish) retaliation. I told myself that it was better to cleanse my feed this way. But there was also a little voice inside my head saying “Is that really what you’re doing?”

Of course, it isn’t just Gen X who are discarding people who hold opposing views to ours. As we’ve seen, there are much younger students who are making no bones about who and what they support.

But some of us are saying goodbye to friendships that are older than those students. We’re letting go of relationships we thought we’d have our whole lives because we don’t know how to keep them. We’ve convinced ourselves that it’s all or nothing.

Now, it’s June and we’re heading towards another election here in the U.S. It’s fair to say that in terms of polarization, things are only going to get worse. It’s already happening.

We often see a lot on social media about living our best, messy lives. We’re encouraged to allow ourselves to be in a space of process and imperfection. To show up as we are, regardless.

Yet, in reality, we’re not making space for that. Our memes and quotes aren’t lining up with our behaviors. We’re throwing people away for the slightest perceived misdemeanors, and YES boundaries, and YES safety, but is that always the true intention behind our reflex actions?

We’re punishing one another for not being perfect. We’re holding each other accountable for the decisions our governments make. We’re participating in pile-ons that only serve to polarize us further. We’re unable or unwilling to consider how and where we’re perpetuating harm. We are fractured from one another, and we are failing one another.

And, we need one another.

When I think about the world I want to live in, the world I want to age in, I don’t imagine it to be a place where there’s no redemption, no forgiveness, no space for our human-mess. And this is very relevant to my work on aging and ageism because the values of a society impact everyone and everything.

Most days, I feel as though we’re on the brink of something. But I can’t yet tell if it’s collapse or repair. I don’t know if we’ll forever be in the ruins or if we’re slowly, slowly rising up.

What I do know is that we have to do better. I have to do better. Discarding and canceling people when there’s an opportunity for repair feels a lot like life lessons from the patriarchy. And look where that has led us.

When we banish opinions that aren’t similar to ours, we also banish ideas. We cement a story in our minds about how all things of worth and value, all things good, have to be perfectly aligned in accordance with what we believe to be true.

I’m not going to stop being true to who I am, or sharing what is authentic and meaningful to me. I'm not going to stay silent on important topics, or sign up for the impossible task of people-pleasing. But I'm also not going to stop interrogating my own beliefs, staying open to how and when I can do better, or being honest with myself about how I’m propping up the systems of supremacy that I challenge. This is a life-long journey for me. It won't end until I do.

Accountability and calling out harmful behavior may be crucial aspects of social progress, but it’s equally important to foster a culture that allows for nuance, empathy, and growth.

And that’s what I’m committing to as I muddle my way through these midlife years.

I’ve lost count of the amount of messages I’ve received over the years from brands who want to send me samples of their beauty products. They usually start by saying that they love my pro-aging message and mission and they assure me that they’re fully on board with both. There’s often a number of exclamation points included to display their enthusiasm.

At least 95% of the time, a quick visit to their Instagram page or website tells me everything I need to know about their values. Many of them may be using the term “pro-aging”, but they’re still very much pushing an anti-aging agenda.

A culture of anti-aging is about more than the words we use. It’s about the ideals and beliefs we support and perpetuate, and the way we reinforce aging as something to be afraid, and ashamed, of.

Using the lure of youthfulness as a ploy to entice consumers to buy products (and buy into the idea that those products are necessary in the first place) is part of an anti-aging narrative. It doesn’t matter if we call it youth renewal, age reversal, age preventative, youth inspired, age correcting, or any other variation of turning back the clock, it still frames aging in a derogatory way.

Death is the only way to avoid aging. But nobody wants to slap that slogan on their creams or serums.

Our fear of visibly aging is not accidental. For centuries, we’ve been fascinated with the idea of capturing youth. Cleopatra apparently used to bathe in donkey’s milk to keep her skin soft and supple. Wealthy Elizabethan women were said to place thin slices of raw meat on their faces to minimize wrinkles. In the 1700s, it’s believed that aristocratic French women washed their faces in red wine to combat signs of aging.

In the late 1800s, Margaret Kroesen developed Frownies after noticing frown lines on her daughter, Alice. First known as Wrinkle Eradicators, the adhesive patches were used to hold skin taut and smooth.

Then, in 1931, Helena Rubinstein launched a day cream and a night cream known as the Hormone Twin Youthifiers. The creams were supposed to “correct wrinkles and crow’s feet, keeping the skin vibrant with youth, exquisitely clear, always at the peak of its youthful perfection!”

Almost 100 years later, little has changed in the way anti-aging products are marketed to us.

However, it’s not just one or two products aimed at an affluent demographic anymore. We are bombarded with an array of anti-aging options online and offline. We’re supposed to have morning and evening skincare routines, and even our make-up frequently boasts built-in SPF which was once encouraged to protect against skin cancer but is increasingly sold as a way to ward off “premature” aging.

Beauty standards have shifted somewhat over the last century and we’ve seen a number of trends come and go. But our desire to retain a youthful appearance has held firm over the decades. Anti-aging remains a booming business.

Today, Frownies describe the “energy” behind their product as one of empowerment so women can “honor, embrace and celebrate who they are.” They’re intent on setting themselves apart from anti-aging procedures such as injections and surgery, claiming that their patches are a simple and effective way to help women look and feel their best by effectively reducing signs of aging.

But it’s simply two sides of the same coin. Whether it’s Botox, bathing in questionable concoctions, facial patches, fillers, surgery or skincare, the message remains the same: aging is something to be feared and fixed.

Something that has changed, however, is our ability to talk widely about the negative impact of an anti-aging culture. And it’s celebrities who are in fact at least partially responsible for bringing awareness of ageist stereotypes into the mainstream.

The movie stars and models that Gen Xers saw on our screens in the 80s and 90s are aging. Many of them are now in midlife, or beyond, and they’re openly declaring that they’re far from ready to fade into the background. Add the amplification of social media, the mass sharing of memes and soundbites, and we have a whole new conversation taking place about aging.

This is a good thing, surely?

Yes and no. Unfortunately, as we’ve seen with menopause having a moment in the spotlight, there’s money to be made with any movement. And, as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, many brands are eager to cash in on a change in consumer behavior without doing any real work to correct, or even consider, their core values. We’ve seen this over and over again with Black Lives Matter and Pride. Everyone wants capitalize upon the perceived progress of society, but few are willing to put integrity over profit.

So, is there even any point to a pro-aging movement? Are we wasting our time and energy trying to disrupt a culture of anti-aging that, despite growing pushback, still seems to be thriving across the globe?

This was a question someone posed to me on an anti anti-aging reel I recently shared on Instagram. They suggested I was fighting a losing battle because of how we collectively define beauty, and in turn, how we assign worth and value. Appearances are seemingly everything.

As I considered this comment, I realized that it has never occurred to me that activism (of any kind) is a battle that can be lost. Instead, I think of it as a commitment to continue. To pave the way for a better world. To do my very best to help steer change that I hope will make a difference well beyond my lifetime. I might not live long enough to see the world I dream of emerge from vision to reality. But that will never stop me doing everything I can to ensure that one day, maybe many moons from now, another woman might have an easier time in a kinder society because I used my voice. Because we used our voices.

I want to redefine beauty standards. I want to question beauty and body ideals. I want to stop supporting brands who profit from our insecurities. I’m going to die one day, and that will be the day I finally stop aging. And no product or procedure will have had anything to do with it.

Until then, I want to live. Live! Without hiding my cellulite, scars, jowls, lines, crepey skin or deepening wrinkles. And if I can make a difference to how just one woman sees her own aging body, I’ll be more than content with that.

If you’d like some support divesting from a culture of anti-aging and discovering how a pro-aging mindset can make a difference in your life, take a look at my pro-aging program Visible. The audio version is exclusively on Insight Timer. (If you have the Member Plus version of Insight Timer then the course is included in your membership)

At 49, my people-pleasing days are behind me.

Gone are the years where I molded myself into a shape that was expected of me. Into a world I was told needed to approve of me. Into a skin I felt sewn into. Into a body I could never fully exhale in.

It can be a lonely path to walk when you decide to break away from the crowd. When you begin to honor the whispers within, even as the outside world tries to drown them out.

I have never been fearless.

If anything, the anxiety in my chest threatens to overwhelm me on many days. It stifles and suffocates and leaves me gasping for a breath I don’t quite know what to do with.

I have always been afraid.

And I have always been fueled with something deeper than fear. More than courage. More than conviction. More than the desire to be true to who I know I am.

I am filled with the spirit of the women who came before me.

When I need the fortitude to keep walking my path and aligning my actions with my true beliefs, I summon the strength of those women.

The women who spoke up when the world wanted them to remain quiet.

The women who dared to do what they were told they couldn’t. The women who continued to rise up each time they were struck down. The women who held the hands of their sisters as they faced their fate together.

We may have been born into different eras, we may have journeyed on roads that were unfair or unequal, the divides between us may seem vast and titanic. But we are forever united by the irrefutable truth of our common bond: We are women.

The stories of the women who came before me rarely made the history books. Their names and faces are mostly unknown to me, yet somehow I carry their legacy.

They have shaped me. They have influenced me. They have inspired me beyond measure.

Deep within me are the flames of these fierce and gentle hearts. Their fight seems to find me when my own fire is dwindling, and I am emboldened by their everlasting spirit.

I feel their triumphs and their pain in a multitude of ways that I cannot always comprehend nor articulate. I do not fully know the battles they braved, but I recognize and respect that they did indeed brave them.

Because of them, I have a pathway. Because of me, I walk it.

Their past was an investment into my future. Their strength has become my tenacity. Their victories have become my opportunities. The existence of their generation has allowed for the emergence of mine.

The decades that separate us, the miles that distance us, the experiences that distinguish us, are no match for the force that unifies us.

We are women.

For the women who have been touched or torn with hands that have not meant kindness. For the women who have known captivity without crime. For the women who have endured indignities and insults:

I see you. I hear you.

I see the agony that you wear as a second skin. I hear your cries for justice, your screams for mercy. The echoes of your suffering seep into my soul, and I carry part of that weight with me. You do not bear your burdens alone.

For the women who have known the vast void of loss and grief. For the women who have known the full force of a world that will not accept their self-expression. For the women who have been oppressed and kept in the shadows:

I see you. I support you.

I see your hurt and hunger. I support your right to stand up and be counted. I champion your individuality and uniqueness. For every scar that is stamped into your being, a remnant makes its way to mine.

For the women who tread the trail that is yet unexplored. For the women who believe in a more beautiful existence and a deeper consciousness. For the women who forge forward with intention and integrity:

I see you. I celebrate you.

I see the bright burn in your eyes that illuminates the possibilities of an enlightened earth. I see the brilliance of a mind that has been educated outside of a classroom. I celebrate your desire to encourage and empower the others you meet along the way.

For the women who are aging in a world that wants to shun them into shame. For the women who are in changing bodies that sometimes feel like strangers. For the women whose lines and wrinkles are a map of all their memories merged.

I see you. I am you.

I see how you’ve been conditioned to turn away from your own reflection. I see the fear that forces you to reject who you’re yet becoming, even as you long to turn towards your own embrace. I see how you are clinging to what is still good. Still true. Still possible. I am, too.

For the women who came before me, I honor you. Each one of you. Your courage has crept into my bones, and when I feel like I might buckle into surrender, I sense you at my side. Your arms break my fall. Your love is my armor. Your wild fire is my resolve.

I stand with you in solidarity. In survival. In strength.

For the women who will come after me, please respect your history but do not be bound by it. Please take the torch but use it to light your own chosen path. Please give yourself permission to be liberated rather than feel obligated. Please know the lineage lives on, and make your mark with unwavering determination and pride.

🔸A note on the gendered language within this post.

I use the word “woman” as I deeply and undeniably resonate with every piece and particle of what it means (to me) to be a woman. I use the word “woman” as a point of pride and a bones-deep affirmation of who I know myself to be. The word “woman” may hold a different meaning for you, or no meaning at all. I understand and respect we are not all having the same experience. And if you do too, you are very welcome here in this space, amongst these words.

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There’s a pair of khaki linen pants in my closet with a waist that’s a little higher than I’d like. Before I bought them, I kept going back and forth as to whether or not to make the purchase. I hadn’t yet eaten that day and they were already slightly snug when I tried them on in the fitting room.

But you can lose a couple of pounds and then they’d be perfect.

Anyone who’s ever had a history of disordered eating knows that voice. The one in your head that’s always readily available to offer not-so-wise words. The one that steers you away from self-acceptance, dangling a future vision of who you might yet become as some kind of prize.

At 49, I’m of the opinion that every woman has, or has had, some kind of disordered relationship with food. From counting carbs to “earning” desert with extra exercise, from food tracking apps to stepping on the scales each day, diet-culture has done a number on us all.

I was 11 when a friend and I first decided to go on a diet. I don’t think we even knew what the word “diet” really meant, either in the medical sense or the popular one, but we had an understanding that we’d somehow be bettering ourselves because of it.

I was 18 when I realized that I could binge-eat what I wanted and then purge the contents from my stomach as though nothing had ever happened. All I had to do was wipe away the mascara that would leak from my lashes while vomiting, clean my teeth and then, ta-dah, I was good again.

Bulimia was part of my life for years. It stemmed from a space of fear and a desire to control, but in many ways it felt like freedom. I got to indulge in whatever foods I wanted without seemingly paying the price.

As I entered my twenties I struggled to feel good about my appearance. I’d never been one of the pretty girls and I constantly searched for ways to improve how I looked, hoping that by doing so I’d be more likely to win approval from other people, usually men. I was so afraid of not fitting in. Of not being accepted. In those days I didn’t have the confidence or the awareness to recognize how warped the societal pressures for women are, and who really wins when we bow down to them.

By the time I got to my thirties I was newly-divorced and spiraling in a very unhealthy relationship. As soon as I left that relationship I tumbled straight into another one. I had no idea how to set a boundary for myself, or even what I enjoyed doing outside of seeking approval from men. I drank too much, smoked too much, and I was regularly at my doctor’s office with a stubborn UTI that wouldn’t shift. Everything felt out of control. But my weight was something I could control.

Bulimia allowed me to simultaneously seek pleasure and punish myself.

I’d binge-eat cookies and chocolate, sometimes melting them together in the microwave. I’d cram the sugary blend into my mouth and then force it all up again minutes later. My biggest fear was that someone would be in the house with me when I needed to purge and then I wouldn’t be able to make myself sick. It didn’t occur to me that I had an eating disorder. Those girls were stick thin and emaciated. I didn’t look that way.

When I wasn’t binging and purging I was restricting or tracking my food intake. I bought Weight Watchers meals and diligently added up my points each day. When I was still hungry I’d eat cherry tomatoes and cucumber slices from their approved list of zero-point foods. In the evenings I’d take a long bath to stop myself from snacking.

I’d weigh myself every single morning. The number on the scales was a way to measure not only my weight but my worth. I’d stare down at the dial and hold my breath in anticipation. My weight had plummeted but it wasn’t enough. A work friend told me that a colleague of ours thought my weight loss had “gone too far”. I was thrilled.

There was no hard or fast stop to the cycle of disordered eating that had become my norm, but by my mid-thirties a number of things began to shift.

I had sessions with a therapist, arranged for by my employers who were concerned about my health. I started to see a link between the way I spoke to myself and the way I harmed myself. I began taking yoga classes and found solace in having a spiritual practice. For the first time in my life I felt a connection to my body in an entirely different way.

I was also hospitalized with severe pancreatitis and hooked up to an IV for a week as my body tried to repair itself.

All of these things collided and became an awakening for me. It was hard to practice kindness and compassion to myself on my yoga mat and then punish my body with restricting or binging food afterwards. It didn’t make sense to make progress in my therapy sessions and then have no boundaries in my relationships. It was humbling to be critically ill in hospital and realize that I had been hurting myself in many ways for many years.

Over time, I tried to mend my relationship with food. The instances of binging and purging became less frequent. However, I was still monitoring my food intake and I was still weighing myself every morning. It wasn’t until I was planning a six month trip to India and my yoga teacher gently asked me whether I planned to lug bathroom scales around with me that I realized how terrifying it felt for me to be in my body without knowing what it weighed.

The next decade saw me doing a lot of self-enquiry and self-nurturing. As a writer and coach whose work was focused on helping women, I began to understand how many of us are caught up in a web of what the rest of the world wants. It doesn’t occur to us to center our own needs because we’ve never been shown we can.

As I started to lift the veil on diet-culture, I became much more aware of how deeply ingrained it is within our societies and how we’ve normalized commenting on weight to one another.

Like the way I’d been almost repeatedly congratulated for weight loss, even when I was at my unhealthiest, physically and mentally.

The conversations with friends about how we were “being good” by opting for low-fat or sugar-free versions of food.

The friend’s mom who sympathized about the recent bout of gastroenteritis I’d had and then smiled and said, “Great for weight loss though isn’t it?!”

The acquaintance who warned me against getting a cortisone shot to try to relieve intense sciatic pain saying “Be careful, you can put on weight with those.”

Our obsession with weight, which is not a world away from our obsession with youth, has us constantly chasing an imaginary idea of ourselves that will always be better than the body we’re in. We’re never allowed to simply be. There’s always something to strive for, slim down for, improve, minimize, erase. And we wonder why we’re so tired.

Which brings me back to the khaki pants.

I was going through my closet the other day and when I came across the pants that I hadn’t been sure about buying, I decided to try them on again. The tags were still on them, a testimony to my uncertainty about purchasing them in the first place, and as I went to button them up I noticed they were even more snug than they’d been in the fitting room last fall.

My heart sank and my brain scrambled to find a solution to this perceived problem. And just like magic, or muscle memory, the answer was right there.

You can restrict your food again. You can eat less. You can take up less space.

And then.

No. No fucking way. We don’t do that anymore.

I’m not sure why I refer to myself in a plural sense when my compassionate inner voice rises up to meet my critical inner voice, but I do. Maybe because I’m speaking to my body and my mind. Or maybe because I’m speaking to me at 49, 33, 18, 11 and every other age that the world convinced me I wasn’t good enough. I might not have a complete handle on my relationship with food, or my body-image, but I know one thing for sure: I’m not going back.

I’ve managed to mend some things. It’s been a very long time since I’ve made myself sick. A decade, I think. Although the thought still crosses my mind from time to time. Like it did two weeks ago when I ate a Hershey’s bar, marshmallows, popcorn and cookies as I tried to satisfy a sudden sugar craving. The shame snuck up on me afterwards, catching me off-guard, offering me a way out. We don’t do that anymore, I reminded myself and I went for a walk and called my husband instead.

I still weigh myself almost every day. It’s not something I’m especially proud of but I refuse to be ashamed of it, either. That’s what diet-culture does. It has us measuring and pressuring ourselves in every possible way, and then it has us hating ourselves for getting stuck in such a miserable cycle.

I’m not sure that I’ll ever reach an entirely peaceful place when it comes to my body, or the food I put in it. But what I care most about is that I’m honest with myself. And kind to myself. And patient.

I’m the young girl who thought she had look a certain way in order to be accepted. I’m the middle-aged woman with half a century’s worth of conditioning about my body. And somewhere, between the two, I’m figuring out how to meet myself with love.

P.S. I’m getting rid of the khaki pants.

Thank you for taking the time to read this piece. I had no idea I was going to write it. In fact, I’ve been struggling a bit to find my words lately. But I really wanted to connect with you because it keeps me going, and I hope there’s some value here for you, too. If you’d like to share anything with me in the comments then I’d love to hear from you.

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