Self-acceptance

I’m lying on a sun lounger mourning my lost youth

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It’s summer 2019 and I’m lying on a lounger staring at a Cretan sea. Around me the beach life thrums. Fit boys and girls bop to a tinny pop tune. I’m pretending to read but tears pool behind my shades.

I should be HAPPY. We’re away, we’re together, others are less lucky… I berate myself between chugs of tepid water. An adonis comes for the sun bed fee – I mumble in Greek except he’s looking anywhere but here.

I am HOT – must be 90 degrees. Sweat pools at my back and belly. I’ve no patience for sunning and I need a wee. I’m trying to ignore the thought of strangers melting on this bed before me. I reach for the suncream.

Bronzed girls run past, a whirl of giggles, their barely there swimsuits struggling to hold onto curves. I suck my tummy in, hide myself beneath a bikini past it’s prime.

What is WRONG with me? I try to breathe it out. But I’m buttoned up tight; I feel invisible. I want to shout, at the top of my lungs, “I’m still here!!” Instead, I reread the same line.

Once I was an English rose. My fairness drew compliments like confetti, “Meryl Streep!” they’d fawn. But (oh the irony) I thought I was ‘ugly.’ They say “The youth is wasted on the young,” and they’d be right.

Only now, looking back at old snaps, I see my beauty. How I missed the chance to flaunt it – the nectar to bee pull of it. My firm, line-free skin taunts me from history – “Look how you shone!”

Is it true? Am I passed it? Or am I stewing in self pity. A midlife meltdown maybe? I’ll buy a sports car, dye my hair, surrender to the needle, anything to banish this creeping age.

And then she arrives, a goddess in green, grey hair piled high, movie star shades – smoothing a sarong over lounger. She is magnificent. The beach takes a breath, as she lays down.

Catlike she preens, people pause, lips loosening. But she gives no f*cks about onlookers. Instead, she eyes the ocean like a hungry mermaid. And then she stands. People sly peek over papers as she strides to the sea.

Then from nowhere, a singsong voice and water sprinkles, “Mummy! Come on!” And he’s pulling me out of my malaise. Tugging me free of thoughts, as we hot foot over stones to the waters edge.

And so we dive – the cool steals my breath. In that moment I am happy. I look for the lady in green but she is far away, powering towards horizon. I lie back in the water, my ears submerge and beach hum fades. Finally I’m at peace – at peace with myself.

Why does society scorn the ageing female? It’s time to push back!

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It’s past midnight, and I’m social scrolling when I should be sleeping. Night sweats have lured me back to my phone.

As the dog snores beside me I flick through a blur of celebrity ‘tell all’s’ and ‘life crashes.’ My eyes brim as I’m hit by a flood of bile.

Headlines hum with hate. Not for corrupt MPs, global ecocide or social injustice – hate for the ‘ageing’ female. Hate for the ‘hags’ who fail to stop the clock.

“The SHAME of Natalie Portman’s Lost Looks,” “Jennifer Aniston Let’s Greys SHOW.” “Reece Witherspoon Looks OLD.” “Oprah Got FAT.”

“Ugly!” “Worn Out!” “Washed Up!” – this is the media mantra stinging my eyes and stoking my ire. This is 21st century ageism in action – this is misogyny unmasked.

It seems in the west women are not ALLOWED to age. We’re not permitted to accept our fading looks with good grace and live out our lives.

Instead, we must yoke onto ‘youth.’ We must submit to needles of toxins in our faces. We must buy potions. We must diet, dye and cry.

We should CRY endlessly for our lost youths. We should stew in the shame of sands slipping through hourglass. We should hanker after the past not the future.

From the age of 35 our core mission is to outrun the conveyor of life. To kid ourselves we can retain the glow of youth – rather than accept the truth.

The truth that we ARE ageing. That, despite the world’s infatuation with ‘staying young,’ we’re growing older. We cannot go back in time, only forward.

So we become the victims of the ad men selling faux elixirs to turn back clocks. Rather than embracing now we hold a flame for yesterday.

As a middle aged woman, it’s easy to feel beaten down by this rhetoric. As hormonal symptoms creep you can feel obsolete. You can look in the mirror and feel shame not love.

But what if we refuse to let society taint our ageing years? What if we say “F*ck you!” to the youth obsessed commentators? What if we opt to LOVE our selves. To trace our lines, stroke our greys and cradle our loosening skin.

Because to reach midlife and beyond is a gift that not everyone unwraps. We owe it to those who fall short of the milestone to relish this chapter – to embrace our elderhood.

This is the rallying cry of Dr Sharon Blackie’s transformational book, Hagitude: Reimagining The Second Half of Life. This riveting read exposes how western society has derided our value as vibrant, older women. She explores how once revered female elders have been marginalised over time.

How, across centuries the patriarchy got rattled by women’s potency. How our primal connection with nature, healing and the spirit world marked us out. And so we were burned at stakes, chained to sinks and denied a voice…until we pushed back!

And this moment to push back has returned. It’s time to reclaim the narrative on ageing and reject this media misogyny. No digital channel has the right to govern our self esteem. We must reject these headlines of hate.

As vibrant, older women it’s time to step into our power and steal the oxygen from ageism. Let’s seek out role models and archetypes that celebrate life’s journey. Let’s reconnect with our needs and desires. Let’s run towards our older years with hunger and with hope.

In the rallying words of Blackie (2022) “There can be a perverse pleasure, as well as a sense of rightness and beauty, in insisting on flowering just when the world expects you to become quiet and diminish.”

Oh middle age blues

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How did I get here this near half of 90? This middle age, mid-life, midway. How do I feel when I look in the mirror; lines feather eyes, the upturn of mouth.

Society idolises the beauty of youth. Airbrushed Venus’ pout from our screens. We fight the years – buy pills and potions for fear of the ‘after.’

Middle age taunts us like a laughing clown. We run from its mirth to plough pool and pound pavement. We fight the loosening of skin that we poured into lycra.

As milestone birthdays pass it’s easy to fall into the slough. From experience, dodge the photo album’s lure – this only leads to weeping over wine.

At this middle age we can either hark back or look forward. It’s a moment to choose a cup half full versus empty. But its tempting to dwell in self pity, on the beach, in my mumsuit as bronzed nymphs breeze by – oh!

Yet we can’t turn back time. There’s still life to live. Those younger years weren’t all halcyon. My skin was smoother but insecurities hung like the beads around my neck.

I’m beginning to see that in ageing we lose and we gain. In accepting ourselves right here, right now we can start to reframe. We can map a new path.

For there’s strength in my life experience. There’s beauty in the evidence I have laughed. There’s a power in my self-knowledge – in the history that I own.

Middle age, indeed any age is bitter sweet. But life is there for living every day. It’s what we choose to do with it that counts. So I’m hanging up my hang ups. I’m saying bye bye to yesterday. I’m running towards the future with hope in my heart.