Body Image

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.”

Running away from myself

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Today, I completed my first running race. I faced down the heat in Lycra – from a time when my curves were in check. A time before babies, middle age and cookie love.

I had been halfheartedly training since January, pushing my lazy limbs to go further. Always horribly un-sporty, PE was my torment. I’d do anything to avoid it – fake notes and trimonthly periods – just to avoid being picked last.

I’d always longed to be lissom limbed, one of those ‘netball girls’ – flowing hair, pout and perky tits. However my self doubt, tragic perm and heavy thighs, left me on the sidelines.

I’ll never forget one sports day, circa 1990, trudging the field to the starters spot. Teenage eyes followed me, the chorus of “cauliflower head” filling the air. I’d go on to stumble in that sprint, skinning my knees in front of the chanters – kids can be shits sometimes.

Years of self loathing stretched out before me. Maudlin, patchouli scented, diary angst, with Indie ballads on repeat. Then came the diets, the overexercising, torturing myself by leafing through magazines. Comparing, always comparing – never thin enough, pretty enough, fun enough; it’s the curse of the perfectionist you see.

Fast forward a few decades and here I am, one June day getting ready for the Hull 10k. With a husband, a pre-schooler and a career of sorts, you could say I’ve come along way. Yet as I board the bus and pin on my race number, I swell with doubt. Should I be here? Am I good enough? Can I do this?

At the start line, the surging crowd pushes me forward. The sun burns as the music booms and runners jockey for position. Then we’re off! My feet find their rhythm, the muscle memory, the release. I feel invincible for a moment, the river breeze lifts me. Then, as we round the bend, the heat strikes, the thirst, the leaden legs; I’m back on the sports field with a stitch.

But a miracle happens – out of nowhere I dig a little deeper, dragging myself around the marina. Hitting the town centre, I feel I might actually do this. As sweat pours, I imagine laughing in the face of that gym teacher, who smirked as I fell.

I stumbled on jelly legs, as I passed 7k, 8k and 9k markers. The bystanders thronged, cheering us – the weary and wasted. Every inch of me ached, my lungs were on fire. Unexpectedly, a sob rose in me, nearly throwing me off course. Just then, I remembered the girl that hated herself, that denied the body that was powering me now.

Suddenly, the last yards were upon me, I saw the finish line ahead. Like some bizarre, ‘Chariots of Fire’ moment the elation kicked in and I began to run. I ran and I ran and then, just like that, I had done it!

As I hung my medal round my neck, I felt exhausted but elated. I returned home a little lighter, leaving a past self on the kerbside, where city streets meet. A sadder, teen self, in too baggy clothes and torn inside. In that moment, I felt strong, I felt proud of the body that had carried me through.