Updated: Aug. 4, 2021
Originally Published: Aug. 4, 2021
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I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: entering your 40s is a strange experience. It’s a mix of liberation and dread, joy and solitude, clarity and confusion, all at once. And that’s just the emotional side. The physical transformations? Total madness. (Thanks, perimenopause.)
I was aware that my body would undergo changes as I approached “middle age.” I’d witnessed my mother, aunts, and their friends go through it. I had read about it and listened to countless stories. But knowing and experiencing are two different things, and I clearly wasn’t ready for what was coming.
Just the other day, I caught a glimpse of my knees and was genuinely taken aback by how papery they looked. My skin resembles a crumpled, dog-chewed homework page that somehow ended up at the bottom of my kid’s backpack, damp and wrinkled, then flattened out again. What the heck? When did this happen?
Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. It’s a mixture of fascination, astonishment, and a little horror, to be honest. Then I remind myself of the numerous tales I’ve heard about the chaotic 40s, and it hits me: I’ve become a walking middle-aged stereotype.
I’m dealing with both wrinkles and acne simultaneously. As if that’s not enough, marketers are relentless, preying on our insecurities every waking moment. They tell us we need to stop the wrinkles, that our hair is lifeless, all while pushing Botox treatments. Can we catch a break?
I often wake up at 2 a.m., drenched in sweat, my mind racing: Did I remember to turn off the oven? Why did I say that silly thing a decade ago? Are my kids spending too much time on their phones? Why can’t I shake off “Driver’s License” by Olivia Rodrigo? I don’t even know the words, yet it haunts me. Oh, great—my teenager is about to start driving. That means another car, more insurance, and I’ll need a stronger prescription for anxiety meds.
Sometimes the midnight panic is so intense that I struggle to breathe. Middle age brings night sweats and anxiety attacks that lead to daytime fatigue. I constantly look tired because, well, I am. Just like every middle-aged mom since the dawn of time.
Beyond looking fatigued, I also appear angry. My resting face has taken on a life of its own, and I’m too worn out to change it. People often ask, “Why do you look upset?” thanks to my RBF, and I find myself thinking, I wasn’t upset—until now. Thanks for that. Not long ago, probably during my 17th Zoom call of the day, I realized how much effort I was putting into not looking angry. And then I thought, ENOUGH. I’m done worrying about how to mold my face into a socially acceptable expression.
This brings me to another middle-aged cliché: we’ve had enough of the nonsense. So much just doesn’t matter anymore. I find myself muttering “who cares” frequently. Who cares if I have my dream job? Who cares if my waistline is expanding or my backside is flattening? Who cares if I get another tattoo or dye my hair a wild color? Who cares if I wear cowboy boots or sweatpants? Who cares about my wrinkles? Who cares what I share on social media? Who cares if I do the dishes or laundry? Who cares?
But deep down, I do care. I care about fighting sexism, dismantling racism, and allowing women to embrace aging gracefully. I care about raising empathetic and kind kids. There’s a lot that matters, and there’s nonsense everywhere. I’ve grown to expect more and tolerate less, which leaves me feeling disappointed in myself and others. Am I angry because of hormones? The flaws of humanity? Who knows?
That anger lingers beneath the surface, often overwhelming. Some days, I’m so furious I think I might explode, or I might curl up in the fetal position and weep for hours. Sometimes, it’s both within minutes.
Yet, amidst the anger, there’s also immense joy and gratitude that I struggle to process. Life is fleeting and beautiful, and suddenly, it feels like I’ve only experienced half of it. Cue the existential panic about whether I’m wasting my life on trivial matters. Cue the nighttime anxiety.
Middle age is a perplexing blend of contradictions. It’s confusing, yet also freeing and exhilarating. I feel like a middle-aged cliché, and at the same time, I’m stunned that this reality is mine. No, not just mine—this is who I am now.
If these stereotypes resonate with you, chances are, you’re experiencing them too.
For more on this topic, check out this article that dives into the complexities of midlife experiences. If you’re looking for information on conception, Make A Mom offers great resources. Additionally, Kindbody has valuable insights on pregnancy and home insemination.
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