Today is my birthday. I’m 42 years of age.
Now before anyone says (and we’ve all said these things):
“You don’t look your age”
“Still got it”
“Who’s your dermatologist?”
or something similar… I would like to invite a different conversation around age.
I’m in a process of continually embracing and normalizing my experience in my body, and celebrate beauty at any age. To be open to ourselves, and others – contemporaries, those older, and those younger. I think it’s empowering to talk about age. Aging is part of the cyclical process, and should be, and can become normalized. I think it’s self-diminishing to lie about one’s age, because it reinforces the idea that a woman’s worth is in her youthfulness – a feat that is biologically impossible to sustain, one that fuels the economy but creates empty, fearful women forever shamed and trapped in the energetic currents of maidenhood. It robs us of the opportunity to step fully into all facets of the Triple Goddess, and the power of Mother and Crone as archetypes cannot be activated when we are fixated on preserving youthfulness.
I want (and need) to see women older than I am who are proud of their age, their evolving bodies, the histories written on their skin and form. I need to be shown this not by one brave woman, but by sisters near and far who dare to embody beauty in a truly land-based, cycle-honouring way.
22 is sexy. 42 is sexy. 52 is sexy. 62 is sexy. 92 is sexy.
22 is powerful. 42 is powerful. 52 is powerful. 62 is powerful. 92 is powerful.
22 is fun. 42 is fun. 52 is fun. 62 is fun. 92 is fun.
22 is strong. 42 is strong. 52 is strong. 62 is strong. 92 is strong.
Though the statements above are not meant to say that the experience of a 22 year old is the same as one in their nineties, as each age presents its distinct characteristics, I reject the idea that looking younger is more desirable. The terms ‘middle age’, ‘old’, or ‘aging’ are not pejorative, and to think so is actually violent. I intend to say that being and looking 22, 42, 52, 62, and 92 are all my best years.
But it still mostly exists in my internal conversations. I want to see it outside of myself in the masses whenever I look on IG or a copy of Vogue and see real women who have truth-telling voices, piercing eyes, proud smiles, loosening skin, greying hair, and glowing hearts.
I am in my forties. I’m my age. I own my age. I own myself.
PS. If this resonates, check out my On-Demand E-Course, DECOLONIZING AGING
founder, spirit communicator + shamanic intuitive