Connecting when things get tough

There is always a way through you know

The last few weeks have been a bit tough- hence why I’ve been writing less on here. I think some of it is my age and having one of those big landmark birthdays - turning 50.

I love reading accounts (maybe not many but still there are some out there), of women who have turned 50, and suddenly entered a new stage of feeling confident, and ‘not giving any more fucks', but I’ve definitely felt turning 50 was rocky. In a culture where we often are in denial about our numerical age, it’s one of those numbers where you actually feel old (even if the incontinence pad ads try and convince you that you’re not).

I have noticed even when I watch The Housewives of Beverly Hills some of them are looking older. This isn’t an insult or a slur. It’s just you cannot disguise or youth-ify the way you walk you see. You can lift, and you can primp, and inject and dress things up but the walk is there. It is the walk of tiredness, the slight stoop, the unsteadiness and slowness to get up from chair to standing, that comes with a certain number of years on this planet (there may eventually be a walk transplant but I haven’t heard of such a thing just yet).

I have put on a stone and a half. This happened pretty much on the morning of my 50th birthday. I noticed that I had to pull my pants up over this paunch that had developed in a few hours. My jeans felt tight. I realised that when I was on Zoom calls I was cupping my stomach in one hand. It gave me comfort but it was also a feeling of shame, that I wanted to stop it getting any bigger than it was already. I am wearing glasses, not that there is anything wrong with that of course, but just that I’m not used to seeing my reflection wearing them. I look very much like my dad did. I can imagine him laughing at this. I look like his mother you see who also wore glasses and we resemble one another facially a lot. I miss the fact that he won't see me ageing. It seems a shame as it would have been fun for him to goad me in the same way I’d goaded him all his life about his age, his stuffiness, his lack of cool.

I sometimes walk towards a bus stop and think - Who is that old woman carrying my handbag? Who is she? My hands sometimes shake a little when I’m on the train and trying to get my headphones untangled from my laptop charger and instead of just thinking - whatever- it confirms the narrative in my brain that I am old, fat, and now have hands that can’t deal with fiddle-some things.

If I hear any record from the seventies, or eighties I get a lump in my throat.

I know it is mind over matter. I know it is but my mind keeps being pulled in this direction.

I think about death more than I used to. Images of my dad pop up in my head out of nowhere- the ones I am trying to forget because they’re not great images, and also nagging little compulsive thoughts (we used to play a game together when I was about ten years old, and I can’t remember the details but know it involved him writing things down with a pencil he kept in his top pocket). I can’t ask him about this game or what it was called because he’s not here anymore. I worry that this is what ageing means- things that nag at you from the past, but nobody to get answers from. Maybe this is why so many people talk to themselves as they age?

I am maudlin. It is mind over matter.

I had a bad job experience at work a few months back. This amplified the feelings I had that I was getting on a bit. My inner critic doubled down and I started to agree with some of the feelings I was having. Now without blowing my own trumpet TOO HARD, I have managed to publish 5 books, hosted a couple of podcasts and have developed an audience of sorts. I still felt like none of this measured up to much. All I was was an ageing woman with shaky hands. A woman who was curdled and not in her prime. The future would be more of the same perhaps.

Then about three weeks ago I was asked to be on a podcast about women and anger. I love being on podcasts, and the women on it looked cool, and I wasn’t properly prepared but something about this thing made me feel hopeful and I so I went on, and during the recording I realised that there was a connection with these women. I forgot about the bad things, the heavy things that had been weighing me down for a few minutes. They gave me hope. A lightness. On a simple level I wanted to be friends with them. I wanted to be in their company more often. I reached out to one who was a famous writer, and asked her if she’d be my mentor. I wasn’t quite sure what I meant or why I needed a mentor, but there was something inside that was telling me to risk it. The wonderful writer agreed.

She agreed and we started to talk and then another lovely woman too on the same podcast and it’s not like I don’t have friends, but meeting these women at this particular low point did something. It gave me hope. It gave me newness and reassured me that new things would keep happening and it wasn’t going to always feel like more of the same. It stopped me from focusing on the lacks. I was in fact still capable of building things, making connections, and taking risks. They talked to me as if I was someone who had dreams. I didn’t feel the need to hold my tummy in my hand as we spoke. I realised that I was simply looking for the negative, letting the inner critic double down instead of finding the good. Instead of dreaming. Instead of seeing the possibilities that can come with age.

Friendship, connection, inspiration, creativity- these are the things that matter. And if this post is trite, then so be it. Make plans. Look for evidence of good things. Reach out. Create newness.

The game that my dad and I played together still eludes me. I have only the feeling of being with him. If I think very very hard then I get that feeling. It’s pure. It’s comfort.

I will remember at some point. It may be much further along the way, it may be when I am sat in my retirement, and alone and talking to myself. But I will remember it and I will remember this experience too. The ability we have to pick ourselves up and move through the hard stuff. To keep going. To love.