Dear Midlife Woman: Nobody is Looking Out for You

You're on your own kid—you always have been.

It’s because I was featured in the Empress. I’m not calling *myself* an Empress, you guys.

Before I begin this post that feels decidedly angry (Does female rage make you uncomfortable? Maybe sit this one out, friend), I have to say that something extraordinary happened last week. ICYMI, I had the exquisite honor of being featured in

Alisa Kennedy Jones

’ gorgeous publication,

THE EMPRESS

. You can read that post here, in which I unabashedly fangirl over

Maggie Smith

,

Elissa Bassist

, and

lyz

but here’s a little blurb so we can start from the vantage point of midlife Empress glory:

1. What is your idea of perfect midlife happiness?

I’ve actually put quite a bit of thought into the recipe for my midlife happiness. My Maybelline ad would go something like this: “Maybe she’s born with it? Maybe it’s Concerta, estrogen, progesterone, micro-dosed mushrooms, and therapy.”

I need the perfect balance of alone time to write and work and time with people I adore. I need 8.5 hours of sleep and perfectly regulated hormones. I need the right formula of ADHD meds and all my witchy tinctures. I need weekly IFS therapy. I need my neurodivergent women's household—me, my two badass teenage daughters, and our quirky rescue dog Winnie—with our audacious colorful walls, whimsical thrifted art, and unruly wildflowers. I need to know that I am loved because I am wild and loud and honest and emotional and sensitive—not in spite of it.

2. Which empress, queen, goddess, or mythical figure do you most identify with?

Right now I am resonating hard with the Wild Woman archetype—the one that threads through our lives from maiden, through mother, into Queen, and all the way to crone. She is the energy that represents who we are at our core. She is the voice that we sometimes block out on our trip between childhood and cronedom. And she is the one who will save us if only we are brave enough to listen to her fierce, gorgeous whisper.

A few other cool things happening:

• I’d love for you to check out this prompt-based spring workshop by the queen of writing prompts herself,

  Jena Schwartz
  , as well as our community of midlife women writers, MidCircle.

• I’m producing LTYM Boulder this Sunday, and it’s one of my favorite days of the year. I’m reading a story about single motherhood this year, and I feel extra proud and tender. I would love to have some of my non-local friends and readers cheering us on from afar! You can grab a livestream/recording ticket and watch it from your couch—pants and cocktails optional.

So, back to my aforementioned anger.

Death by a thousand misogynistic cuts

I am angry, my friends. For a million reasons, because of a million little death-provoking cuts. For the past 18 months, I’ve marinated in the culture of late-diagnosed neurodivergent women. I often say that I hold no ill will towards the people who missed the fact that I had ADHD for 45 years—caregivers, teachers, doctors, therapists. I mean, we do the best we can with the knowledge we have, and back in the day, nobody knew shit about girls with ADHD, or really, about girls at all.

But for today, let’s just scratch that. I am angry. I am angry that disruptive little boys were on the public radar but daydreamy, highly sensitive little girls were not. I am angry that nobody had any idea I was lost in my own thoughts and that constantly snapping back to panicked attention caused a million tiny traumas that hijacked my nervous system for pretty much the rest of my life.

I am angry that not one physician or therapist ever said, “You know what? I think you might be neurodivergent. I think you may actually have ADHD.” I did have one male therapist comment that I presented a little “hypomanic” when he first met me. I am furious that he did not have a paradigm in which to understand me better. It wasn’t his fault. But it’s somebody’s fault. (You guessed it! The patriarchy, that delightful structure under which all women reside, pretending that society, the government, religion, and maybe our own partners, don’t actually hate us, fear us, and suppress us.)

I am angry that I am 46 years old and have gained over 30 pounds in the past few years and that no doctor has wondered about that. Probably because I am 5’11 and I can “carry it,” because I dress well, because I am still a relatively healthy weight, so who cares?

It doesn’t matter that my hips hurt more, my autoimmune swallowing disorder flares, my clothes don’t fit, I feel more tired, and let’s get to the heart of it, shall we? I don’t like it. There. I’m saying the thing that will put me on the hit list of body positive culture: I liked it better when I was skinny. Listen, I’ll just go ahead and cancel myself.

The fact that I want to lose weight when I “look fine” reeks of “skinny privilege” and ladies whining about fake problems, doesn’t it? Because that’s another trap we can’t avoid: Men want us to be skinny and beautiful because that’s our purpose in life, but if we complain that we aren’t happy at our weight, other women come after us with pitchforks for being anti-body positivity and fat-shaming.

And it doesn’t matter that vanity is not at the heart of this issue (but what if it was?)—the fact is, I simply don’t function as well carrying the extra weight (which descended upon me around the same time the metaphorical weight of the world arrived on the heels of divorce—welcome to the party, there’s a comfy booth for you right under my navel!). My weight gain, and my discomfort with it, is instantly banished and dismissed as me buying into diet culture rather than identifying it for what it is: an indicator that things are not right in my body hormonally and chemically.

Which signals a larger problem here: My weight gain has to do with something that the entire world does not give a fuck about: perimenopause and what it does to women.

Not one physician said to me as I slid into my late thirties—brace yourself, the next decade could be tricky. They did not tell me to watch out for my family history of diabetes, that even though I was skinny and healthy and exercised, it could still tap me on the shoulder when I least expected it. They did not talk to me about insulin resistance and its relationship to hormone shifts. They did not talk about cortisol or blood sugar; they did not give a shit about my progesterone levels or my estrogen or that only edibles helped me sleep. Not my family doctor or endocrinologist or gynecologist or the male functional medicine doctor who didn’t really listen to me.

Nobody wondered if maybe the insane cortisol production of my high-conflict divorce might fuck with my hormones or insulin sensitivity. I was left to blame all my problems on stress: Of course I gained weight/was tired and achy/ didn’t sleep well, felt insane/had night sweats/was as irritable and moody as Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. It was stress! Stress! Oh my god, we are all so stressed, aren’t we? Of course you feel like shit—you became a full-time single parent overnight! Hang in there, mama! You’ve got this! Do I, Janice?

“Your divorce does sound rough, but remember, the first year is the hardest! This is just the way it is. Also, you wanted this, remember? I mean, men usually react badly, and there’s really nothing you can do about it.”

Mammograms and colonoscopies are the primary focus of preventative medicine in women—I mean, cancer is a big deal so of course they matter. Whether or not we feel good? Stop complaining about unimportant things. But fortunately we are on top of hair loss and erectile dysfunction for men—phew!

Ready to transition to the counter-argument? Here we go.

I was at the airport last week and a blond woman in front of me was wearing a backpack with a patch that read “Nobody owes you shit.” Her bleach-blond bun, expensive shoes, fit body, and classic beauty told me a story whose truth I’ll never know. Maybe she overcame adversity I’ll never understand and is here to preach resilience to the masses! But I find it a tad problematic that someone who has the privilege of:

• whiteness

• skinniness

• wealth

• beauty

should be telling folks that the world doesn’t owe them shit. One could argue that I fall into that camp, at least peripherally. As such, I would never walk around proclaiming that the world doesn’t owe you shit. And do you know why? Because that message is straight-up white/cis/hetero/not-poor/male/patriarchal BULLSHIT.

The Religion of Toxic Bootstraps

Who do you think invented the “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” mentality? Now listen, dear reader, I don’t actually know, but I suspect it was a man. A person who was born with at least a small stack of privileges already in place: a dick, cis/hetero gender identity and orientation, some money, and white skin. (I was right—just fact-checked and it was popularized by Horatio Alger, so that tracks.)

Everybody else who’s whining about how it isn’t fair? Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, bitch! Suck it up, buttercup! The world doesn’t owe any of us anything! Not sure what YOUR problem is, because I’m doing just fine over here.

Yes, of course you are, Frank. Probably because you’re a really thoughtful, enlightened, gifted, compassionate, equality-driven man. Bless.

If the world begins to offer favors (by “favors” I mean “giving any variety of shit”) about women, people of color, the queer community, or poor people, what on earth would happen to the Toxic Bootstraps Brigade? Well, that just wouldn’t be fair to them, would it?

This post deserves two Taylor Swift quotes. Did you notice the other one?

Listen. It’s true: that your doctor/teacher/government/community/family may not be looking out for you. I don’t think it’s fair, but it is true. You have to know the secret knock if you want to feel good, midlife woman. But that’s nothing new, is it? It’s been your reality since you were a child. The world is more interested in policing your menstrual cycles and uterus, urging you to have babies, and telling you to STFU about: sexual harassment, assault, gender roles, unequal pay, a completely fucked marriage institution, a lack of affordable childcare, and the fact that you inhale cortisol and exhale rage than it is about your brain and your body.

STFU, midlife woman. If you want to feel good, it’s going to be a full-time job. Nobody is looking out for you. You’re going to have to read a million books—one for every microtrauma you’ve endured—and then listen to a million podcasts. Then you can go to your doctor/therapist/minister/partner with what you’ve learned just so that they can scoff and accuse you of being a hypochondriac who self-diagnosed from WebMD and you shouldn’t believe everything you read, and honestly, you think a podcaster knows more than THEY do?

They aren’t going to help you, and they don’t want you to help you either. Because then they look stupid or unqualified or unethical or like an asshole. Don’t you know how irresponsible it is to ask ChatGPT medical questions? What? Chat is more thorough and respectful to you than any human you’ve spoken to? Hmmm.

It’s quite the double bind, isn’t it midlife woman?

How are we going to get out of it? Probably by pulling ourselves up by the bootstraps, I guess. Because let’s be honest, nobody owes us shit.

In love and rage,
Steph

P.S. Please leave me a comment with the following:

1. Did you find the two Taylor Swift lyrics?

2. Are you in perimenopause?

3. Are you a late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman?

4. Do you want to smash the patriarchy and burn shit to the ground?

5. Can we be friends?

P. P. S. I built a brand new website where you can learn about Redacted and my call for submissions, work 1:1 with me, find my podcast, and attend my workshops and shows. Please go check it out; it took me for-fucking-ever. ❤️❤️❤️