Why Ageing Doesn't Scare Me

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

A friend suggested I write about ageing. I don't know if I'm the right person to write about it. I'm not scared of getting older. And maybe I'm too young to think about ageing, at least 38 in my world is still young. I don't resonate with labels like "a middle-aged woman", which I guess applies to me. I'm scared of my parents getting older, my daughter getting older, and the people and places around me changing. 

I don't always notice my own ageing. But when I look at my daughter's tiny hands, the little feet that need yet another pair of shoes, or the pants that are too short again, my heart skips a beat. Time is a thief. It's not the ageing itself I fear, but the fleeting beauty of these moments as they slip away, becoming just memories. I'm scared of forgetting them. Maybe that's why I've always loved writing and keeping a diary, so nothing is completely lost. Of course, it still is.

When I turned 33, I found myself in a dark place. I felt like my life was over. I hadn't achieved the things I thought I would by that point, and they seemed so far out of reach, like they weren't even possible anymore. I thought it was too late for me. Looking back, I feel so much compassion for that version of myself. I still haven't accomplished many things I once thought were important, but I'm no longer chasing them. I can feel that they're coming, but in ways I can't control or even imagine just yet. Every day, I'm focused on working toward what truly matters to me, and that's what feels most important now. Right now, I'm excited about everything that lies ahead. I'm just getting started.

I'm a year away from forty, an age that for women often marks the end of their youth. At least that's what the society tells us. It's middle age, and perhaps half of life is gone. Hide your legs, put your cleavage away and chop off your hair. I feel more gorgeous than ever despite losing much of my natural beauty - my hair, my eyebrows, my eyelashes. But being beautiful is a feeling (this sounded like a line from a shampoo ad). I'm more confident than ever. It's a quiet confidence that doesn't scream or beg for approval; it's a warm feeling in my belly that smirks to itself, thinking back to all the challenging moments that built my character. I've seen some ugly parts of myself and made peace with it. I'm no longer looking for my purpose, not trying to be somebody else. I can only imagine how young and free I feel when I hit fifty. 

Western society tends to glorify youth and immaturity, often overlooking the value of ageing and wisdom. Stories about older, wise characters are frequently seen as less compelling, with flawed, immature protagonists usually taking centre stage. The ideal of beauty is polished and youthful, while wrinkles and grey hair, especially for women, are something to hide. Once you no longer look like a Barbie doll, take a back seat. You become a wise crow, still valuable, but no longer the beautiful lover.

When I visit Balmoral Beach, one of Sydney's poshest neighbourhoods, with its scenic views, upscale homes and beautiful shoreline, I can't help but stare at the ladies in their seventies. They sit by the Boathouse, wearing linen dresses that probably cost more than someone's weekly rent, stirring their lattes with perfectly manicured fingers, making me hide mine in my pockets. Their smiles are effortless, framed by the bold red of their lipstick. I sigh. They are gorgeous and most certainly have lived a very different life than my grandparents' generation in Estonia, who survived the Second World War, hunger, and collapsing political systems. Financial insecurity can make people age faster, that's for sure. Worries take away your glow. 

I don't have any age-based rules for myself. I'm still hungry. I don't want to just chill and watch Netflix for the rest of my life. But my desire to create no longer comes from needing to validate my worth. I still crave adventure and tolerate discomfort. I still want to backpack and sleep in hostels. I still dream of long road trips and unwrapping homemade sandwiches from the cling film. I prefer wearing seashells around my neck to gold jewellery. I still try to beat my personal best in 5K races and get upset each time I don't. When I don't recover from training as quickly as I used to, I wonder if I'm getting sick—and choose denial instead. The ageing of the body is real. 

I go on swings not because my daughter wants me to but because I remember the thrill. And then I get nauseous. That's when I can't deny my age. Of course, I'm ageing. We all are from the moment we're born. But I wonder, at what point do we start seeing ageing as a construct? When do we start identifying with our age? Is it when our physical appearance changes, our health starts to decline, or our minds begin to choose comfort over possibility, the known over the unknown?

Whenever I thought that I was so settled and that everything was sorted and harmonious, life punched me in the face and reminded me how foolish I was to think that way. Sudden relationship breakdowns, job losses, and the collapse of belief systems—it's all happened so often that I no longer have the arrogance to believe that how my life is set up right now will stay this way. And even though change can often be terrifying, I love the thrill of surprise.

In numerology, there are nine-year cycles. Nine, as the year of endings, can burn everything to the ground and make space for something new. I'm not sure if I fully believe in it, but I'm in my ninth year right now, and when I look back at other endings of the cycle, I'm too scared to dismiss it as nonsense. Every nine-year cycle has brought monumental changes to my life.

I don't believe there's a specific age when we should start calling someone "old." Life is made up of different phases, each with different priorities and themes that take centre stage. They all matter. I'm not scared of turning forty. In fact, I’m hoping I might finally get my s*it together.