Parenting
I Think I’m a Walking Middle-Aged Stereotype by Emily Carter
Updated: Aug. 4, 2021
Originally Published: Aug. 4, 2021
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: entering my 40s is a bizarre experience. It’s both freeing and frightening, exhilarating yet isolating, and endlessly puzzling while also providing clarity. And that’s just scratching the surface of the emotional rollercoaster. The physical transitions? Absolutely wild—thanks, perimenopause.
I always understood that my body would undergo changes as I approached “middle age.” I’ve seen my mother, aunts, and their friends navigate this phase. I’ve read articles and listened to countless conversations about it. Yet, I was still unprepared for the reality of it.
Just the other day, I glanced at my knees and was genuinely taken aback by their new, fragile appearance. My skin resembled a crumpled old piece of homework that had been chewed by a dog, shoved to the back of my kid’s backpack, and then re-flattened. What the heck? When did this transformation occur?
Perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised, but I am. I’m both fascinated and horrified, if I’m being honest. But then I recall the stories and conversations about the chaotic 40s, and I realize, to my astonishment: I am now a middle-aged cliché.
I find myself battling both wrinkles and breakouts—at the same time. This would be manageable if not for the relentless marketing messages that exploit our insecurities day in and day out, insisting we must combat those wrinkles, revive our dull hair, and consider Botox. Can we just catch a break?
I often wake up at 2 a.m., drenched in sweat, with my mind racing: Did I turn off the oven? Why did I say that embarrassing thing a decade ago? Are my kids glued to their screens? And why can’t I get “Driver’s License” by Olivia Rodrigo out of my head? I don’t even know the words, but it’s on repeat. Oh great, my teenager is about to start driving. That means we need a second car, more insurance, and I might need a stronger prescription!
Sometimes, the anxiety at 2 a.m. is so intense I can hardly breathe. Middle age brings night sweats and panic attacks, leading to constant fatigue. I look tired all the time—because I am. Just like every other middle-aged mom throughout history.
Not only do I appear exhausted, but I look angry too. My resting face has taken on a new persona, and I’m too worn out to correct it. People often ask, “Why do you look so angry?” and I’ll think, I wasn’t mad—until now. During one particularly long Zoom day, I realized how much effort I was putting into not looking upset. And I thought, ENOUGH. I’m done trying to mold my expression to fit societal expectations.
This brings me to another middle-aged truth: we’re over the nonsense. We’ve had enough of things that don’t matter—because so much doesn’t. I find myself muttering “who cares” frequently. Who cares if I have my dream job? Who cares if my waistline has expanded? Who cares if I get another tattoo or dye my hair a wild color? Who cares what I wear? Who cares about my wrinkles or what I share on social media? Who cares? Is “who cares” the new mantra of middle age?
Yet, I do care deeply about many things. I care about fighting against sexism, dismantling racism, and advocating for women to embrace aging on their own terms. I care about raising compassionate and kind children. There’s so much to care about, but there’s also an overwhelming amount of nonsense everywhere I turn. My expectations have risen, and my patience for nonsense has diminished, leaving me feeling disappointed—both in others and myself when I fall short of my ideals. I often feel angry. Is it hormones? The flaws of humanity? Who knows?
That anger lingers just beneath the surface. Why am I so irritable? Sometimes I feel like I might explode or curl up and cry for hours. And sometimes, I experience both emotions within moments of each other.
But along with the anger comes immense joy and gratitude that I can hardly process. I realize life is fleeting, precious, and beautiful. And oh my gosh, I’m already halfway through it! Cue the panic—am I doing it all wrong? Am I squandering my life? Am I missing out on seizing each day? Cue the nighttime anxiety.
Middle age is rife with contradictions and confusion. It’s bewildering yet liberating, fun, and empowering. I feel like a walking middle-aged stereotype, all while being incredulous that this is my reality. No, not just for me—it’s simply a part of my life now.
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