Recently, while on a flight to Chicago, a young woman in her twenties referred to me as “Ma’am.” I was headed to a reunion with a remarkable group of women, who, years ago in graduate school, playfully dubbed themselves the Dowagers—although at the time, we were hardly dowagers. I was among the oldest in our program, yet still only in my 30s. Back then, “Ma’am” was a title reserved for someone much older.
However, on that plane, a bright-eyed blonde with smooth skin deemed “Ma’am” appropriate for me. Although I had encountered this title before, there was something unsettling about her polite demeanor. “Excuse me, Ma’am,” she said as she maneuvered past me, treating me with a caution that suggested I was fragile.
In that moment, I wasn’t invisible to her, but rather perceived as someone who belonged to a different generation. Someone older.
I chuckled about the incident at our Dowager reunion that weekend, sharing the story on social media with disbelief. Can you believe it? Me, a “Ma’am.” What a naive girl, mistaking middle age for old age. Yet, despite the laughter, a knot formed in my stomach as I considered my reflection—hollows and wrinkles that betrayed my youthful spirit. In my mind, I still saw a face untouched by time; I was still learning about life, not a relic from another era.
I had felt older than my classmates back in grad school, many of whom were fresh out of college. They were embarking on their first significant life journeys, following dreams that had been kindled since childhood to become writers. I was pursuing my own dream, one that had emerged later in life after realizing my prior career as an entertainment lawyer was a mistake.
The Dowagers were formed during my second year in graduate school. We were not significantly younger than I was, having all navigated different careers as ad executives, journalists, and even lawyers. Most were married, and one was expecting a child. They were intelligent, witty, and generous. Despite my constant travels between Iowa City and Los Angeles, where my fiancé lived, I felt a deeper connection with these women than anyone else in the program. We were “dowagers” not due to age, but because of our shared experiences and wisdom.
Years later, during our reunion in Chicago, we had indeed moved closer to embodying the true definition of “dowager.” Our hair was grayer, our faces bore more lines, and while we had become the writers we had always aspired to be, we also embraced roles as wives, mothers, and mentors. We carried the weight of more life experiences—both triumphs and setbacks—and had learned to navigate our fears, though we were more cautious than before. Yet, the intrinsic beauty and humanity of each woman remained unchanged.
Despite my acceptance of aging, the term “Ma’am” still haunts my restless nights. I enjoy the freedoms that come with age, like not fixating on appearances or others’ opinions. I relish the emergence of my unapologetic self. However, the insecurities of youth linger—doubts about my worth, the quest for validation from my parents, and the longing for reassurance from my father and mother in times of uncertainty.
I never anticipated feeling so youthful while confronting the realities of aging. The echoes of my past selves swirl within me: the little girl who thought she could end parental conflicts through perfection; the young adult who relentlessly pursued an unattainable ideal until it became her undoing; the middle-aged woman who abandoned a safe path to chase a passion that doesn’t pay the bills, marrying a kind man who embraces her flaws; and the mother whose son comforts her during her meltdowns, saying, “Let’s start the day over, Mommy.”
The nights of anxiety remind me of the joy and camaraderie shared with the Dowagers in Chicago. We exchanged stories about parenting, love, and the balancing act of career and family. We laughed and reveled in moments of levity, even when discussing topics that made us ponder the messages we send to our children about respect and understanding. After all the fun, we returned to one of the Dowager’s homes, indulging in YouTube clips of the original Magic Mike, reminding ourselves of the magic of youth and the lessons of age.
Both youth and age coexist within me, and I can’t simply discard parts of either. Each day, I grapple with the myriad layers of my childhood, youth, and middle age, along with the inevitable years that lie ahead. Perhaps the true gift of aging lies in the acceptance that all our years—both the good and the bad—remain within us, shaping who we are today.
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Summary
The author reflects on an encounter with a young woman who called her “Ma’am,” prompting thoughts about aging, identity, and the passage of time. Memories of her graduate school days with the Dowagers resurface, revealing the complexities of youth and age. Through the lens of friendship and shared experiences, she contemplates the struggles and joys of motherhood, career, and the acceptance of one’s evolving self.