The “Truths” They’re Selling About Midlife Are Bald-Faced Lies

The “truths” they’re selling about midlife are bald-faced lies.

But…I’ll admit that I used to buy into every single one of them.

They said midlife was about hot flashes.

And holy hell, no pun intended, I’ve been there. Sitting with my pup chawing on Big Hunks when a sudden warmth creeps through my torso, turning hotter and hotter until I’m gasping from lack of oxygen and afraid to open my mouth to let in any cool air, because I’ve watched Backdraft about a million times, so I know better.

They said it was about night sweats.

I’ve woken up with my yellow Dr. Seuss “One Fish, Two Fish” pajamas melded to my body like molten gold. Lying there panting while my aforementioned pup tried to lick the sweat from inside my mouth. It was all very Animal Farm meets Suzanne Somers without her yams in the Mojave Desert in August.

They said it was about mood swings.

I’ve sobbed uncontrollably while watching Call the Midwife even though I chose not to have children. Those emotions trying to knock. me. the f—out. And en route to sticking my head in the fridge for hot flash relief, leaving the remote control next to my beloved oat milk and raging for two hours while I searched for it.

I bought into all of it because that’s what society said I should buy. Along with Botox for the grooves on my forehead and the Lululemons for the body I’m supposed to want back. The supple one who gave too much and pushed through the exhaustion with “yes, of course” instead of “actually, no.” Apparently, there’s no use for the body I have now that’s whittled and scarred and aging.

A multi-billion-dollar industry built around selling us the lie that midlife is something to manage, minimize, or medicate.

But I’m no longer buying.

My pocketbook is empty for that kind of nonsense, but sadly it took a whole lot of loss— My father. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Friends. Pups. A beloved horse. And, my brother, just five years older than me, who fell into his own campfire.

As utterly devastating as that loss was, after the grief settled, I realized there were things I needed to burn, too. The idea that life goes on forever and there’s all the time in the world to do what I’ve always felt called to do. The notion that collecting all the shiny accolades would somehow make me feel worthy, finally. The fallacy that somehow what matters more is my appearance and not my soul.

Here’s what I’m buying these days.

Those hot flashes? They were the fire reigniting in my core. A reminder of what I’ve left undone as I spent the first half of my life building my career, giving everything to everyone at the expense of myself, and raising others up to show their brilliant light while I covered my own shine with a dusty old tarp that smelled faintly of cat piss. I needed that fire.

The emotions? Pure, unadulterated fuel and goldmines of information. Rage? My rickety boundaries have been crossed. Strengthen them. Say “no”…or say “yes” to myself. Grief? There’s something more I’m longing for that I’ve buried. Anxiety? Unused energy lying in wait for me to finally declare, it’s time.

Them sleepless nights, which usually involved the 3am wake-up and rumination around, is this it? Stark reminders. Wake up. Don’t fall asleep again. You have work to do.

I know this with pure certainty: Midlife isn’t a crisis. Midlife is a threshold.

Midlife isn’t asking you for management, minimization, or medication (though, I slap a patch on my ass once a week. No judgment.) Rather, it’s asking something more of you.

And if you can feel that, even a little, you’re already standing at the edge of it.

Grab your peacoat and galoshes and let’s cross it together.