In a society obsessed with images of impossibly perfect young women, it’s all too easy to see ageing as decline rather than growth, isn’t it? Most of the women whose ageing processes are celebrated have the kind of appearance only attainable with extraordinary good luck in the genes department, or an army of personal trainers, chefs, hairdressers, stylists, make up artists, dermatologists and surgeons. We are asked to admire not what they have done with their lives but rather the fact that they look as if they haven’t lived.
We are encouraged to bemoan the physical toll that age takes, rather than to celebrate what we’ve achieved and how we’ve grown during those years.
We're often made to feel that, if we can't conform to the airbrushed image of middle aged celebrity glamour, then we'd best fade into the background and make sure we don't traumatise anyone with our bingo wings.
Why should we let ourselves be defined by our age in this way? Why not focus on valuing our experience, achievements and wisdom; recognising the beauty and strength of our spirits, and living lives we love?
Maybe the only thing we need to change in middle age is the number of f*cks we give about what other people think of us.
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