The World is Making Me Feel Bad for Turning 38

After celebrating her birthday,  Zo Flamenbaum rejects societal pressure and embraces aging. 

Imagine lounging in the cracks and crevices that show the depths of the life we have lived.

Zo Flamenbaum

I just turned 38, and I think they want me to feel bad about it.

No, I’m not sure who “they” exactly is. Still, I think it’s likely the same ones selling anti-aging creams to 30-year-olds, peddling Botox parties to 25-year-olds, and pushing vaginoplasty on a perplexing number of curious teens.

I just turned 38, and I think they want me to feel bad about it. I think they want me to spend the rest of my life trying to look young. Given the $62 billion anti-aging industry, I think they want me to spend too much of my time, money, and energy on fitting into their ideas of beauty.

I just turned 38 and I think they want me to feel bad about it. They keep telling me of my dying fertility, geriatric ovaries, and dwindling capacity to fulfill my feminine duty to procreate until I slowly disintegrate and die.

They keep whispering at me how sad I’m meant to be, telling me that 38 is not the age I’m supposed to feel wild and free, and how crazy that I am alone, childless, unmarried, untethered — how preposterous that a woman can survive so sweetly in solitude.

They keep trying to make it seem like a woman’s beauty is the priority. They tell us to hide our age, which only keeps us trapped in this cage of youth without giving divine reverence to the natural process of growth, of wisdom, of falling deeper into our skin and settling into our truth within. This resistance to our natural surface area will keep women stuck on the surface, missing out on the divine layers of depth meant to be unveiled as we get older, gracefully, and naturally.

They keep telling me how sad I’m meant to be, but I think they forget the glory of being free.

I just turned 38 and I think they want me to feel bad about it. The truth is, it’s getting progressively harder to tune out their story. Yet, every day I recommit to choosing my own tale and not letting theirs prevail.

What if instead of dyeing our gray, we counted new ones with excitement each day? What if instead of gathering for Botox parties, we decided to celebrate every new laugh line we see? What if instead of spending thousands on creams and surgery, we invested that money in the next generation of women-to-be? What if they taught us how to keep our bodies healthy instead of drilling into our dying fertility?

No, I will not dye my hair because it's gray. No, I will never consider Botox. No, I will not change my body for your idea of beauty. No, I will not freeze my eggs as insurance. No, I will not settle for a partner who refuses to commit to his own emotional, mental, and spiritual growth. No, I will not worry endlessly about my fertility because I fully trust that my family will come to me how it’s meant to be. No, I am not naive because I am not buying into that age-old story.

I won’t lie and say it’s always easy to refuse the tale they tell. They make it seem like motherhood and family is the dream. And while yes, it is a dream of mine, and one day I hope it is my time — the truth is this is not my current reality. So I can either choose to accept their story — the one that has me sorrowful, aging, and heading downhill — or I can choose to create my own adventure.

Every day it’s a choice. To recommit to myself. Because I just turned 38, and I think they want me to feel sad. But I’ve never felt better. More energized and alive. More connected to my inside. More secure and trusting in my center. More liberated than ever.

Imagine getting older and getting happier. Not being ashamed about moving away from youth, but being revered for our wisdom, experience, and growth. Imagine not being ignored or disempowered by our looks but lounging in the cracks and crevices that show the depths of the life we have lived. Imagine saying our age out loud and proud. I have made it to 38. How absolutely effin' great.

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