the older i get, the cooler i get

My best friend is absolutely petrified of aging and I know she wouldn’t mind me saying that, because oddly enough, it’s considered far more abnormal not to fear it. Fear of aging is almost treated like a psychological milestone for women. If you’re not quietly panicking about wrinkles, relevance, or being “left behind,” people look at you like you’ve missed a memo.

Think Kate Winslet. Think Emma Thompson. Women who are routinely described as brave and courageous for “aging gracefully.” And of course — they are phenomenal. Talented, intelligent, expansive women. As I sit here, nearly a month away from turning thirty however, I keep circling back to the same question: who actually gives a fuck?

And yes — I know the answer.

Men give a fuck.
The patriarchal system we still live inside very much gives a fuck.

If more women truly centred their lives around aging, the world would be a better place. I say that sarcastically, of course. Because a world full of women who are less compliant, less eager to please, less desperate to be chosen, is not exactly convenient for the systems that benefit from this.

I’d be lying if I said I’ve never been wrapped up in that same dooming fear. In fact, as I write this, I’m staring at two bottles of retinol, The Ordinary hyaluronic acid, a fancy Medicube overnight wrapping mask, and an alarming number of facial creams that all probably do the exact same thing. All under the very reasonable guise of “looking after my skin” — which is plausible, given I have eczema — but with the hope that somehow, if I do this properly, I’ll have baby-plump skin even when I’m six feet under.

Taking my 12 step skin routine out of this however, I have realised that the older I get, the cooler I get and I think more women, including you, reader should also realise actually, I am really fucking cool.

When I think back to my twenty-year-old self, the version of me that, by patriarchal standards, I should still look like, feel like, and be like, I feel a sense of sadness. She didn’t have a clue about anything. And more importantly, she didn’t have a clue who the fuck she was. She mirrored people. If someone said something was cool, it became cool. If someone decided I was a certain way, I absorbed it without question. And just as I was vulnerable to liking what other people liked, I was equally vulnerable to believing what they said about me. For most of my twenties, that meant I believed I was worthless. Ugly. Fat. Annoying. Too much, but somehow also never enough.

A month away from turning thirty, I’ve learned not only a lot about myself, but a lot about life. I want to share some of it with you, in the hope that you might stop caring so much about aging.

• I’ve learned that I am far more interesting now than I ever was when I was trying to be liked. You know why? Because I know what I fucking like. I’m secure in myself. I’ve spent my twenties getting things wrong, getting things right, and in the space between mistakes and achievements, I found small, stubborn snippets of me.

• I never lose, it’s either a win or a lesson. I don’t frame my life as a series of losses anymore. It’s either a win or a lesson. There are experiences, some deeply traumatic that I should never have had to survive, and I won’t romanticise that. But they are part of what made me, me.

• Move the fuck on from people who love you in theory but cannot put it into practice. Twenty year old me loved a challenge. In fact if someone, particularly a man said I’m not sure about you, she said let me prove myself. The older I get, the more I realise that love isn’t a puzzle to solve or a standard to earn.

• I am worth the mess I make. I have learned that the best thing you can do for yourself is fuck up. Make mistakes. Do it wrong. Let yourself be human without immediately trying to correct it.

  Aging hasn’t taken anything from me. It hasn’t dulled me, hardened me, or made me less. It’s given me perspective, boundaries, and the ability to recognise what is and isn’t worth my energy. The fear of aging relies on the idea that women peak when they are most malleable, most unsure, most willing to bend themselves into something digestible. But I don’t miss that version of me. If growing older means becoming clearer, calmer, and more anchored in myself, then I’m not afraid at all. I’m grateful.