Aging Terrified Me

Aging terrified me.

Not the number, not even the wrinkles — but what it meant.
That quiet whisper in the back of my head that said, “You’re running out of time.”

I was an ageist, though I didn’t realize it then.
I judged older people for slowing down, for dressing “too young,” for not knowing when to stop talking about their pasts.
I swore I’d never become “that woman.”

And then, somewhere between denial and another birthday, I did.

For years I fought it.
I clung to the version of myself that lived in my thirties — the one who still turned heads, still felt relevant, still had time to become whatever she wanted.
I stayed busy enough to avoid mirrors that showed anything but motion.

But aging has a way of catching you. Not all at once, but in tiny, sharp moments:
When the waiter calls you “ma’am.”
When you realize people stop seeing you before you’ve even walked in the room.
When your body starts whispering, Slow down, I’m tired.

By my 70th birthday, I was exhausted from pretending.
I’d spent years in quiet rebellion — against something that was, in the end, inevitable.

So that day, I stopped fighting.
And something shifted.

I realized aging isn’t the enemy. The fear of it is.

The minute I accepted where I was — this exact moment, this body, this face, this stage of life — I felt free.
Not the “book a spa day and call it self-care” kind of free. The deep kind.
The kind that comes when you stop trying to be someone you used to be and finally show up as the woman you are.

Because here’s the truth:
Aging isn’t about losing yourself.
It’s about becoming yourself — without apology, without disguise, without the need to impress anyone.

And once you stop hiding from it, you start living again.