Whenever I go shopping with my daughter Grace and I’m trying on clothes, I have this habit of asking her, ‘Are you sure it’s okay? Does it make me look like a mum?’ She usually just laughs and says, ‘You do realise you are a mum, right?’
Of course I know I’m a mum—but I’m not a mum mum. You know what I mean? In my head, mums are older, middle-aged, responsible, have their shit together and are kind of frumpy. So I’ll admit to being responsible, and I sort of know where I’m heading in life. And yes, at 47, by every definition, I am middle-aged—but somehow, it still doesn’t feel like it fits.
So when the hell did I get this old?
The wrinkles seem to have doubled, and the grey hairs multiplied overnight. It’s like time snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking. I’m starting to forget little things—snippets of conversations I just had, items from the shopping list even though it’s written on my phone. And the classic: “Where the hell are my AirPods?” Cue a 15-minute, turn-the-kitchen-upside-down saga… only to find them in my ears. Yeah. That happened.
I like to think it’s because I’m just so smart—my brain’s packed with so much information that something has to be pushed out to make room for the new stuff. It’s not forgetfulness, it’s… intellectual overcrowding.
Physically, I’m not as strong as I used to be—which I guess is to be expected. We lose muscle mass as we age, after all. I even consulted a sports physician, who recommended that middle-aged women focus on strength training. Apparently, regularly lifting a G&T to my lips—even if it’s a large one—doesn’t count. Shame, really.
When I look at my three girls—full of energy, motivation, and so physically fit—I can’t help but feel envious. They don’t forget things mid-sentence or worry about looking frumpy. They can spring up from the floor in one smooth motion, their bodies effortlessly in tune with the world around them. There’s a certain confidence they carry, a certainty in the way they move through life. I watch them with a mix of awe and longing, remembering a time when I, too, felt so vibrant and carefree.
Me? Getting off the floor is a process. First, it’s onto all fours, then one knee, then I have to push myself upright like I’m doing some kind of low-budget yoga sequence. And even then, there’s the inevitable stiffness… followed by the classic old lady groan.
And what’s that all about, when did I start groaning, anyway?
I groan when I stand, groan when I sit, sigh when I get into bed like I’ve just returned from battle. Apparently, this is my life now.
But on the flipside… there are advantages to being this vintage.
I’m basically happy in my own skin. Would I like a bit less of it, and maybe wish it was a little more taut? Absolutely. But then I remind myself—this body has served me well. It carried me through life, and more importantly, it brought my four beautiful babies into this world.
I’ve gathered some great life experience, knowledge, and wisdom—gifts that only come from living long enough to earn them. And with that, I get to be a sounding board and a guide for my children, offering support as they begin their own journey into adulthood.
It’s one of the most rewarding parts of reaching this stage—knowing that I can be there for them, not just as their mum, but as someone who’s been through it, who gets it.
I’ve noticed that the years have made me softer—not just in the sense of my six-pack, but in how I view the world, my priorities, and even my own sense of self has evolved in ways I didn’t anticipate. There was a time when I measured my worth by how much I could accomplish in a day, how many things I could juggle at once, how perfectly I could manage everything from laundry to life’s bigger challenges. But now? I’ve learned the hard way that some things don’t need to be perfect, and not everything has to be managed.
It’s the little changes, the quieter moments, that stand out. I don’t rush as much anymore. I take time to savour the simple things—whether it’s enjoying a cup of coffee in peace, listening to the sound of rain on the tin roof, or catching up with my kids in the kitchen while we cook. I’ve realised that these quiet moments are the ones I’ll remember the most. They’re where the true meaning lies.
And the way I respond to stress has changed too. I used to get so worked up over things that, in hindsight, seem so small. But now? I try to breathe more, I pause, I reflect before reacting. I’ve learned that some battles aren’t worth fighting, and that often, it’s better to let things slide. I’ve started embracing the idea that, sometimes, not everything needs to be fixed—sometimes it’s just about accepting things as they are, even if they’re a bit messy.
I’ve become less concerned with the noise around me. There’s a certain clarity that comes with age. I no longer feel the need to keep up with the latest trends or to compare myself to others. I’ve come to realise that the people who matter, the things that matter, are the ones who’ve been there through thick and thin. My circle has gotten smaller, but deeper.
And I think that’s the gift of growing older—the ability to let go of the excess. To shed the weight of expectations, of trying to please everyone, and to focus on what brings me peace and joy. My kids are growing up, carving out their own paths, and while I’ll always be here to support them, I’m learning to step back. The world doesn’t need me to fix everything anymore, and I don’t need to carry the weight of it all.
I’m at a stage where I’m comfortable with the idea of change, even if it’s sometimes hard to embrace. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss the days when I could run a marathon without a second thought, when my body felt invincible, and when the world seemed full of endless possibilities. But I’ve realised that the possibilities haven’t disappeared; they’ve just evolved into something different.
Maybe I can’t leap up from the floor in one fluid motion anymore, but I can still move through life with grace, humour, and wisdom. And maybe this old grey mare ain’t what she used to be, but perhaps she’s become something even better. She’s a little slower, a little more worn, but she’s also a lot wiser, more grounded, and more in tune with the world around her. There’s beauty in the changes, a quiet strength in knowing that even though the speed and stamina have faded, what’s left is something far richer—a deeper understanding, a fuller heart, and a spirit that’s learned to take it all in stride.
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