Lived for years under a quiet assumption I never said out loud.
That by 70 whatever edge I had would be smaller. Softer. Gone. I was wrong about all of it.
What If Aging Is a Reclassification?
I want to propose something that took me until 70 to understand.
What if you’re not losing your edge as you age?
What if it’s just changing hands?
I lived for years underneath a quiet assumption I never quite said out loud. That by now — by this age, in this body, in this season — whatever advantages I’d had as a woman were smaller. Softer. Harder to find.
I didn’t announce this belief. I just lived like it was true.
And then something started happening that I didn’t expect.
Small moments where that story didn’t hold.
Not dramatic reversals. Not a late-life renaissance with a soundtrack. Just quiet, inconvenient noticing. The kind where you stop mid-thought and think —
Wait. That’s not what I was told would happen.
And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
I know exactly what I like now.
Not aspirationally. Not approximately.
Specifically.
The chair I want to sit in. The conversation I’m willing to have at 9pm and the one I’m not. The people I actually enjoy being around versus the ones I’ve simply been tolerating with impressive consistency for twenty years.
No guesswork. No second-guessing. No performing preferences I don’t actually have.
I didn’t lose that capacity as I got older.
I earned it. Slowly, expensively, and without a receipt.
There’s a freedom that arrives that nobody prepares you for.
It’s not about losing attention.
It’s about losing the obligation to it.
That constant low-level awareness of how you’re being perceived — how you’re landing, whether you’re too much or not enough — it quiets. Not completely. I’m still human and vain in the specific ways that amuse me.
But enough.
Enough that you realize how much energy it used to take just to exist in a room.
And setting that down feels like setting down something heavy you’d been carrying so long you’d stopped noticing the weight.
You start to recognize patterns.
Not because you read about them. Because you lived them.
You can feel the difference between someone who loves you and someone who needs something from you. You can feel it before they’ve finished the sentence. And you don’t have to debate it the way you used to — running it past three friends, journaling about it, talking yourself into what you already knew.
That kind of clarity is not something you’re given.
It’s something you survive your way into.
And then there’s this.
The part I don’t think we’re talking about enough.
I’m sitting here at 70 years old writing something that anyone, anywhere in the world can read. No one asked for my credentials. No one approved my voice. No one opened a gate or cleared a path or decided I was relevant enough to proceed.
I just showed up.
Women my age didn’t have this before. Not like this. The gatekeepers who spent forty years deciding whose voice got a platform — editors, executives, institutions, networks — are not at this door.
This door has no bouncer.
And the women walking through it, at 60 and 70 and beyond, with sixty years of lived material and nothing left to prove —
we are early.
The mainstream hasn’t caught up yet.
I don’t have to guess how things go anymore.
I’ve seen enough of life to recognize the shape of things. The arc of certain stories. The particular way certain situations resolve. The difference between a problem and a condition — a problem can be solved, a condition has to be lived with, and knowing which is which saves an enormous amount of energy.
That’s not cynicism.
That’s pattern recognition.
And it changes how you move through the world in ways that are quiet and cumulative and — once you have them — impossible to give back.
So here’s the reclassification.
What if aging isn’t a slow erosion of advantage?
What if the things you thought you were losing were simply being replaced by something you didn’t yet have words for?
What if the advantages of 70 are just — different from the advantages of 40?
Not lesser.
Not louder.
Different.
Because when I look at it honestly —
I didn’t lose everything.
I lost what no longer fits.
And what’s left?
It’s more useful than what I had before.
More honest.
More mine.
If you’re somewhere in this stage and you’ve been living under the same quiet assumption I was —
start noticing the moments where it doesn’t hold.
They’re there.
Small. Undeniable.
And once you see them —
you won’t be able to go back to the old story.
If something in this story stayed with you — if you felt the recognition before you felt the words for it — I want you to know there’s a place for that.
I’ve been quietly building something called the Monirose Soul Circle. It’s a small group of women who are done waiting for their life to feel like theirs again. Not a support group. Not a place to process pain, though we understand it. A place to think out loud with women who have lived enough to know what they’re talking about — and who want peers, not cheerleaders.
We share what’s true. We ask the real questions. We hold each other to the version of ourselves we’re trying to grow into, not the version we’ve been performing.
If you’re just beginning to understand that you’re allowed to want what you want — that’s exactly the right moment to come in.
You don’t need to have it figured out. You just need to be done pretending you don’t care.
Come see if it feels like home.
And if something in this piece made you pause, nod, or feel a little less alone — please give it a heart before you go. That one small tap tells the algorithm this conversation matters. It puts these words in front of another woman who needs to hear them today. She's out there. Help me find her.
This one still makes me smile.
At 17, it was just a feeling I couldn’t quite explain. At 70, I finally stopped explaining and lived it.
Watch this—because the advantage isn’t in your past… it’s in what you’re still willing to claim now.