It’s time society stops underestimating women over 50. Here’s why

The light in my bathroom is too dim. I keep discovering chin whiskers while in traffic – because that’s what red lights are for – that should never have made it past a plucking. One silver whisker was a full centimetre long! The horror! How long had it been there, glistening in the sun, and why didn’t someone tell me?

We have lived and loved, learned and led, and kept on laughing no matter what.Credit: Getty images

I’m not vain or by contrast, insecure. I have a healthy acceptance of the realities of my 53 years in this skin. Even though I’m obsessed with Ricki Lake’s facelift – and maybe if I were a gazillionaire I’d consider a cheeky nip-tuck to rediscover my jawline – mostly I’m deeply grateful for a body that is healthy and strong.

But still, I wonder: if I looked younger, if no one knew my age, would I feel less like the world is trying to file me away, before I’ve even finished becoming who I’m meant to be?

Because there is no doubt that something is happening. Friends and I talk about it often – this quiet, creeping sense that we are being moved to the sidelines. A socially sanctioned diminishing of our worth and contribution. The slow fading of opportunities.

This feeling is everywhere. It’s in the patronising spin instructor who assumes you can’t handle her class. Or the blatant disinterest at the make-up counter – if you’re lucky to be served at all. Or the suspicion that the only reason 50-year-old women are getting any airtime at all is to prop up a billion-dollar menopause industry.

It’s an undeniable shrinking of potential and possibility. And nowhere is this more evident than in work. I’ve seen brilliant women made redundant and never rehired, shut out of career reinvention by age caps on development programs. Others remain underemployed despite their vast expertise, or overlooked for leadership roles until they finally give up and shuffle away to the struggle of self-employment. All because of a culture that quietly insists: your time is up.

It’s baffling, heartbreaking and infuriating – in part because every person has the right to work, and
age should not be a barrier. But also because this bias bears no relation to who we are as a generation of women.

We’ve done the inner work – partly because self-help culture convinced us we always need improving – but mostly to survive the hardest of life’s challenges.

JO STANLEY

We bring decades of experience and knowledge, not just in our chosen industry, but in the intangible skill of living. We’ll have the tough talk and rally the stragglers. We give as many compliments as we take, and we cheer – loudly – for all wins. We use vulnerability as power and white vinegar for everything. We multitask like a Cirque du Soleil knife juggler on a unicycle. And we know everybody. You want networking? Middle-aged women are two degrees of separation from literally everyone.

We’ve taught ourselves digital from an analogue start. We know fashion, politics, technology and art. We’re vibrant, fun, creative and smart.

Our self-awareness is our superpower. We’ve done the inner work – partly because self-help culture convinced us we always need improving – but mostly to survive the hardest of life’s challenges. And we’re still doing the work. We are writing our stories, even as we don’t know what the next chapter will be. Unravelling and putting ourselves back together, with reinforced seams and a reimagined design. Time is not our enemy. Time has shaped us, grown us, moulded us into works of art.

We have lived and loved, learned and led, and kept on laughing no matter what. All while raising children, supporting partners, volunteering for the community and denying our own health in the process.

And now, just as we’re juggling the Sandwich Years – which could be referring to how often I refuse to cook dinner these days, but as we know is about magically finding even more caring hours in the day – we’re financially insecure, worried for our future, our confidence shot. Stoically smiling through the very real grief of lost careers and stolen agency.

Excuse me as I punch a pillow in rage (is that why we’re karate chopping our cushions these days?).

Well, I will not have it. The world may not want to make room for us any more, but I refuse to stop taking up space. I contain limitless possibilities, at any age. I will not listen to the voices around me – or in my head – that tell me to be fearful or quiet or that this is not my time. I will follow the calling of my heart into my next adventure. I will define my own power and nurture my dreams. I will be flawed and glorious at the same time. Outrageous, courageous, ambitious, but still kind. And I will take every diminishing moment as a signal to rise.

Because, as writer Maya Angelou said, “nothing can dim the light that shines from within.” And mine’s so bright you could pluck your whiskers by it.

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