Permission to Feel Through Aging

It's a biggie...

Let’s put a pin in the fact that I haven’t written for a while, and be reassured that I’ll come back to that. 📌

There’s a lot to catch up on, but let’s start with this.

Last weekend I turned 50. That’s hitting 21 twice… plus the infinity sign.

Photo by Yusuf Onuk on Unsplash

We know, don’t we? We KNOW that we are either meant to fight aging or defiantly embrace it. After all, that’s what we are told. However, I don’t think we really have such a monolithic approach to aging. I think it is much more, dare I say, nuanced.

Was I bothered about turning 50? Am I fighting it or embracing it?

I’d say surprised rather than bothered. And then annoyed at being surprised because ALL the OLD people say, ‘I can’t believe I’m infinity years old, I don’t feel a day over 19’ and so I am dangerously close to teetering into that aged-ness abyss.

So maybe that steers me more towards fighting than embracing. Yet I also like the fact that when I was asked to wait outside a room today, because I wasn’t meant to be in said room until a person of authority came in to check I didn’t smash all the things 🤨 I agedly said, ‘No, I’m cold, do I look like I am about to smash a room up, I’m coming in.’

A small victory to embrace… I’m such a rebel (God, I HOPE so, about time!)

50. It’s just a number.

I know, that’s also what ALL the OLD people say.

Isn’t the actual issue to do with the kind of expectations that are put upon us, that we put upon ourselves as we reach certain ages?

Please fill in your own missing blanks here - career, relationships, children… discovering the cure for cancer whilst circumnavigating the moon (just me?)

Yet, we’re not really one age at all. We all have parts of ourselves that come along for the ride, regardless of the actual birth age we are.

During this whole turning 50 malarkey, an 8 year old me rather predictably had a melt down about how we should celebrate it. Comparison and panic kicked in, as it always does (yawn). Should I have a party, like many of my friends, or 3 parties, like one of my friends, or travel to a glamorous location like some of my friends? And why was I not doing all of these things with my plethora of long time friends who have been around since kindergarten, or school days, or uni days at least?

Goodness me, the expectation was rather high.

There’s clearly good reason as to why I wrote this poem:

Day of birth disease

‘I’m afraid’ the doc looks me in the eye,

‘It’s such grave news indeed.

You see your son is suffering from

The day of birth disease.’

“The day of birth disease!” I cry,

“What ever can you do?

Is there a cure? I need to know!

And please explain it too”

‘You see’ the doc confides in me

‘Your son is seeking worth

From the fuss that you make of him

When you celebrate his birth.’

‘He feels that, for this day at least,

He should be treated like a prince.’

I’m startled at this shocking news

Before I slowly start to wince.

“I recognise these symptoms doc!

I’ve suffered all my life!

I didn’t know it was hereditary,

Let me share with you my strife.

I felt that way when growing up,

Worked hard not to pass it on.

How can it be that, despite all this,

The damage has been done?

I blew balloons and sang out loud

Each birthday that went by.

I built him up year on year.”

I deflate and breath a sigh.

‘You tried too hard but once a year’

The doc advises me.

‘It’s not about grand gestures

It’s your love he needs to see.

Make sure his voice is equally heard

Amongst your chaotic crew…’

“It’s tough juggling 3 kids,” I say,

“So tell me what to do”

‘Take interest in his dreams and plans,

Say ‘I believe in you’

And when you see him doubt himself

Help him find his own way through.

Don’t label him as this or that,

Delight in the soul you see.

You may be able to manage it

And set this poor child free.

Even when we try so hard

Not to pass our baggage on

It pops up anyway somewhere,

That’s life, now let’s get on.’

The truth is, at aged 50 (yes I know - I used to think that people at this age had had ‘a good innings’ but I feel like I am only getting going.); the truth is, I have lost many friends.

I’m terribly embarrassed to admit this, as if it’s some moral failing.

I have mentioned our altercations in some of my missives before: the one who told me to f-off down the phone when I asked her not to give my 13 year old alcohol. The one who had started using me as an unpaid therapist (to be fair I did have a bit of a ‘rescuer’ role to play in that one) until I felt as used and wrung out as a tea towel at a Women’s Institute convention. The ones I had lost touch with because I had moved countries.

I mean, there’s one common denominator which is *ahem, *gulp… me.

Another expectation comes to light: that we should hold on to friendships; that friendship longevity is somehow a reflection of how you are as a friend. That if you are (God forbid) lonely, it is clearly due to some kind of lacking in self.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, we are not all playing on a level playing field when it comes to friendship and loneliness.

All these expectations come into laser focus as our birthdays loom. Yet as we mature, with any luck, some of our values change.

We may value a sense of belonging over a desire to fit in

We increasingly value JOMO over FOMO

We find we value presence over presents.

I think that whatever your current merry mix of values is, and how these align to the values of the younger yous, has a significant influence on what that means for your friendships.

So I sat and listened to my 8 year old and she actually wasn’t up for a party. She just needed a little reassurance. But my 21+21+infinity year old was up for a *gathering*. Actually, she was up for a ‘Fuck-That-Fancy-This Fire Pit’ gathering.

One thing every-age Jacky values, it appears, is alliteration.

I called up Hilary, an amazing woman who talks wombs and mother earth and flower language, and asked her to preside over the FFFirepit gathering. She did not disappoint. We were greeted by a herb shower, brushed down with bunches of rosemary and lemon balm and lavender to symbolise remembrance and love and happiness and serenity and grace.

The small gathering of women were those who have witnessed all the Jacky-ages. Not chronologically necessarily, but as they have arisen over the years through hurts and disappointments and moments of joy. Five of us, it turned out. My alliterative allies. ‘Five go to the Fuck-That-Fancy-This-Fire-Pit-Party’. Hurrah.

In turn, we threw each ‘fuck that’ into the fire with the solemnity and sorrow they deserved as similar themes of regret and loss and shame sizzled into the embers. The fire sputtered at the weight of it all.

And then because I really am a frustrated Blue Peter presenter that never was, I brought out the coloured pens and stickers to make our ‘fancy that’ posters to document our promises to ourselves of what we wanted more of in our lives; what we wanted to make space for in this new era of growth and hope.

Eventually we made our way into the house to have a cake that I had baked that day, which still had the baking paper left on it in the middle, making the cutting and eating of it rather an adventure and an ‘oh so Jacky’ end to the evening.

The most wonderful thing of it all? I took no pictures. No posed selfies of look-at-us-having-a-good-time to feed the social proof machines. Just full hearts and new memories.

Yes, I am rather smug about it all.

Does this resonate with you? If so, you may like to try some of the connecting with other-age-you suggestions below.

Other than that, I will get back to that pin next week. It’s currently 10pm on Thursday night and this old bird needs to go to roost.

Thanks so much for reading, much love to you all!

Jacky ✨