The strange, beautiful truth about becoming a woman in midlife.

I woke up early the other morning.

And when I say early, I don't mean the respectable kind of early where you get up at six, stretch, drink some water and congratulate yourself for becoming one of those women who has a morning routine.

I mean early early.

The kind of early where the house is silent, nobody has any business being awake, and even the birds seem to be saying, Ma'am, please go back to bed.

And somewhere in that quiet, I thought about my mother.

I used to wonder why she would be awake at three o'clock in the morning reading her Bible. Sometimes by five, she would already be thinking about lunch and dinner. I remember looking at her like,

Why are we discussing dinner? The sun isn't even up.

It made absolutely no sense to me.

Until now.

Because here I am at fifty, and my sleep has apparently decided that the rules we established over the previous several decades were merely suggestions.

And I can see myself heading in her direction.

It's funny how that happens.

One day you're watching your mother become an older woman.

Then one morning you wake up and recognize some of her rhythms in yourself.

Maybe that's one of the strange things about getting older nobody prepares us for. We don't simply watch ourselves change. Sometimes we begin to understand women we couldn't fully understand when we were younger.

And lately, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to become an older woman.

Not old.

Older.

Although even as I write that, I wonder why I felt the need to make the distinction.

Why are women so careful with that word?

What Exactly Is Fifty Supposed to Look Like?

There is a peculiar thing that happens when you tell people your age.

"I'm fifty."

And someone immediately responds:

"You don't look fifty!"

Thank you.

I think.

But I've started wondering what fifty is supposed to look like.

Am I supposed to arrive with a particular face? A certain hairstyle? Sensible shoes? Reading glasses hanging from a decorative chain?

Because society has some very confusing instructions for women about aging.

We're supposed to age gracefully, but apparently we're not supposed to actually look like we're aging.

Take care of yourself.

But don't try too hard.

Embrace your natural beauty.

But here's a seventeen-step nighttime skincare routine.

Love the skin you're in.

But have you considered what we're doing about your neck?

And heaven forbid a gray hair show up before we've had a committee meeting about whether we're "ready to embrace it."

Girl.

It's exhausting.

And the truth is, I care about how I look.

I don't think we need to pretend otherwise.

My skin requires more attention now than it used to. Losing weight feels harder. Things that once responded quickly don't necessarily respond the same way anymore. I've noticed changes in my hair and scalp that concern me. There are things about my body at fifty that require more attention than they did at thirty.

I don't wake up every morning, gaze lovingly at every change and whisper, What a magnificent privilege of aging.

Sometimes I look at something and think:

Now what is THIS?

And I think women deserve permission to say that.

We can be grateful to be alive without pretending we enjoy every part of getting older.

We can love ourselves and still want to change something.

We can care for our skin without being ashamed of aging.

We can want to feel strong in our bodies without turning our bodies into enemies.

And when something changes unexpectedly, we can ask questions and seek answers instead of assuming every change is simply something women are supposed to tolerate.

That isn't vanity.

That's paying attention.

Nobody Warned Me That My Body Would Change While I Was Still Becoming

We hear a lot about perimenopause and menopause now, which I'm grateful for because generations of women went through enormous changes without having the language, or sometimes even the permission, to talk about them.

Sleep may change. Weight may redistribute. Skin may change. Hair may change. Energy can feel different. Hot flashes, brain fog, mood changes and changes in sexual health can become part of the conversation for some women, while other women move through this season very differently.

There isn't one universal menopause story.

And this isn't a medical conversation. Women experiencing changes that concern them deserve good medical care and individualized answers.

What interests me at this Table is something else.

What does it feel like to be the woman living inside the changing body?

Because something fascinating can happen in midlife.

The body can begin feeling less predictable at precisely the same time that the woman inside of it becomes more certain.

I may have more questions about my body than I did twenty-five years ago.

But I have fewer questions about me.

And I wasn't expecting that.

I Thought Getting Older Would Make Me More Guarded

One of the things that has surprised me most about turning fifty is that I've become more open.

More vulnerable.

I don't see that talked about very often.

We tend to imagine that life hardens us. After enough disappointment, betrayal, embarrassment, loss and lessons learned the hard way, surely we're supposed to become more guarded.

And yes, I've become wiser about where I place my trust.

But strangely, I've also become more willing to tell the truth.

I don't feel the same need to pretend everything is fine when it isn't.

I don't need every story polished before I tell it.

I can admit that I don't know.

I can say something hurt.

I can say something scared me.

I can say that I changed my mind.

I can even admit when something I desperately wanted may no longer be something I want.

That kind of vulnerability would have frightened a younger version of me.

She might have believed vulnerability gave people too much information.

At fifty, I understand something different.

Being seen isn't the same thing as being exposed.

There is wisdom in knowing the difference.

Maybe that's why I'm becoming more open as I get older.

I don't have as much energy for pretending.

And perhaps that is one of the most beautiful things about midlife.

We spend decades building an image of ourselves, and then eventually we become tired enough, or wise enough, to put it down.

I Understand My Mother Differently Now

There are things our mothers did that made absolutely no sense until we reached the age they were when they did them.

That's humbling.

As children, we know our mothers only as Mom.

We rarely think about the woman underneath that title.

We don't think about her hormones.

Her exhaustion.

The changes happening in her body.

The things keeping her awake at three in the morning.

The questions she was carrying.

The dreams she may have been reconsidering.

We certainly don't stand in the kitchen at seventeen thinking, I wonder what existential transition Mother is experiencing.

We just want to know what's for dinner.

Then you get older.

And suddenly you remember her sitting awake in the quiet.

You remember things she said.

You understand why she needed certain routines.

You recognize expressions you once thought were strange.

And occasionally you hear something come out of your own mouth and think:

Oh my goodness. That was her.

There is something tender about meeting your mother again through the woman you are becoming.

Not because our lives have to become our mothers' lives.

They don't.

But age can give us context.

And context sometimes gives us grace.

Maybe Midlife Isn't a Crisis

We've been given such dramatic language for this season.

The midlife crisis.

As though somewhere around forty-five a person wakes up, buys something impractical and begins dismantling their entire life.

But what if some of what we call a crisis is actually clarity?

What if a woman reaches a point where she simply can't pretend anymore?

Maybe she realizes she doesn't like the life she has built.

Maybe she loves her life but realizes she has disappeared somewhere inside of it.

Maybe she wants something different.

Maybe she doesn't want anything new at all. Maybe she simply wants more room inside the life she already has.

Maybe the relationship needs to change.

Maybe the work needs to change.

Maybe her relationship with God has changed.

Maybe her relationship with herself has changed.

Maybe she doesn't want to keep doing things simply because she has always done them.

From the outside, change can look like disruption.

From inside the woman living it, sometimes it feels like:

Finally.

At Fifty, Nothing Is That Serious

I don't mean nothing matters.

There are things that matter deeply.

People we love.

Health.

Family.

Faith.

Integrity.

How we treat people.

How we spend the life we've been given.

I'm talking about all the other things we once allowed to become enormous.

Somebody doesn't like you.

Okay.

Someone misunderstood you.

You can explain yourself once. After that, they may simply have to misunderstand.

You wore the wrong thing.

You'll recover.

You made a mistake.

Fix what you can.

You changed your mind.

You're allowed.

Someone thinks you're too old to begin something.

Good thing they're not the one beginning it.

At fifty, I finally understand:

Nothing is that serious, and I have a choice in every part of my life.

That may be one of the greatest freedoms age has given me.

Choice.

Not control.

There's a difference.

I cannot control everything that happens to me. I can't command my body never to change. I cannot stop people from leaving, prevent every disappointment or guarantee that everything I build will succeed.

But I still have choices.

I can decide what receives my attention.

I can decide what I keep carrying.

I can decide whether someone's opinion gets to live in my head rent-free.

I can decide whether a tradition still belongs in my life.

I can decide whether I'm willing to begin again.

I can decide whether something I've invested years into still deserves another year.

I can decide whether peace is more important than proving my point.

That realization didn't arrive when I was twenty-five.

Life had to teach me.

Some lessons apparently require tuition.

And Lord knows I've paid. 

Who Told Us We Were Disappearing?

There's a word that comes up often when women talk about aging:

Invisible.

And I understand it.

The world has spent generations connecting a woman's visibility to youth.

Young women are advertised to.

Photographed.

Pursued.

Commented on.

Watched.

Then women reach a certain age and sometimes feel the attention shift.

That can hurt.

Especially if we've unknowingly learned to measure part of our value through being noticed.

But I've been wondering whether there's another side to invisibility.

What happens when you stop living for the audience?

Maybe you enter a room and instead of wondering:

Do they like me?

you begin wondering:

Do I like it here?

Instead of:

Do they think I'm attractive?

perhaps the question becomes:

Do I feel good in my own skin?

Instead of:

Will they be upset if I say no?

you ask:

Do I actually want to say yes?

That's a completely different way to live.

Maybe some of us aren't disappearing.

Maybe we're simply becoming less available for performance.

Full Bloom Doesn't Only Happen in Spring

We have a strange obsession with beginnings.

New flowers.

New relationships.

Young skin.

New careers.

First houses.

New babies.

Fresh starts.

But nature doesn't spend the entire year in spring.

And we don't look at a magnificent oak tree and say:

Poor thing. Look how old it got.

We notice its size.

Its shade.

Its roots.

Its strength.

We see evidence that it survived storms.

There are things an old tree can provide that a sapling simply cannot.

Women are allowed that same dignity.

There are things I know at fifty that I couldn't have known at twenty-five because wisdom requires something youth cannot manufacture:

time.

Time to make mistakes.

Time to survive them.

Time to discover what matters.

Time to learn who stays.

Time to lose things.

Time to find things.

Time to meet yourself over and over again.

Maybe I don't have the skin I had at twenty-five.

But I also don't have the mind I had at twenty-five.

And I wouldn't trade them.

Tea at Today's Table

Today, I don't want to choose a tea because it promises to "fix" menopause.

I don't want to make another season of womanhood into something we immediately have to correct.

Choose the tea you actually enjoy.

Make it slowly.

And while the water heats, resist the temptation to multitask for five minutes.

Sit with the woman you are today.

Not the woman you were twenty years ago.

Not the woman you think you should be.

Not the woman an advertisement says you could become if you bought the right serum, supplement, program, cream, powder, plan and apparently a completely new face.

Her.

The woman sitting here now.

Pour her a cup.

Return Practice: Take Inventory Without Criticism

Sometime this week, take ten quiet minutes and notice what has changed about you in the last decade.

But here's the rule:

You aren't allowed to make the list only about what you've lost.

Yes, acknowledge what feels difficult.

Then keep going.

What have you gained?

Maybe you're more discerning.

More patient.

More honest.

More courageous.

More comfortable alone.

More willing to ask for help.

Less willing to tolerate chaos.

Better at apologizing.

More protective of your time.

More curious.

More vulnerable.

More yourself.

We spend so much time documenting the ways women age physically that we sometimes forget to document the ways women grow.

Do both.

From My Journal

At fifty, I am noticing changes in myself that I didn't necessarily ask for.

Some are physical.

Some are emotional.

Some make me laugh because suddenly things my mother did make a little more sense.

But there is something else happening too.

I feel more open.

More vulnerable.

More willing to tell the truth.

And perhaps most importantly, I understand that I have choices.

There are things I once would have carried for days that I can put down much faster now.

Things I would have tried desperately to control that I can allow to unfold.

People I might once have chased whom I can now allow to walk.

Opinions I might once have lost sleep over that don't deserve five minutes of my peace.

Maybe this is what fifty is teaching me:

I cannot choose everything that happens.

But I can choose how much of myself I give it.

And that feels like freedom.

A Moment at The Table

Maybe you're reading this at thirty-eight and perimenopause has caught you completely off guard.

Maybe you're fifty and wondering when your body became unfamiliar.

Maybe you're sixty-five and smiling because you've already walked through some of what we're discussing.

Maybe you love getting older.

Maybe you're struggling with it.

There's room at this Table for both.

You don't have to romanticize aging to respect the woman you're becoming.

You don't have to celebrate every change.

You don't have to pretend you aren't grieving anything.

And you certainly don't have to disappear.

There is still life ahead of you that has never met you before.

And the woman who will walk into it won't be the youngest version of you.

She'll be the one who knows more.

Reflection Questions

1. What has surprised me most about getting older?

2. What changes in my body have been hardest for me to accept?

3. Have I confused looking younger with feeling valuable?

4. What have I gained with age that I rarely give myself credit for?

5. Am I becoming more guarded as I age, or more willing to be known?

6. What do I understand about my mother or the women who raised me now that I couldn't understand when I was younger?

7. Where in my life am I still behaving as though I don't have a choice?

8. What matters far less to me now than it did ten or twenty years ago?

9. What matters more?

10. If I stopped worrying about disappearing, what might I finally allow myself to become?

🌿 Take Today's Conversation With You

Download the Conversation No. 12 Journal Page

Use these questions slowly. You don't have to answer them all at once. Make your tea, find somewhere quiet, and come back to the ones that keep tugging at you.

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Before You Leave the Table

I don't know exactly what the years ahead will bring.

None of us do.

My body will continue changing. My life will continue changing. There will probably be more mornings when I find myself awake far earlier than I would prefer.

And maybe one of those mornings I'll make some tea, pick up something to read and suddenly laugh.

Because somewhere in heaven, I imagine my mother saying:

Now you understand why I was up at three.

Maybe I do.

Or maybe I'm only beginning to.

But I know this much:

I don't want to spend this part of my life mourning the woman I used to be so loudly that I cannot hear the woman I am becoming.

She's here.

She's wiser.

She's softer in some places and stronger in others.

She's learning to be vulnerable.

She's still figuring out her changing body.

She's questioning things.

She's choosing things.

She's changing her mind.

She's beginning again.

And she has finally lived long enough to understand that most of the things she once thought would destroy her...

didn't.

So no.

I am not disappearing.

I am becoming visible to myself.

And perhaps that's what Return has been about all along.

With love,

Mayah

Conversation No. 12 — The Table Journal 🌿

🌙 A Little Support for the Season You’re In

Before you leave the table, I want to leave you with something practical too.

Because as beautiful as it is to talk about becoming, freedom, wisdom and learning to see ourselves differently at this age, there are also some nights when you're lying there thinking, Okay, but can somebody please tell my body we're trying to sleep? 😂

That is part of this season too.

I created Luna Eclipse with women moving through perimenopause and menopause in mind. It is a naturally caffeine-free herbal blend made with motherwort, lemon balm, sage, dandelion, oatstraw, raspberry leaf, chickweed and elderflower.

Each herb brings something different to the cup. Sage has a long history of traditional use during menopause, including for sweating and hot-flash-related discomfort. Lemon balm is traditionally used for relaxation and calm, while oatstraw offers gentle nourishment and makes Luna Eclipse especially lovely as part of an evening ritual. Together, the herbs create a grounding blend for the days when your body, emotions and thoughts all seem to be having separate meetings without consulting you first.

And when it comes to clarity, I don't want to promise that one cup of tea is going to magically clear brain fog or “balance” your hormones. That's not what tea does.

What Luna Eclipse can give you is a caffeine-free ritual that encourages you to slow down, settle your nervous system, become still and pay attention to what your body may be asking for. Sometimes clarity begins there.

For me, that is an important distinction.

Tea can support the woman. It doesn't have to pretend to fix the woman.

Luna Eclipse isn't about fighting menopause or trying to become the woman you were at 30. It was created to accompany the woman you are right now.

So steep your cup. Sit somewhere quiet. Let your body change without making it your enemy. Pay attention to what you need. And when symptoms are persistent, severe or simply don't feel right, bring those concerns to your healthcare provider too. Tea can be part of your care, but it doesn't have to carry the whole responsibility.

You are not disappearing.

And perhaps this season isn't asking you to go backward at all.

Perhaps it's asking you to meet yourself here.

🌙 Meet Luna Eclipse

A grounding, caffeine-free herbal tea created as a companion for women navigating the changing rhythms of perimenopause, menopause and midlife.

→ Shop Luna Eclipse Tea