By Amy Keyes 
When I was younger, I had no concept of age. My parents and their friends could have been 50, and I thought they were 30.
I didn’t notice any gray hair or wrinkles, not to mention anyone trying to cover them up.
My mom never sprayed on root touch-up with the same intensity I do now—reminiscent of the can of Aquanet that used to hold up my bangs in the ’80s, holding for a solid 60 seconds in each spot to make sure no piece was left untouched.
I don’t recall any TV commercials urging her to spend hundreds of dollars on powders and potions to capture the glow of youth, or help build muscle mass and elasticity to freeze time.
I can’t remember counters lined with magnesium bottles, collagen supplements, and protein powder, or anyone counting macros, let alone knowing what they were.
None of this is to say it wasn’t happening behind the scenes.
Sure, there was the Suzanne Sommers ThighMaster and a set of ankle weights at the foot of my mom and dad’s bed. And my dad used to blend raw eggs like Rocky for a straight protein breakfast.
But man, did they make this middle-aged place of life look so much easier than it feels for me right now.
Let me be clear—I am a strong believer in recognizing the science and research and wisdom of this stage of life that has really come into focus over these past few years. But it’s no joke.
I’m listening to all of the podcasts. I’m reading all of the articles. I’m asking my doctors all of the questions about the crazy changes that are happening at an exponential rate in my body right now.
And I still wonder how my mom and her friends made it look so much easier.
Maybe they suffered in silence, whereas we are living in a more out-loud culture of advocacy. Maybe they didn’t know what they didn’t know and just accepted that as reality rather than trying to change it one teaspoon of collagen or protein at a time.
I don’t know. But I wish I did.
Because this middle age stuff is hard.
It’s hard work navigating the mood swings. It’s hard work trying to figure out which protein powder will help the most without making me want to barf from the taste. It’s hard work trying to count the grams of this or that to make sure I’m getting enough of one thing but not too much of another.
Look, I’m not complaining. I know it’s a privilege to grow older. I know it’s a privilege to live in a time when science can improve the quality of life if followed well. I know it’s a privilege to have a full head of hair, even if it’s gray and needs to be colored every three weeks to pretend that it’s not.
I guess I just want to acknowledge, from here in the thick of it, that I wish I knew the secret to making it look as seamless as the generation before me did.
Last year, I had the fortune of celebrating my mom’s 75th birthday with her and her friends. While talking to some of them, I had a crazy hot flash—par for the course these days. They smiled at me with a knowing understanding and shared some wisdom from their recollection of those days. Stick your head in the freezer. Wear an ice pack. Make a paper fan. All great advice. And I remember thinking I didn’t recall a single one of them doing that in front of me ever, but their advice was proof that it happened.
When I told them how easy they made it all look, they smiled again, and it was clear that whatever my perception was…it was not easy for them either.
I wonder what my boys will remember about me in this stage of life. Watching my husband and me try to figure out how to age gracefully before their eyes.
And maybe that’s the secret—just accepting that this is what is, and knowing that 20 years from now, if I’m lucky, I’ll be sitting with someone in their middle age having a hot flash and sharing my strategies.
And I’ll be a part of generations of women who share this process in one way or another—bonded by the hope that we made it look easy for the next rising seniors.
by Shelby Spear 
by Bethany Sarazen 
