Life in the 60s

Navigating grief, identity and joy at midlife.

During an online recovery meeting, in one of the hundred Zoom boxes, a woman sitting on a plastic lawn chair somewhere in America says – “I’m 60, I don’t know who I am, I can’t feel my feelings”—and I feel seen.

Photo by Ryan Ancill on Unsplash

I am often afraid I am worth nothing. I feel worthless. Worth less. A voiceless middle-aged woman.

As the daughter of a mentally ill person, I didn’t think I needed help. I was the help.

I recently went from no support for 50 years to retaining a talk therapist, a trauma specialist, a marriage counselor, a psychopharmacologist, a divorce lawyer and a psychic.

I know who I don’t want to be: the person who defers to others, who suppresses her feelings to keep the peace, who doesn’t value herself, who has difficulty saying no. Who fears being seen as mean, rude or selfish, or making the wrong decision and causing irreparable damage.

So, not that person.

But who is left when it all falls apart?

Stay tuned for more writing as I explore next chapters, transitions, and every day feats of strength. Please subscribe and hit like, and send to people you think might enjoy this, too.