I claimed a new identity when I took your last name.
My hope was that it would be something we’d build upon together
but instead I made it my own thing.
The one who I’m proud of.
That one who is smart and savvy.
The one who feels comfortable in her own skin.
The one who is the boss.
I can’t say I’m glad for the suffering it caused me
but I thank you just the same.
The death of us meant the rebirth of me.
She is in-between.
Sandwiched between two generations and care-taking for both.
Society tries to label her as no longer young and attractive, yet also not old enough to be distinguished or interesting.
Either mocked for trying to combat aging or mocked for “giving up” the fight.
At best, she’s underrepresented.
At worst, she’s invisible.
But…
Do not pity the middle-aged woman.
Her confidence grows and her character is solidified.
She’s financially secure, or at least more at ease about it.
“No” is a more common response, and the guilt is less in saying so.
Her “give a damn” is broken, so she doesn’t.
She apologizes less for existing, if at all.
She owns her choices and her look.
She puts more value in people and relationships that matter, and sidelines those who don’t.
She’s the glue that holds two generations together and seamlessly weaves between.
Daughter. Mother. Wife. Friend. Ex. Sister. Grandmother. Girlfriend.
There is not a role she cannot master.
Do not pity the middle age woman.
She’s more than OK; she’s fierce.
Immigrant Musings 