We change as we age. Not just physically, but who we are changes—what feels important, meaningful, and interesting, what we want and need, all evolve along the life journey. For many women, there’s a time in life when domesticity is what we want, and our role in the family is who we are. There’s also a time for many women when it’s as if the page turns and we’ve moved out of that chapter.
This process of becoming and re-becoming who we are is exciting, but it can also be disorienting. We wake up, and it’s as if the person we once were no longer lives in our body. Making it even stranger is the fact that it happens without our realizing it. We find ourselves in a conversation about something that used to be important to us and realize that it just isn’t anymore. And, we find that it’s harder to stay in the conversation or pretend. What provided meaning no longer does. The roles we used to play are, suddenly (or so it seems), not where we want to put our energy.
A moment arrives (often in a woman’s fifties) when taking care of everyone else’s needs, being who everybody needs us to be, doesn’t hold the same punch, reward, or necessity it once did. In women’s groups, this particular decade is often referred to as the “f*ck-it fifties,” which aptly conveys the sentiment of this shift.
I experienced this moment inside myself when I discovered that I didn’t feel the need (or desire) to make dinner for my family anymore. Or, for that matter, to be the social director and plan a thousand fabulous activities and trips for every weekend.
I’d known for years, intellectually, that these tasks were constructions of society and that I’d been conditioned to believe I needed to do all that. I understood that it wasn’t my responsibility to take care of everyone else’s needs around the clock, nor was it my fault if anyone was ever disappointed. Nevertheless, I genuinely enjoyed being that mom, and still do in moments. No matter what created it, it was what I wanted, and I felt compelled to fulfill these tasks and play my role in the family.
My shift didn’t happen in my head. It was a bodily-felt transformation in how I wanted to spend my time, and what brought me satisfaction and meaning. The change wasn’t in what I knew, but in what I wanted. I had stopped wanting or needing to do all those things and be that person for everyone else. My own desire to fulfill that role had vanished.
Tinges of guilt still appeared, but it was really more of a sadness for my daughters that they’d lost that mom I used to be: the super-mom they probably preferred. It wasn’t the kind of guilt that kept me jumping through hoops, but rather an acceptance that time had moved on, and we were all going to be affected. Like it or not, I simply wasn’t the good domestic soldier I’d been, who also loved being that. But I couldn’t play the same part I’d always played for my family; that was the truth. Letting go of that version of myself, putting down the fry pan, wasn’t a struggle; it just happened. The new reality.
At times, I wondered who that woman had been who dutifully performed all those tasks with such vitality and sense of duty—the woman who’d derived so much meaning and purpose from my tasks and roles. Where had she disappeared to? Had she gone fishing or simply become someone else?
It seemed I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed this transformation. My daughter recently bought me a mug with a quote on it that suggested she also had noticed the new “mom” living in her house, the woman who looked like her old mom, but didn’t behave like her. On the coffee mug she gifted me, in hot pink script was this: “You’re mistaking me for someone who gives a sh*t.”
It’s an odd and unsettling feeling to be in the same situations that used to matter so much, but to feel utterly different—as if your life on the outside is the same and everyone you know thinks you’re the same person, but you are definitely not the same. You’ve been deposited in someone’s life who used to be you. One friend described listening to another mom go on and on about the different options she was considering for her child’s summer. While wanting my friend to weigh in with equal urgency, as she always had, my friend found herself having, in her words, an “out-of-body” experience. She had become “utterly bored” by the topic; it simply didn’t interest her or feel important.
Change is a natural part of the life cycle. Our priorities shift—sometimes very dramatically, seemingly on a dime, without any prior warning. We don’t recognize who we are because the ways we defined ourselves no longer feel relevant. There’s no representative from the universe who asks permission to remove the old version of ourselves and replace it with a new one.
The reality is that our “self,” this solid entity we think is fixed and knowable, is in fact constantly emerging and evolving—becoming a new version of itself. Who we fundamentally are is a process, not a destination. The problem is that we fight this fundamental truth and try to keep ourselves in one place, as one person—a self we know and understand. But often, we outgrow that self, whether we want to or not.
Transformation is often uncomfortable; it’s also an adaptive and evolutionarily-wise process. It keeps us growing and changing. It makes life and our identity an adventure. And, it allows us to keep discovering ourselves in new incarnations.
The problem is that women blame and criticize themselves for this natural process. As a result, we ignore the profound opportunity it presents. We feel guilty for a transformation that, while it may temporarily let other people down, is not ours to control.
This sudden shift can happen not just in domestic life, but in our significant relationships as well, a change that can be equally unsettling, and also equally helpful—and powerful. (I won’t mention the coffee mug my husband gave me!)
