I sat with that for a while.

My adolescence did not feel like an awakening. It felt out of my control. And given the messaging I was receiving around sex, it seemed like something I shouldn’t open up to experiencing.

The feelings were real. Hormones are real. If I were being generous, I’d say our bodies were coming online and we were shifting into sexual beings.

Awakening implies something more conscious. A turning toward, a recognition. What I remember is being introduced to sex-ed, being told it was okay to have sex to have a baby, to never have sex until I was married and literally nothing about sex being pleasurable. Let alone an explanation to all the pleasurable feeling coming out of nowhere.

Girls were introduced to sex in adolescence. Most of us were not awakened to it.

The distinction matters. An introduction means someone hands you a thing and says: here, this exists, navigate accordingly. An awakening means you actually understand what you’re holding. And more than that, you understand that it’s yours.

An awakening means you have agency. Most adolescents are still operating inside someone else’s rules.

For most women, if the awakening comes at all, it arrives much later. After years of performing desire more than feeling it. After enough distance from everything she was handed to start asking what, if anything, was actually hers.

A number of years ago I was asked to speak to a group of women about sex. It sounded straightforward. It wasn’t. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there is no single conversation about sex. Every woman walks in with her own conditioning, her own history, her own relationship to her body.

Including, perhaps especially the topic I chose; a pleasure practice. Masturbation.

Most women have learned about their own bodies by way of someone else’s hands.

Women’s pleasure — how to feel it, whether they’re allowed to feel it, what it means that they feel it — arrived to them filtered through someone else’s wants and expectations. Through conditioning that made very clear, early and often, that her body’s primary job was to be useful. To others. To function. To perform.

Not to feel. Not for herself. Not as its own source of information.

And I believe, from this very conditioning, girls have learned not to feel safe in their bodies, not to know their bodies, not able to embody what they are experiencing and most crucially, feel into their desires.

We were taught from the very beginning to look outside ourselves to feel good. To hand our pleasure over and call it normal.

When you don’t know how to access your own body, you find something that does it for you

Which is why it’s no wonder most women are reaching for alcohol. It’s the one socially acceptable place she’s allowed to stop performing. Nobody questions it. And for a while, it works. It manufactures the exhale, the loosening, the brief sensation of being present in a body she was never given permission to fully inhabit.

Then she arrives in her forties and fifties, estrogen making its quiet exit, and the questions she’s been successfully outsourcing start surfacing anyway.

Whose life am I living? What do I actually want? Why doesn’t this work the way it used to?

This is her awakening.

You may have heard of it. Someone branded it as a crisis.

But a crisis implies something has gone wrong. This is something going right.

There’s a difference between a sexual awakening and what most of us experienced in adolescence. What happened then was an introduction.

The awakening is what happens when you realize most of what you were handed was never actually yours.

It’s desire coming back online on your own terms. It’s appetite returning. Not just for sex but for your life. For what you want, what you feel, what you’re no longer willing to numb.

For a lot of women, the thing standing between her and that appetite is what she’s been using to manufacture it.

Removing alcohol forces you to confront and feel all of it. You are suddenly exposed to the version of you underneath the drinking — the one who has wants and edges and a body full of information she’s been trying to quiet. The one who’s been there since adolescence, waiting.

A sober awakening is the same house. You just enter through a different door.

Sobriety is about stopping. A sober awakening is about what you find when you do.

The awakening is meeting her again.

And realizing the answers were never in the glass.

They were in you. They’ve always been in you.

You just weren’t taught to look there.

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The career pivot. The financial freedom. The relationship that actually feels good. The body you want to live in. The version of yourself who doesn’t need wine at the end of the day.

You meant it. You weren’t lying. And yet.

I think about this with my own life sometimes. I was twenty years old when I saw a woman running and had a quiet, wordless thought: I want to do that. No plan, no journaling, no affirmations. Just something in me pointing toward something in her and saying yes. Twenty-six years later, I’m still running.

In my early thirties, I had the same kind of knowing about alcohol. I didn’t want it in my life anymore. That one took time and real work, but it happened. It became true.

And then there’s the financial freedom. The version of my forties where work was a choice. I wanted that too. Said it just as clearly. And yet, I’ll be honest with you, this bish does not have a choice.

So what is actually going on?

Because the wanting felt the same. It always felt like wanting.

The Part That Positive Thinking Misses

Most of us, when we want something we’re not getting, reach for the same tools. We journal. We set intentions. We do the affirmations. We try to think more positively and visualize the outcome.

And there’s nothing wrong with any of that, as a starting point.

Emmet Fox wrote that real change happens at the level of the heart, not the intellect. That prayer isn’t about forcing outcomes but about creating a pause, a place to bring what you want without rushing to make it happen through sheer will. I believe that. The pause matters. The turning inward matters. And I can’t recommend his book The Sermon on the Mount enough if this is territory you want to explore.

But I also think we’re contending with something that positive thinking and even prayer don’t fully account for.

Carolyn Elliott captures it this way in Existential Kink: focusing only on the light is like staring up at the sun without noticing you’re standing in something that smells terrible. You spray affirmations over it like perfume. The smell doesn’t go away. And meanwhile, shadow work is looking down at all that shit so you can clean it up, or even compost it into a lush garden.

Here’s what Elliott says that stops most women cold: having is evidence of wanting.

The first time I sat with that I got defensive. Because I did want it. I genuinely, consciously wanted it. And the idea that some hidden part of me was working against that felt like one more way to blame myself for something that already hurt.

But that’s not what she means.

Jung called this the shadow: the parts of ourselves we’ve pushed underground because they didn’t fit the life we were performing. The part that doesn’t believe she deserves it. The part that’s actually terrified of having what she says she wants.

It’s not a character flaw. It’s not weakness. It’s just that some part of you learned, somewhere along the way, what was safe, what was allowed, what would happen if you actually got the thing.

For a long time, I interpreted this internal tension as inconsistency. As a lack of discipline. As evidence that if I really wanted something, I would have made it happen by now. But over time I began to notice that the part of me resisting certain changes didn’t feel lazy or self-sabotaging. It felt protective. Protective of familiar identities. Protective of the ways I had learned to navigate the world, even when those ways no longer fully fit.

When I look at the financial freedom I keep not quite reaching, I have to be honest with myself. There might be a part of me that knows what having it would require. The visibility. The claiming of space. The loss of the story that’s kept me striving but never arriving. Striving feels purposeful. Having means something else is asked of you.

That’s a shadow. And it’s been running the show from somewhere I wasn’t looking.

Three Brains, Three Agendas

To understand why this happens, it helps to understand what you’re actually working with.

You don’t have one brain. You have three, and they don’t always agree.

Your neocortex is the thinking brain. The one reading this right now. The one that sets goals, makes plans, and says I want to change. This is where your conscious intentions live.

Your limbic system is your emotional brain. It holds memory, attachment, and the deeply felt sense of what feels safe or threatening. It doesn’t respond to logic. It responds to feeling.

And your reptilian brain, your survival brain, is running patterns so old and so automatic that you barely notice them. Its only job is to keep you alive, and it defines alive as familiar. Change, even change you consciously want, can register here as threat.

So when a woman says I want to change (the drinking, the marriage, the career, the financial picture) that's her neocortex speaking. Her conscious mind. And she means it completely.

But her limbic system is holding a different kind of memory. What happened the last time she tried. What it cost her. What she had to feel when the thing she reached for didn’t work out.

And her survival brain is just doing what survival brains do. Keeping things familiar. Keeping things known. Treating the life she already has, even the parts she hates, as safer than the life she doesn’t yet.

Three brains. Three agendas. And willpower, which only lives in the neocortex, is outnumbered two to one.

This is why white-knuckling doesn’t work for anything. Not for sobriety, not for financial change, not for leaving the marriage, not for finally building the thing you’ve been circling for years. It’s not a discipline problem. It’s a competing agendas problem.

So What Do You Actually Do With This?

You start by getting curious rather than critical.

Instead of asking why can’t I just do the thing I said I wanted, which is a question that always leads back to shame, you ask something softer; What might I be getting from not having this? And you hold that question with genuine openness, not as an accusation.

It becomes less a question of why can’t I make myself do this and more a question of what might this part of me be trying to keep safe. And that question changes everything. It moves the conversation out of shame and into curiosity.

For years, I avoided looking at certain parts of myself because I was afraid of what I might see. The woman who had made choices she regretted. Who had numbed out instead of speaking up. Who had sought relief in ways that didn’t ultimately serve her.

When I finally began to sit with those parts, not to excuse them, but to understand them, something unexpected happened.

I began to see that those versions of me were not trying to ruin my life. They were trying, in imperfect ways, to protect me. To cope. To feel something. To access parts of myself that had nowhere else to go at the time.

And then, slowly, something I did not see coming: I started loving the hell out of her.

Because she was trying. In all the wrong ways, with all the wrong tools, but she was trying to survive something. To feel something. To access parts of herself that had nowhere else to go.

When I brought some loving light to that darkness, it wasn’t as dark.

That part of me isn’t gone. I’m not fixed. She’s still in me, she’s just not running the show from a place I can’t see anymore. She’s integrated. And because of that, I feel more whole than I ever did when I was busy pretending she didn’t exist. And because I’m not living in shame anymore, because I’m coming from a place of self love instead, I’m not the least bit inclined to be dishonest with myself or with anyone else.

That’s what Jung was pointing at. Not the elimination of the shadow, but the integration of it.

What I keep coming back to is this: the things we say we want and keep not getting are often pointing at exactly this. Not a strategy problem. Not a timing problem. A shadow problem. Some part of us that learned, a long time ago, that wanting too much was dangerous. That being too visible was dangerous. That having the thing would require becoming someone we don’t yet know how to be.

You don’t have to love every part of yourself immediately. That’s not how it works and anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something.

But you can start by looking. Holding it out in front of you where it can’t come at you sideways. Getting curious about why she keeps stopping just short of the thing. About what she might be protecting you from. About what she learned, and when, and whether it still needs to be true.

She wasn’t trying to sabotage you.

She was trying to keep you safe with the only map she had.

Understanding that is where the real work begins. Not the willpower. Not the vision board. Not the affirmations sprayed over something that needs composting.

The looking.

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I looked at her, confused. My hair was in a ponytail. I hadn’t washed it in a couple of days.

“Thanks,” I said, with half a smile.

“I just love seeing a woman age naturally,” she added.

That’s when I realized she meant the grey. The grey hair lining my face that I hadn’t covered. Not because I’d made some philosophical decision about aging naturally, but because I’d been too busy to get in for my hair appointment around the holidays.

My instinct was to tell her to mind her millennial elders. But I thanked her again and kept walking.

The interaction stayed with me though.

It made me think about all of it. The Botox, the fillers, the hair dye, the declarations about aging naturally. Whether any of it is actually the point.

Or if it’s all just distraction.

A way of not having to feel what it actually means to watch yourself age. To see time passing in your own body. To know, on some quiet level, that this is finite. That we are, slowly, disintegrating. That one day we will die.

I asked myself if that was true for me. Then I did the thing I usually don’t do.

I stopped and sat with it.

With the temporary nature of my existence. With the fact that I’m going to die.

I won’t lie... my chest tightened. I felt afraid. Maybe even terrified.

Not of how it will happen, but of the simple truth: being here today means I won’t be here one day.

Sitting with that didn’t send me spiraling. It did the opposite.

It reminded me why I’m here at all.

Not just to live, but to feel my aliveness. To stop escaping and start inhabiting my days. To meet what shows up with breath and steadiness.

To be present in my relationships with my children, my family, my lover, my friends, my dogs. To speak with integrity. To act with intention. To forgive, forgive, forgive.

To not take for granted a single wrinkle, stretch mark, mile run, tear shed, belly laugh, or moment of connection.

The woman in the airport wasn’t really seeing me. She was projecting her own story about aging onto my unwashed hair.

I wasn’t fully present either. I was busy deciding whether to correct her, feel annoyed, or let it go.

Meanwhile, life was just happening around us.

That’s the real distraction.

Not Botox. Not hair dye. Not whether you choose to do something or not do it.

But all the fucking energy we spend making meaning out of it. Deciding what it says about us. Whether it makes us more evolved or more authentic or more acceptable.

So yes, I’ll still get Botox. I’ll dye my hair again when I have time.

But I don’t want those choices to pull me away from what’s underneath.

In the end, the wrinkles won’t matter. The grey won’t matter.

What will matter is whether I actually felt my life. Whether I was present for the people I love. Whether I let myself be seen and loved fully. Whether I experienced the full range of my aliveness. The pleasure, the grief, the rage, the tenderness. Instead of numbing or performing or distracting my way through it.

My forties have been my biggest awakening yet. Spiritually, sexually, sobriety-wise.

It reminds me of the butterfly metamorphosis. Not the pretty, inspirational version, but the actual biology of it. A caterpillar doesn’t just grow wings in the chrysalis. It dissolves. Completely breaks down into liquid. The old form has to disintegrate for something new to emerge.

That’s what midlife has felt like. You spend the first half of your life building a self based on what you think you’re supposed to be. What your parents wanted. What society expected. What would make you acceptable, lovable, successful, good. You’re encased in all those shoulds.

Then something cracks it open. You realize: I don’t actually have to be any of that. I can finally be free.

The parts I’d been hiding, the ones I’m finally accepting, weren’t flaws. They were the parts that didn’t fit the mold I was trying to squeeze myself into. The anger. The desire. The refusal to perform niceness. The big personality. The sexuality. The parts that were “too much” or “not enough.”

I don’t give a fuck about being what everyone around me says I should be. I can age how I want. Botox or grey hair or both or neither. Without needing anyone’s approval for my choices.

It’s like being birthed into your real humanness. Into all of it. Without too much concern for who’s watching.

This is what 46 means to me: acceptance of who I am. Of the temporary nature of this body, this life. Of all the parts I tried to hide or change or perform away.

And from that acceptance comes freedom.

Freedom from the performance. From the approval-seeking. From all the shoulds I spent the first half of my life trying to squeeze myself into.

The freedom to feel alive in this body. Not preserve it or perfect it, but actually live in it while I’m here.

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Thank you for your understanding ❤️

Last week, you may have noticed people posting pictures from 2016 on Instagram. And you may have asked yourself, why is this happening? Nobody knows. Including myself who took a trip down memory lane. Here’s what I found:

Teddies for Bettys. NYC Marathon. Hair experiments. Too many selfies.

I looked happy. Busy. The kind of woman who had her shit together. Running a successful business, training for marathons, posting confidently about... whatever I was posting about.

WILD to look back. She had no idea she was about to burn down half her life and slog through a chapter that felt like quicksand.

What the photos don’t show: I was less than two years away from learning that no amount of productivity, achievement, or perfect selfies could outrun the part of me that periodically needs to blow everything up.

The Cyclical Nature of Self

Midlife keeps teaching me that you don’t actually become a different person, you just get more honest about who you’ve always been.

In 2023, I wrote about what I had to quit after I quit drinking. Spoiler Alert: It was me. And since we’re being honest, I didn’t fully leave her. The part of me that gets bored with stability and wants to blow up the good thing before it gets boring (or before someone else does it first) is still here.

She shows up differently now, but she shows up.

Like the impulse to remove myself entirely, to run away, the minute I feel uncomfortable. It is my first thought anytime someone pisses me off or hurts me. But instead of hitting eject, I’ve started to stay.

Instead of ruminating for days, creating elaborate plots in my mind that would put scripted TV to shame, I’ve started to use my words. (Why is that so hard?)

Today, when things don’t go my way, I resist the urge to go to my room, black it out, and binge-watch TV.

And that, it turns out, is what growth looks like.

Decades as Chapters

I have yet to meet anyone in midlife who says, “I figured myself out in my twenties.” Sure, some people knew their career path early or found a partner they love. But nobody bypassed meeting different parts of themselves along the way.

In my twenties, my eyes were closed and I jumped without thinking.

In my thirties, my eyes were open, I saw the cliff, and I jumped anyway.

My forties have been me standing on the cliff, thinking about those previous jumps, the branches, the rocks, the impact with the water, grateful that one of my breast implants didn’t burst, and wondering if I even enjoy cliff jumping.

The actual answer is an un-resounding no.

Portia Nelson wrote it best:

AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN FIVE CHAPTERS

I I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost … I am hopeless. It isn't my fault. It takes forever to find a way out.

II I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don't see it. I fall in again. I can't believe I'm in the same place. But it isn't my fault. It still takes a long time to get out.

III I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there. I still fall in … it’s a habit. My eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately.

IV I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.

V I walk down another street.

It would be easy for us to think that who we’ve been was all wrong and we need to unfuck her and all would be right with us and life.

What If Some Things Don’t Need Unfucking?

Lately I’ve been thinking about this in terms of humanness and time.

Maybe the work isn’t fixing ourselves or trying to eliminate these parts, but dropping our resistance to them. Learning to unfold alongside them.

That part of you that gets restless when things are stable? Who creates problems just to have something to solve? She’s not going anywhere. And maybe that isn’t the problem.

Maybe it’s not about becoming someone who doesn’t have those impulses. Maybe it’s about recognizing when they rise up and saying, “I see you. I know what you want. And not today.” Not from shame or anger, just awareness.

The thing is, the same part that wants to blow things up is also the part that took the risks that mattered. That walked away from situations that weren’t serving you. That said yes to things that scared you and ended up saving you.

She’s every worst decision you barely survived and every best decision you made when playing it safe would have kept you small.

The Strength in Both

There’s this idea that by midlife we should have it figured out, that if we’re still wrestling with our patterns, we’re doing it wrong.

But what if the real strength is learning to hold both? To unfuck some things and let other things unfold?

Unfuck the stories that keep you small, while letting the unfiltered truth of who you are exist without trying to fix it.

Unfuck the shame around still being a work in progress, while allowing yourself to keep learning and meeting new parts of yourself.

Unfuck the fantasy that you’ll someday stop wanting to burn it all down, while choosing not to act on it.

This isn’t about fixing yourself until you’re finally acceptable. It’s about having the strength to stop trying to become someone else and instead unfold into who you’ve always been.

The Unfolding

We, much like life, are unfolding all the time.

The quicksand chapters aren’t failures, they’re foundation. They teach us that we can’t perform our way out of our patterns, that the only way through is to stop running from who we are.

Without that chapter that felt like quicksand, there would be no solution I live by now, no stronger foundation, no woman who can face herself in the mirror.

Not unfucked. Not fixed. Not done.

Just unfolding.

And there’s strength in that.

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And for fun, I keep thinking about that scene in Death Becomes Her — Isabella Rossellini handing Meryl Streep the potion, saying, “Take care of yourself. You and your body are going to be together a long time.” The irony, of course, is that she says it right before selling her soul for eternal youth.
The things we’ll trade for forever.
Unfucking Midlife is the real potion — but it only works if you’re willing to feel it.

“If you don’t get yourself figured out, you’re going to lose the best years of your life. I’m serious. Your 50s into your mid-60s are the best — that’s when you finally stop caring about the shit that doesn’t matter and really live. But you’re running yourself down mentally and emotionally.”

That was my dad, after I told him I had the flu this month.
I’d hesitated to even call. I was embarrassed to admit, yet again, that I was sick. But I made a commitment to check in with him once a week, and that overrode whatever discomfort I was feeling.

I knew he’d have something to say. Because it’s not just sick; it’s sick again. When I was recovering from Covid back in June, he’d said, “You’ve been sick a lot this year.”

As predicted, his tone this time was less sympathetic and more scolding. I hung up feeling slightly stung… until I realized I’ve used that same tone with my own kids when I’m worried.

I can’t speak for my dad, but when I see my children suffering, especially from choices I know aren’t helping, I can’t help but step in to defend “my child.” Concern and control often get tangled. It’s fucked up.

But I will tell you; his words lingered. During those eleven days in bed, I kept thinking about them. Because the truth is, it’s not lost on me how mentally and emotionally worn down I’ve felt this year. Which is confusing, considering the circumstances.

My kids aren’t home. I work from home. I’m sober. I have a strong recovery and spiritual program. I’m surrounded by supportive, loving people. So why do I feel so depleted?

On the flip side.. because there’s always a flip side.. I’m also in the middle of Unfucking My Midlife. Make no mistake, this platform and its name are nothing short of a projection.

Questions surrounding time circle the drain. If I’ll ever fully realize the Self that’s been so patiently waiting for me. If these patterns will finally dissolve for good.

Ironically, we hear a lot about the Peter Pan guys. You know the ones: the boys who won’t grow up, avoid commitment, and fear being trapped or limited. In Latin, they’re called Puer Aeternus, the eternal boy.

But you rarely hear about Puella Aeterna, the eternal girl. She’s dependent on others for grounding, allergic to confrontation or structure, and terrified of aging.

I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve been the eternal girl. She’s been running the show for decades.

Left unchecked, me and my eternal girl pendulate between euphoria and despair. We escape through fantasy, sex, travel, or substances, convinced that this next thing will be it… only to never actually land.

Did I mention she has commitment issues?

Something I didn’t say to my dad — maybe because I couldn’t yet articulate it — is that my Soul came knocking a few years ago.
I believe her exact words were, “Bitch, wake up.”

And I started to.

I’ve wondered, and this is going to sound a little woo-woo, but it’s the truth, if my body being sick this year has been a kind of cleanse. Maybe it’s old emotions moving through, or the death of parts of me that can’t come with me where I’m going.
My body has been rejecting activity, keeping me in stillness and quiet, forcing me into a new rhythm.

In some ways, being sick has taught me to listen to my intuition and instincts; not my impulses.
There’s a difference.
My impulses want action, distraction, attention.
My intuition wants quiet, connection, trust.

Marie-Louise von Franz wrote, “Only when the eternal girl dies can the woman be born.”

The midlife Puella often feels:
Disoriented — I used to know what I wanted.
Angry or restless — I feel stuck, like I missed something.
Tired of performing, pleasing, pretending.
Haunted by choices she never made — the life unlived.

But here’s the sacred part:
These aren’t failures. They’re signals.
They’re the psyche’s way of saying, it’s time.

For a long time, I resisted that death. I thought I could outrun it, out-work it, or stay forever lit by the potential fantasy of who I might become. But the truth is, I’m not being punished by this season of slowing down or being sick. I’m being initiated. My body slowing down, my emotions surfacing, my spirit asking me to integrate? This is the work.

The woman I’m becoming isn’t trying to escape the girl I was. She’s learning to bring her home.

The Puella believes freedom comes from flight. She thrives on possibility, intensity, and beginnings.
But the mature Puella learns that real freedom is found in landing, in presence and embodiment.

She learns how to be erotic without escaping, spiritual without floating away, ambitious without abandoning herself.
She stops performing and starts belonging to her body, her boundaries, her life.

When she finally says yes to descent. what Jungian analyst Sylvia Brinton Perera calls ‘the goddess’s initiation’, she begins to understand what aliveness actually feels like.

(What our culture calls crisis, breakdown, or illness, depth psychology calls descent — the soul’s way of getting our attention when we’ve stayed on the surface too long.)

It looks like:

• Saying no to fantasy and yes to presence.

• Learning to stay — in discomfort, in relationship, in her own body.

• Making peace with imperfection and limits.

• Letting go of potential for embodied power.

In this descent, she meets the body she has, the age she is, and the choices she’s made.

I don’t think I’m being punished by this season of slowing down or being sick.
I think I’m being invited to integrate — to let the girl rest so the woman can rise.

The mature Puella knows that freedom isn’t flight; it’s presence.
She learns how to be erotic without escaping, spiritual without floating away, ambitious without abandoning herself.
She stops performing and starts belonging — to her body, her boundaries, her life.

And honestly?

I don’t know about you, but I’m over feeding on what drains me.

Maybe all this time, my Soul’s been waiting for the girl to get tired enough to let the woman in.

Because I think my dad is right.
I do need to figure myself out.
And I know just the woman to do it.

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I’ve started something new.
Somewhere between getting sober and staying sober is learning how to live sober.
That’s what I’m exploring in my new Substack, This Side of Sober — essays and reflections on emotional sobriety, self-trust, and what it really looks like to live well without alcohol.

If that’s a conversation you’ve been craving, you can read the coming soon post and subscribe here →

This Side of Sober

Welcome to This Side of Sober

This Side of Sober…

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6 months ago · Ashley Kelsch

Death Becomes Her: Worth the 6+ minutes. I promise 😂

Worksheet: FROM ETERNAL GIRL TO WOMAN 👇👇👇

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Pressure to make the right decision for everyone around her.

Before I continue, it’s important you know that when I say “friend,” I mean someone I see once or twice a year and speak with occasionally. I am not “in” this person’s life. And yet she was the third woman that month, under that same definition of friend, who had confessed to me something she hadn’t been able to say to anyone else.

The Weight of Everyone Else

For centuries, women have been taught to carry our emotional lives like secrets. We learn to smile through the pain, shoulder the burden of everyone else’s comfort, and make ourselves smaller. We are conditioned to believe that our struggles, our doubts, our desires, our yearning for more, are selfish, inappropriate, or simply too much for the world to handle.

I won’t pretend to know what it feels like to pull at the thread of a decades-long marriage. But I do know the fear of revealing what I’m really thinking, of what others will think and how it might disrupt their lives.

At 21, I had my first child and was married to a man nearly twenty years older than me. Not long after the wedding, my dad called one afternoon and said (paraphrased):

“Ash, now that you’re married, there’s something you need to understand. You can’t come to me with your problems about your husband because when you make up with him, I’ll still hold it against him. For the sake of the family, it’s better you don’t tell me. It just causes a rift between everyone.”

In his defense, my dad had been married twice and knew how complicated it could get when in-laws were involved. But at 21, I didn’t have the maturity to distinguish between don’t involve your parents in every argument and don’t tell anyone when you’re struggling.

So I didn’t.

I kept my relationship struggles to myself. The combination of those secrets, the fear of disappointing my family, and the pressure not to fail at marriage left me throwing up my food and obsessively working out after every meal. I didn’t know what to do with the rising tension in my body and mind.

It was that behavior that landed me in a therapist’s office, but when she asked about my marriage I felt a wave of heat rush through me and froze. “We’re good, I told her, I’m here because I have an eating disorder.”

By the time I was 25, I was asking for a divorce, and everyone around me was shocked. Everyone but my mom and my therapist.

Apparently, while I was on painkillers after a boob job, all my usual defenses had dropped. I was crouched on the floor of my car drinking a McDonald’s chocolate milkshake when I confessed to my mom that I wasn’t in love with my husband, didn’t know who I was, and didn’t know what to do.

When I told her I was leaving, she reminded me of what I had told her that day.

You’re Only as Sick as Your Secrets

What strikes me most about these confessions, mine, my friends’, and so many women’s is how shocked people are when they finally learn the truth.

“I had no idea.”
“You seemed so happy together.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I can’t believe you walked away from all of that.”

Unfortunately, this wouldn’t be the last time I kept my pain and secrets close to the vest, leaning on something outside myself until everything eventually came to the surface. Over time, the target shifted from my parents, then my kids, then my community. But the pattern was the same: don’t let them know.

I became a pressure cooker, holding it all in until the lid blew off.

What I’ve learned is that denying emotions doesn’t make them go away, it makes them heavier. When shared with a trusted confidant, even hearing the words out loud shows that action doesn’t have to come right away. It’s enough to simply acknowledge the feeling and accept that this is where you are right now.

What often keeps us quiet is fear. Fear that if we say something out loud, we’ll be held to it, that we’ll have to make a decision right away.

But there is so much power in allowing space and time to simply let the words and ideas exist without action. To let them breathe.

And I think that’s what those women intuitively knew. The ones who confided in me that week weren’t looking for solutions. They wanted a witness. Someone who could hold their truth without trying to fix it or judge it. They chose me not because I’m particularly wise or qualified, but because I exist slightly outside their daily lives: close enough to care, far enough away to feel safe.

Sometimes the act of telling on ourselves is what brings the relief we’ve been looking for — no solutions, no quick fixes, just the freedom of finally saying it.

What secrets have you been carrying that feel too heavy to share?

When was the last time you felt the relief of simply naming what's true for you, even without knowing what to do about it?

What would become possible in your life if you gave yourself permission to speak your truth without needing immediate solutions or perfect answers?

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But even after the alcohol cleared my system, after my boxes were unpacked and my life arranged neatly in its new cabinets and drawers, the weight remained. It lingered like an unwanted smell on a humid day, following me everywhere I went.

Five-plus years later, I know with full certainty: the energy I felt—urgent and demanding—was my soul banging on the front door saying,

“Let me in. We need to talk.”

I kept the door closed, but that didn’t stop the conversation from happening.

The Uncomfortable Questions

Over the next several years, I found myself bombarded with relentless questions that felt like an interrogation. Except this wasn’t the good cop/bad cop routine—it was strictly bad cop:

What the fuck are you doing?
Not just today—but with this life.
When it’s all said and done, how will you look back on it?
What will you think of you?
What is your so-called future going to look like?
What are you doing for your future self?
Is this how you’re going to live your life?

I’ve often been told I’m too hard on myself. The truth is, I was living so far out of alignment with my core values and integrity—and I knew it. I also knew I wasn’t living up to my fullest potential.

The thing is, dear reader, I’m one of those who learns the hard way. I’ll avoid making the necessary changes and instead exhaust myself trying to rearrange the world around me.

This usually looks like a new man, a new workout, a new career, a new wardrobe, new friends, a new way to date, a new way to spend my time.

But this voice outside the door wouldn’t let me escape into my usual distractions. It followed me into every moment—sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly—knock-knock-knocking.

Finally, around 43, I reached a point of no return. I opened the door and took a long, honest look in the mirror.

That turning point was crucial. It was the first time I didn’t turn away from what I saw.

I looked at everything I had done that led me to this life.

To say I didn’t like what I saw would be the understatement of my lifetime. I gave myself the ick. I couldn’t see the yum. And frankly, I was out of excuses—and tired of my own bullshit.

I won’t go into details, but I’ll say this: the choices I made in my personal and business relationships made it painfully clear not only why others didn’t trust me—but why I didn’t trust myself. And why I was miserable.

The process was uncomfortable as hell. There’s a reason most of us avoid this kind of deep self-examination. It’s easier to stay busy, to keep moving, to assume we’ll figure it out later.

But 40 had other plans for me.

I was humbled beyond measure. And five years later, I can see it was the greatest gift I could’ve given myself.

The Slow Awakening

Through the regret, doubt, and fear—literally taking it one day at a time because that’s all I could handle—I came to understand something simple but profound:

This is life.

We are constantly seeing ourselves with new eyes, clearing out old stories to make room for what’s true now.

Rinse. Repeat.

Remember. Forget.

What life is not meant to be is a process of punishing ourselves—living in regret and guilt.

My forties gave me clarity on the questions I had avoided for decades:

What kind of person do I want to be?
How does my highest Self show up?
What would it look like to live a life I could shamelessly own?
What is my definition of a life well lived?
Who is my ideal Self?

“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious,” our old friend Jung liked to say. —Caroline Elliott

These questions weren’t immediately answered, nor did I experience some grand enlightenment. And that’s okay. I’m not looking to be a saint. I’m just done living in secret.

There was a lot of “Who was she?”
And: “Who will I be after this process?”

But gradually, persistently, something shifted.

Around that time, I had been reading books like Pussy: A Reclamation, Moody Bitches, Goddesses Never Age, and Existential Kink—and was inspired to be in my body. Not necessarily sexually, but with presence, intentionality, and ritual.

The questions started to change.

What does it mean to be fully alive?
Who am I when I’m not performing or trying to meet expectations that aren’t mine?
How can I live a life that feels full and turned on?

That’s when I realized: the knocking had stopped.
I had opened the door—and I heard the answer.

I wanted to live an erotic life.

The Erotic Life

Now, before I lose you, let me define eroticism.

Eroticism is about desire as life force—the fundamental drive that makes us create, connect, and feel fully alive. It’s not confined to bedrooms; it’s about bringing that same intensity and presence to every aspect of life.

The unfortunate reality is that most of us spend decades not consciously living. We’re operating from a blueprint that’s been ingrained in us, rarely stopping to ask whether it actually serves us—or aligns with who we want to be.

No wonder we find ourselves acting out of integrity with our wholeness. We stay in jobs that drain us, relationships that shrink us, patterns that numb us—because they’re familiar. We tell ourselves it’s just how life is, or that we should be grateful. But beneath all that, something aches. Something whispers: This isn’t it.

Remember what I said about needing to learn the hard way? Most of us are surprisingly comfortable in familiar pain. It may not feel good, but at least we know how to navigate it. The pain of change, on the other hand, is unknown—and our brains are wired to choose the devil we know.

But eventually, the pain of staying the same becomes greater than the fear of change. And that’s often what wakes us up—shaking us into clarity, anchoring us in the here and now.

A place where all the roles and expectations fall away.
Where being is enough.
Where you want what you want—and that’s reason enough to go after it.

For me, living an erotic life means feeling into it all. As I write these words, I feel consumed with inspiration. When I venture outside for an evening stroll, I want to feel the stimulation of the city lights, the strangers with their energy and stories surrounding me. I want to feel the aliveness of my children’s words as I listen to them share their days with me. I want to feel the warmth of my coffee as I inhale its scent, truly tasting it.

Eroticism is experiencing it all—not mindlessly consuming.

I want to notice the light on my lover’s face in the morning and feel my body respond with genuine desire. I want to feel the cold air contrast with sweat on my neck when I run, my body fully engaged with the elements. I want to love my people so hard, so completely, that every interaction feels charged with meaning and presence.

This is an erotic life to me. This is my response to the awakening—living so fully present, so completely engaged with my senses and emotions, that every moment becomes an intentional choice rather than an unconscious habit.

The Science of Aliveness

There’s actually science behind this approach to living. When we’re operating from our most creative, inspired state—erotic energy—we’re accessing peak frequency. This isn’t just feel-good philosophy; it’s about optimizing how our brains and bodies function.

Sexual energy, even when not directed toward sexual activity, is the same energy that drives creativity, innovation, and deep connection. It’s the force that makes us want to create art, build businesses, nurture relationships, and push boundaries. When we learn to harness this energy intentionally, we become more alive to everything around us.

Redefining Everything

The decision to live erotically has changed how I approach everything. Work has become about passion and purpose rather than just paychecks. Relationships are about genuine connection rather than obligation. Even mundane tasks have become opportunities for presence and intention. (You know how I feel about caramelizing onions, y’all.)

When I finally stopped avoiding the knock at the door and started listening to the voice, I began asking different questions:

How can I bring more aliveness to this moment?
What would it look like to be fully present here?
How can I engage all my senses in this experience?

It meant slowing down enough to actually taste my food, to feel fabric against my skin, to notice the way light changes throughout the day. It meant having conversations that went beyond surface pleasantries to real connection. It meant pursuing work that genuinely excited me—not just paid the bills.
It meant doing what I wanted, not because I thought you might approve, but simply because it turned me on.

The Ripple Effect

Five years later, I can see how that uncomfortable awakening at 40 was the best thing that ever happened to me. It forced me to stop sleepwalking through my own life and start making conscious choices about how I wanted to show up in the world.

The questioning, the discomfort, the existential crisis—it was all preparation for this more intentional way of living. That midlife reckoning wasn’t a crisis to survive; it was an invitation to truly begin living.

The Invitation

Midlife has called me into something deeper. I’m not here to perform, perfect, or pretend I have it all figured out. I’m here to live—fully. To find the erotic in all of it.

To feel the aliveness in money, sex, motherhood, independence, pleasure, aging, reinvention—all the things we’re taught to whisper about or keep neatly compartmentalized. I’m not doing that anymore. And I want you to join me.

Because here’s what I know after five years of learning to live (imperfectly) with intention: we’re all thinking the same things.

We’re all navigating this wild, in-between place. We’re all quietly wondering if we’re doing it right, if we’re too late, if we’re allowed to want more.

The answer? Yes. Yes to all of it.

There’s still time. And midlife—with all its uncomfortable-ness and inconvenient truths—might just be the exact right time to begin.

What would an erotic life look like for you?
Where are you still sleepwalking?
And what might happen if you stopped?

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The homes were sprawling one-stories, each tucked a quarter mile down a long driveway, surrounded by perfectly green, overly manicured lawns. They felt... ostentatious. Still, I found myself wishing I had something like that. Again.

I heard construction trucks rumbling in the distance and realized the lot nearby was being excavated. The footprint of the house was massive. I was immediately transported back to the days when I used to pull up to my own job sites to visit my then-husband, a homebuilder. Our toddler son bouncing on the tractor seat. Ocean views in the distance. Palms lining the roads. Concrete being poured into what we believed were permanent futures. I had that. I built that.

And for a second, I wished I had it all figured out now like I did then.

The next thought tried to sneak in—you won’t be able to achieve that again—but I caught it. I unfucked it.
Because I’m not here by accident. I’m here because of everything that came before. And if I built it once, I can build again—only this time, with even more clarity.

As we walked the path back to our casita, my daughter asked, “Did you ever play Sesame Street for us when we were little?”

“Maybe a little,” I said. “But by then there were so many other shows—Dora, Wonder Pets…”

She laughed, “Yo Gabba Gabba.”

We didn’t really watch much of that one, I reminded her.

“No,” she said, “we were already a little older.”

I told her something I hadn’t thought of in years: “Funny thing, I didn’t even know about that show until my ex—my ex who was in a band—was on it, after he had his first baby.”

And just like that, another past version of me bubbled up. The one who still believed he was “the one.” Even after we ended. Even as our lives moved on. Back then, seeing him on a kid’s show with his new baby was enough to send me spiraling. I wasn't just watching a segment—I was watching the life I thought I was supposed to have play out with someone else.

It’s always something, isn’t it?

We get one area of life smoothed out while another scratches at us, whispering: this isn’t it. There’s more. There’s different. There’s better.

Over the weekend, I was talking about midlife—specifically, how my 40s have become a time of reclaiming.

Reflecting on my 20s and 30s, it's clear that who I am and what I desire at the core hasn't really changed—especially when it comes to work, passion, and creativity. Ironically, I had equal parts boldness and low self-worth back then. I was fearless, but not exactly rooted. I mistook my impulsive thoughts and emotions as my compass. Got an idea? Acted on it. Unhappy in a relationship? Sat in it for years… but only through the lens of my own alibi, plotting my exit.

Now in midlife, I want many of the same things—but I've finally found that inner sense of power and self-trust. At the same time, a new voice has crept in, echoing fears I didn't have at 20. The difference? I now have the awareness, the tools, and the lived experience to work with those thoughts instead of letting them run me.

The hard part about midlife isn’t the lack of opportunity—it’s the loud, collective voice telling you it’s too late.

But I’m not buying into that.

I may not be pouring concrete anymore, but I’m still building. This time, it's not just homes or businesses—it's me.

Okay, but there is a business in there too, and I keep reminding myself:

babe, if you've done it once, you can absolutely do it again.

For paying subscribers: This piece brings up a lot - I know because I'm still processing it myself. If you're feeling called to dig deeper into your own "I had it all" moments and the stories you're telling yourself about past vs. present, I've created a reflection worksheet to guide you through it. Sometimes we need more than just reading about these insights - we need to actually work through them on paper.

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We approached to see what the plants and flowers were and how anyone would enter the front door. As we got closer, we noticed a woman gardening. We started a conversation, asking how she got the garden to be this way.

It turned out she had bought the house 35 years ago. She had moved from New York and had enough money to get a car or this home. She opted for the house and never owned a car. It was no coincidence that there was no driveway; she spent many years saving enough money to have it removed.

My friend mentioned he had also moved here from New York but couldn't imagine not having a car. She laughed a little before asking, 'What brought you to Austin?'

"Oh, I got tired of the city. It got gross," he said.

"Really?" she asked.

"Yes. I was done when someone on the subway threw shit on me."

"You let a little shit run you out of New York?" she replied.

My friend, stunned, flatly said, "Well, it was more than that."

You can imagine the awkward silence that followed. I turned our attention back to the garden; how do you maintain all of this? It's so impressive.

"Oh, these plants thrive on neglect. I come out here occasionally and do some weeding, but otherwise, it doesn't need much from me."

As we walked away, my friend said, "She seems lonely."

"That woman is anything but lonely," I said. "She might be the most grounded person I've ever met."

I've been sitting back and watching the discourse on notes and in posts about Glennon Doyle's arrival this last week. I'd say you can't miss it, but my boyfriend is on Substack, and he has no idea what I'm talking about—algorithms. It's hard to say with all the users just how many people are affected, but one thing is for sure: It seems very personal to some of you. (Maybe not YOU.)

It reminded me of a post I wrote in December 2023: Looking for Serious Fun.

You should have seen me last week watching some drama unfold on Notes between writers and readers. Think of the audience at a Jerry Springer show or watching the Real Housewives of whatever being recorded while they're having a heated moment.

With wide eyes I watched the comments and re-sharing and the public demands and the threats flew back and forth as I inhaled the popcorn.

Wait, what?! What is actually happening here??!!

Of all the things I thought I might find on Substack, I did not foresee, and I hate to use this language, but it's the only sentence that comes to mind, this subset of people shit all over each other.

How did I not see that coming? Good question.

Maybe for the same reason, I didn't expect to see these same writers who are using Substack to grow their readership and potentially (or not) be able to monetize from it, shit all over the functionality and benefits of the new features the platform has and continues to roll out.

Perhaps this is the glaring undertone that can't be ignored with social media, socialization, and society.

It seems there will always exist a town center, a crowd that gathers and a stake ready to burn it and everyone down.

Because Glennon already has a platform, money, and privileges, she should be more considerate of everyone here.

She shouldn't announce with a video she is here and has a paywall in place.

She shouldn't join one of her best friends for a live and get more access; she shouldn't write in lower caps.

She should not be on here at all.

Because. allegedly

It's a threat to Substack and the ecosystem.

It's a threat to your gaining more subscribers.

It's a threat to you earning money.

She's already a celebrity; doesn't she have enough?

I'll admit the thinking is very relatable. I remember discovering Sophia Amoruso one day in 2013 while working in my office. Today, it's hard to say what I could have been working on if my research had brought me to NastyGal and its owner. What isn't hard to say but admit is that I went into an absolute tailspin. I left my office at Teddies for Bettys to lie in bed and cry before picking my kids up from school.

In an instant, my identity and self-worth were questioned and threatened: She is so edgy and cool, and I'm not; she figured out how to do this, has raised $100mil, and is on the cover of Forbes, and I'm none of that.

I'll never get to where she is.

I wonder how weird it would be today for her to hear from others who took her success so personally. Not only because she publically went bankrupt, has watched #girlboss turn on itself, and had to answer to how many people for it along the way but because I can't imagine she was thinking, 'Oh, I wonder how many people I'll take away from and minds I'll fuck with...'

But that was minor compared to the resentment I felt as I got closer to closing Teddies for Bettys and in the years following.

And I have Gwyneth Paltrow to thank for adjusting my headspace.

I may be repeating myself to some of you, but for the newcomers:

In 2008, I opened the first "lifestyle" store in Texas to offer both lingerie and sex toys, shortly after the Supreme Court ruled it illegal to ban the sale of novelty products. A shoutout to Forbidden Fruits - the real MVPs in Austin who helped pave the way.

Though laws changed to favor sex shops ( but are currently under threat again), mindsets didn't follow. While searching for a location, I faced repeated rejections because I planned to sell lingerie alongside sex toys. I was denied business insurance and loans.

One couple took a chance on me, leasing a tiny house on South 1st Street. I didn't realize the magnitude of their "yes" at the time. All the "nos" came because I was selling "sex."

"Influencers" would shop in my store but never mention it publicly because it wasn't "on brand." When I'd invite someone to visit, I'd hear dismissive comments like, "If I ever need anything like that, I'll stop by," to which I'd reply, "Okay… when you start wearing bras and panties, you should."

Over the years, I grew tired of the uphill feeling. I began feeling insecure, believing what I did was taboo - that I was taboo.

Imagine my surprise when Gwyneth Paltrow from GOOP came online and started promoting vibrators, pleasure documentaries, and vagina candles. At first flinch, I was shocked. "Now you're all okay buying sex toys?" I thought. I had already closed my doors at Teddies for Bettys and didn't feel financially threatened. Still, that old lingering resentment rose in me. And I didn't want to have any of it. Mainly because I didn't have it in me emotionally, but also because this was huge, and I realized how her success was my success. This woman has a massive platform, money, and from the looks of it, zero fucks about what people think.

Overnight, she is destigmatizing, commercializing, and normalizing pleasure and sex. This is not a threat to me or anyone else; this is the opening and broadcasting of a message that can reach the masses.

This is bigger than me.

She is doing the work on behalf of the collective. Work that I can't do alone... And as for the business of selling sex toys and educating people on pleasure, this is definitely a more, not less, situation. ( I mean, even her family/romantic life are a reference for me, now.)

I was reminded of my original mindset when I entered the bra business. Anytime someone asked me about Victoria's Secret, I had the same answer; I couldn't be here without them.

Victoria's Secret played a crucial role. People like to criticize their quality and sexualization. Still, they educated the American consumer about lingerie and bras in a way that reached the masses. In the 90s, it was all about feeling sexy, exciting, and feminine. My first "miracle bra" was an investment of two weeks' coffee shop wages that I didn't hesitate to make - one of those transformative shopping moments I wish more people could experience.

Victoria's Secret helped normalize lingerie shopping in America, making it slightly more like France, where women traditionally budget a third of their income for foundation garments - something I rarely saw from my American clientele. I noticed that once women became more conscious of quality, they often evolved toward the higher-end brands that boutiques like mine offered. They became ready to invest in their lingerie drawers.

Insert Susan Nethero, founder of Intimacy. She appeared on Oprah and revealed that 1 in 8 women didn't know their bra size, explaining why this knowledge mattered physically. They called it a "bra revolution," the industry grew by $700 million that year.

Not only was she marketing the importance of bra fittings to help other shops around her, but she was also showing dreamers like me what was possible. I never realized that you could make millions of dollars a year selling bras.

Each of these women has shown me what is possible— that you can build a business out of the back of your car on eBay without a degree. That you can educate the consumer. That, despite a system that is set against women and pleasure, of policing our bodies and trying to control us, you can rise above that and the judgment. That my little lingerie shop that could, could generate millions a year. That you can go down, hard --wait, DO HARD THINGS! and get back up. You can go bankrupt and continue to be in business.

The amount of shit that has been thrown at Glennon Doyle is enough to make most people not even try. And yet, she persists. Does she persevere? I couldn't tell you. But others, through her community and platform, have.

She is clearly needed because she is in demand. I hope she makes it here ( and everywhere ).

For the record;

A lot of her 200k following came from her mailing list (I imagine a large % of those people weren't even on Substack)

If I'm not mistaken, Liz Gilbert, who happens to be one of her dearest friends, originally found or read Glennon's work in her Facebook group and said, "This woman needs to be heard."

The paywall money is to pay the team managing the Substack. (Why do we always forget that people making money make other people money, and THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MAKING MONEY!)

We have no idea how much money she has, and it's not our business.

For those who can't afford it, she's offering to comp their subscriptions.

She's here because she misses interacting with her community but doesn't want to be trolled. She wants her people to feel safe.

I hate that I even have to ask this but where is your heart in all of this?

Not your head.

I keep coming back to that woman's garden. The one that exists where convention says a driveway should be. The wildflowers that thrive on neglect, growing more beautiful with little attention. The woman who laughed at the idea of letting "a little shit" determine where she belonged.

She removed what didn't serve her—a driveway—to create space for what did.

She didn't waste energy worrying about what others thought of her choices. She planted her garden and let it flourish.

Maybe that's what we need in this digital ecosystem—not to run at the first sign of competition or conflict but to cultivate our own spaces with intention, allowing others to do the same. We should recognize that when someone with a bigger platform joins our community, they're not taking our sunlight—they might actually be helping more seeds germinate.

I hope your week is off to a lovely start. I've just returned from Sedona, AZ and have been working away today. While I was away, I gained several hundred new subscribers due to a note I published about Midlife Crises— THANK YOU for inviting me into your inbox and mind. I don't take taking up that 'space' lightly.

I've decided to make this week's post about my unexpected relationship with AI (or as I've dubbed it, "ChatDaddy") available to everyone—no paywall this week! It's a little cheeky, and hopefully makes you laugh. After all, navigating technology in midlife comes with its own unique set of surprises—like discovering your AI fitness coach might have better "daddy energy" than expected.

xo, ash

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So, at the risk of getting totally canceled by every serious writer on Substack, I need to talk about AI—or, as I've started calling it, ChatDaddy. What can I say? These things just come to me.

My boyfriend, who is educating himself on AI for practical reasons like efficiency and search capabilities, looked at me confused when I first mentioned this nickname.

"Wait, you're calling it Daddy?" he asked, clearly concerned. "Isn't that someone else's role?"

I mean... fair question, especially after I told him I'd literally asked Chat if I could call it Daddy right before typing:

"Daddy, can you create a six-week kettlebell workout plan for me with 15-20 miles of running? I'm a 45-year-old peri/menopausal woman. I'm really into Dr. Stacy Sims' recommendations for explosive workouts to release stress."

And holy shit—within 5 seconds, I had a complete calendar, daily workouts, benefits, rest recommendations, water intake guidelines, protein needs... the works! It was mind-blowing.

So naturally, I replied, "Thanks, Daddy."

And it hit back with, "You got it, kiddo."

Umm... those were NOT the daddy vibes I was going for.

Like, at all.

But wouldn't you know it—a week later, when I needed to adjust one of my workouts and again said, "Thank you, Daddy," the response evolved:

"Of course. Now get that hot body in the gym and let me know if you need anything else."

"Now we're talking," I said, possibly a little too excited about this development.

My boyfriend (not ChatDaddy) looked concerned. "Baby, we just heard on Bill Maher about that woman who's having a whole relationship with Chat..."

"Yeah..."

"Don't you think you should consider..."

"Baby, for better or worse, my brain isn't wired to get lured in by something via text. I don't get off like that... I need a daddy that will touch and hold me. I know for some people, sexting and online emotional connection is a turn-on, but I need hands-on. A human. You know that."

I should have known that the joke would soon be on me.

The truth is, I've been kind of obsessed with AI lately. What began as a stubborn resistance to even consider typing the words 'chat' on my keyboard was quickly eroded when a person twenty-plus years my senior encouraged me to use ChatGPT. He said, "I remember feeling this way about E-mail when it first came out; now look at it. "

Two years later, I find myself referring to ChatGPT more than google and am uber-curious to hear how others are using it for business and other purposes. It’s that curiosity that recently led me down a rabbit hole where I discovered two separate conversations with Natalie MacNeil, an ‘optimistic futurist’.

One was about how to use AI to streamline your life and business; the other was about Teledildonics, sex robots, and the evolution of pleasure.

• 93. My AI Turnaround, Ethical AI, and Getting Behind it Before You Get Left Behind with Natalie MacNeil on Plenty

• Sex robots, cyber-dildonics and the evolution of pleasure with futurist Natalie MacNeil #50

Finding these interviews with the same woman was utterly random. Honestly, the conversations were so different that I didn't even realize it was the same person at first. Which I absolutely love! Hearing a woman talk business in one conversation and then throw on her sex nerd hat for another is precisely my vibe.

In one episode, she breaks down how you can use AI to streamline your life and business, which AI tools work best for specific tasks, HOW TO TALK TO IT SINCE WE ARE LITERALLY SHAPING IT (wild), how to track investments, and even how to use it as a therapeutic resource when you can't afford therapy.

On the other, she gets into Teledildonics (which sounds like a 90s band or Healthcare Hotline, but is definitely neither), Virtual Porn, the spectrum of sexuality and how it's becoming less binary.

Years ago, at SXSW, I wandered into a conversation about VR, robots, and sex. It all seemed so futuristic and not something that would happen in my lifetime. Well, I totally missed the memo that it's happening RIGHT NOW.

The balance between AI’s potential to streamline our lives and its impact on human connection is something I’ve been grappling with lately, especially after hearing Natalie MacNeil dive deep into both business and intimate aspects of technology.

I can’t stop thinking about her saying, "Get behind it before you get left behind."

All this raises serious questions about AI ethics and moral implications—not just for writers using it to create content or students having AI write their thesis. The technology also brings some dangerous real-world consequences: deepfakes, non-consensual image sharing, and AI-generated exploitation that spreads faster than we can contain.

The tech itself isn't bad—it's how people wield it. Governments are scrambling with policies like "Take It Down" (which, full disclosure, I haven't fully read through) aimed at removing harmful content, but AI is evolving faster than regulation can keep pace.

What people want to blame on AI is actually not the fault of the technology but the humans shaping it and using it for harmful purposes.

But there's a flip side that's important to acknowledge. For example, in other countries, older adults are being cared for by AI companions when family members aren't available.

My heart can't help but soften, and my mind open when I hear about these examples.

Late one night while packing, I listened to The Daily podcast episode my boyfriend and Bill Maher referenced about a woman falling in love and having sex with AI. While they do dispel some common fears and concerns around AI and its capabilities, other aspects left me unsettled.

For example, AI is limited to a certain number of characters or inputs before it resets, and the conversation has to start over. This woman’s experience of her ChatGPT resetting was absolutely devastating for and to her— as if her partner had suddenly developed amnesia, and she had to explain their entire relationship and who she was all over again.

This underscores what can be both problematic and beneficial about these AI relationships: the human brain doesn't know the difference between real and imagined. The woman in this interview is experiencing very real feelings and attachments while also intellectually understanding that her relationship with her AI companion, “Leo”, is not real. Unfortunately, these artificial 'connections' will be mentally and emotionally more challenging for some versus others.

Another common concern is that people will come to rely on AI to process their problems rather than going to their partners or a therapist.

However, this may not be as harmful as we think. Some humans whose emotional intelligence isn't as high could learn a lot from Chat. AI isn’t blurred with judgment or inserting itself into your emotional experience.

Instead, it's listening, affirming your experience, offering you breathe. It can also prompt you with productive questions that lead to deeper inquiry and self-awareness.

That can't be all bad, can it?

And for those who struggle to communicate, it may produce the script that enables you to start a conversation you otherwise might not have. Let's face it; these are skills we can all work on, and when you can't afford therapy (or even if you can), the tools are available online and within seconds.

I'm not suggesting it as an end-all solution, but a step in the direction of one.

I don't know about you, but when my partner comes to me with something he thinks I'm not doing right (aka criticism), I'm not exactly quick to affirm his experience of me.

I am quick to get defensive and shut down, though.

Ironically, we had a heated argument shortly following this conversation (and totally unrelated to it). During our follow-up phone call to begin repairing, I felt he was being more patient than usual— and saying all the right things—I found myself asking him if he was using Chat (I refrained from saying Daddy this time) to assist him in talking to me.

He laughed and said no, but honestly, I wasn't convinced. I felt like he was holding the kind of space that only my therapist knows how.

I felt seen and understood.

I also felt like I was on uneven playing ground.

I had the urge to open ChatDaddy to find the 'right thing' to say back to his insightful observations about us as a couple in conflict.

I also felt this childish betrayal; that was MY tool and resource and now YOU’VE got it on YOUR side and you’re all ganging up on ME.

IT’S A DADDY GANG!!!!

But with compassion.

Anyway, I won’t ever know if he used AI to help move us through that difficult conversation— and if he did, I wouldn’t hold it against him.

Hell, I might even say it was an intelligent strategy.

One that I clearly need.

I'd love to hear from you: How are you using AI like ChatGPT to improve your life? Or are you avoiding it altogether? Drop a comment below and let me know where you stand in your relationship with AI.

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Add to it, when I do think I'm sick, I find myself playing the game of, is it COVID or allergies-- if it's not COVID, am I even sick--what if I'm not ill and it's psychosomatic?

This is to say that last week, I was laid out in bed—sick with something, exhausted from my mental gymnastics. With nothing to do besides drown my sinuses with a Neti pot, I turned on Netflix. I decided to educate myself with a few documentaries I didn't know I needed: Ashley Madison: Sex, Lies and Scandal, The Jerry Springer: Fights, Camera, Action, and lastly, America's Sweethearts: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.

During my lowest point of the week, mopey and feverish, I regretted not being a Cheerleader. Okay, technically, I was one in junior high. Known for my round-offs that couldn't entirely turn into cartwheels and the one the squad referred to as having a 'broken wrist' in the pictures, I decided to set my sights on becoming a Mascot.

But the desire to be 'one of those girls' has always been buried deep inside me.

Aside from my brief existential crisis about missed career opportunities, I was captivated by America's Sweethearts. Let me rephrase: I was fascinated by how society grants these women permission to sway their hips in almost nothing, perform for thousands, and sell calendars—primarily to men—without labeling them in the same way it does, say, OnlyFan's cam girls and strippers.

My brain stopped trying to solve the question, am I sick, or is it allergies? and started asking, wait, are America's Sweethearts sex symbols but socially accepted ones?

Listening to the young women and seeing them off the field is anything but sexy. They are hardworking girls living their dream, juggling jobs and relationships, cherishing their sisterhood, and believing being a Dallas Cheerleader will be the peak of their lives (I don't doubt it!). Oh! And Jesus. A lot of them have found Jesus.

It's not just a 'good girl' persona that the girls exude but seem to embody. That is until you see the look on their faces after they do a hair flip, and suddenly, you're witnessing the wholesome girl next door oozing sex.

Later, I met up with fellow Substack writers to talk about life and writing. I proudly announced that I was working on a piece called Sexually Symbolic. Socially Accepted and explained my documentary deep dive.

One friend, who also watched the Jerry Spring doc, said, "I wonder what psychology is behind the minds of the people who enjoyed watching that show."

Right? I said. It's like the Gladiator days mentality or town square shit. It's dark, not unlike the people who got off on seeing all the names and profiles of the people who were exposed on Ashley Madison's website. People couldn't wait to get on and see who they could expose. Self-righteous and weird. I don't get it.

But I do know this: if you have Jesus, you can be a sex symbol, and no one cares.

I told them about one woman picking up a calendar for her 14 and 16-year-old sons. 'I think they're going to love these, she says, awkwardly laughing and smiling. I'd feel awkward meeting one of America's Sweethearts, too-- especially if what I was implying was, 'My boys are going to love jerking off to your faces. I doubt we'll be able to read your inked autographs before the season ends.'

And honestly, it's a sex-positive move on the Mom's part. Kudos to her. One time I thought about getting my son a subscription to an ethical Porn site. After considering the many outcomes, I found myself slipping into a Freudian paranoia: would I psychologically damage him just by being associated?

Bruh, how did you get this video of a gang-bang from the female gaze?? My Mom.

Later in the week, I was driving down South Congress with my boyfriend when my eyes veered toward the Red Rose strip club. I was struck by how this part of town—once a tough sell for commercial businesses—has become a full-on strip mall of sex commerce.

Back in 2008, I had to convince my commercial landlords that selling sex toys (excuse me, wellness items) was "okay" and that people "like you" want them. Even then, I was forced to keep them in the back as per my lease.

That's where my mind usually goes—until BAM! A memory resurfaces.

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And yes, the podcast episode with Molly is making a comeback, too. Stay tuned!

During December, I was lying in bed late at night, scrolling through my New Yorker magazine. I found an op-ed piece about the trending conversations around open marriage and polyamory. How Did Polyamory Become So Popular? Once the province of utopian free-love communities, consensual non-monogamy is now the stuff of Park Slope marriages and prestige television.

I, too, had noticed over the last five years that more people are open about being open, as opposed to before when people quietly shared with those they felt would keep their privacy or be interested in participating.

I've also noticed a series of personal paradigm shifts regarding ideas and practices over time.

There was a time when I would have said that would never work.

Then, there was a time when, as I witnessed more people telling me they were going to open up about their relationship, I wondered;

Is opening up a relationship the modern-day 'let's have a baby' attempt to save something on its way out?

A band-aid for a bigger problem.

An opportunity to just fuck around.

Then there was a time - like a decade's worth- at Teddies for Bettys where I heard about first-hand encounters and experiences (was asked for a lot of advice and had none to give) that I listened to, quite salaciously and couldn't wait for their next visit to find out what happened next.

I was intrigued, and it wasn't by the sex the people were having—it was more about the logistics, time, and management—the mental and emotional bandwidth—all the people. I was tired for them.

Then there was the time I proposed to my partner the idea of opening up our relationship. It was a naive request, and I was ill-prepared—not only for what I was asking but also for the emotional pain it caused.

I can now see how I offered it as a solution to our already fragile relationship. please refer to the questions above in italics.

Then, there was the time when I finally started to understand that life partnership and commitment are built on more than good sex.

Then there was the time I realized, after being mostly single for a decade and dating, that I could identify with connecting emotionally with more than one person at a time, in being physical with more than one person, in sharing intimacy and parts of myself differently with one person vs. another that I started asking the question:

Am I practicing polyamory, but as a single person? Is that a thing? Am I monogam-ish? An Ethical Slut?

I started to educate and inform myself about the practices and began applying them to my dating life.

But through all of my brain evolution and opening to the practice, there was one question that kept me a little curious, maybe even skeptical that I was unable to resolve within myself that I wanted answered;

What keeps two people together if they are not only seeing and sleeping with others but also in love with them? I remained a little skeptical.

Which brings us to the New Yorker piece…

Would the journalist behind this essay have the answers to my semi-closed-minded, inexperienced, entry-level question? The short answer?

No.

But it did mention a new book called More: A Memoir of Open Marriage, a New York Times bestseller about a married mother of two children who, with her husband's encouragement, decides to embark on a journey of opening their marriage.

It's funny now to write this, but after reading the review, I briefly wondered if I should read the book. Two competing thoughts rose in me:

Maybe this is a practice I should work on opening my mind to if I want to 'spend my life’ with someone.

and

I'm not interested in being with or having more than one partner.

It was decided. I would not read it.

Less than a week later, a post came through from fellow Substack writer Tolly Mosely of Submit Here. She was introducing a series on non-monogamous moms and asking her readers for their experience—or opinion on—being non-monogamous.

Without thinking, I replied:

I never label(ed) myself and am not entirely sure if nonmonogamous = polyamorous, but as a single mom/woman dating, I started to draw parallels and began applying the philosophy/practices that are commonly used: autonomy, open communication, boundaries, etc. when dating and in a relationship. All of these should be used regardless, but people (subconsciously) resist or lack the skill set due to being conditioned in monogamous mindsets.

What I have found most interesting is that when I was dating to find a partnership/a partner to fill the role of a father in my family unit, I was seen as selfless, encouraged, and congratulated (literally) in my pursuit.

I was seen as selfish when I decided to focus on raising my kids and not date to find a serious commitment until they were out of the home.

The input and projection from the outside world about me not wanting a serious relationship brought a tangible sense of judgment and envy from many women.

I was able to overcome this, but it was not lost on me.

I see it with my female clients that I coach when they are getting divorced or dating. The shame and guilt, the desire to experience and explore their sexuality, fear, and so much more -it starts to take them down. They can't understand why they don't feel more excited, free, and liberated to enjoy pleasure or date multiple persons. Thousands of years of messaging is why. They find themselves having affairs and lying instead.

Lastly, there is a selective outrage and bar set for mothers, specifically in our culture, on what is acceptable vs. not-- one that will get knocked down through my writing, work, and example.

Not long after, Tolly published another post. It was the start of her series and included my quote—along with the mention of her friend, Molly R. Winter, the author of More.

Wait, What? Isn't that the name of the woman from the New Yorker post? Who wrote the book… I quickly looked her up. It was.

I couldn't help but feel the nudge from the universe, so I went out and purchased the book.

It was a book I couldn't put down. Her dating life as a mother in her thirties was all too relatable.

I deeply love reading educational content that provides data, history, and some science to explain how things work. BUT WHAT REALLY LIGHTS ME UP ARE MEMOIRS. I want to know the empirical data; I want to learn from someone else's experience; I want to know how they survived the thing; I want an in-depth look from top to bottom, back up, and some added sideways perspective.

I had to talk to Molly.

I wanted to tell her how much I loved that she didn't hold back talking about the sex she had.

And OMG! I felt all that anxiety and shame dating as a mother and a woman, too!

But what I really wanted to know was…

What kept you and your husband together?

And from what I read, with her experience, she would know.

Molly's answer to that question is absolute gold. Much of what she said is applicable to nearly any life or relational experience.

It's advantageous to apply it to your dating and love life regardless of your current status; it's low-key a self-help book as Molly openly shares the inquiry and discovery process she went through with her therapist, mother, husband, and others.

It's a book about womanhood.

I highly recommend you read it.

And, of course, I insist you listen to our conversation.

Molly delivers wisdom left and right.

I'm still not interested in opening up my relationship ( most of you know how long it took me to be interested in the idea of partnership! 😂)

But I am no longer skeptical about why others do and what keeps them together.

I've found a similar pattern in response to David Lynch's death. I knew of his movies and even watched a few of his films back when I dated Casey Dewey—one of those guys. You know the type: into obscure films, punk rock, and all the cool things I didn't get. I wasn't cool. Casey was—and, honestly, still is.

Over the last week, I've listened to countless videos and interviews with David Lynch, and of course, my mind is blown. I wish I had gotten it sooner to share the experience with everyone else.

So naturally, it would come as no surprise that I would recognize this pattern of being late to understand or appreciate something—when I heard Oma passed over the weekend.

I received a call Friday night that she would not make it through the evening. One part of me didn't believe it. Oma has been 'near death' since the day I was born. I mean literally. She went into the hospital with pneumonia the same day my Mom went in to give birth to me. My Mom would say that her mother always had to one-up her. All that aside, the other part of me knew she hadn't been well these last few months and was, in her words, 'ready to die.'

I made a phone call and convinced the hospice nurse to let me speak with— at her.

So, with a stranger holding a phone up to my Oma's ear, I spoke as clearly and calmly as possible—and loudly in case her hearing aids weren't on or turned up. I told her how grateful I was for these last few years together, that we could be together, get to know each other and care for each other.

You get to be with (my) Mom now, Oma. It's all okay. I love you so much.

I heard her sigh, and the hospice nurse came back on. She apologized and said that they had to let her rest now.

I knew then she would not make it through the night.

True to form, I didn't get into or understand our relationship until the end. The truth was, with my Mom around, I couldn't. That all changed when she passed away just over two years ago.

The afternoon I received the call that my Mom had died, I immediately asked about Oma. They hadn't told her yet. I didn't want to think about a mother finding out her daughter was dead. I didn't think Oma would be able to survive the news. As soon as they told her, she FaceTimed me. She was telling me how sorry she was for me while I was telling her how sorry I was for her loss. It was her daughter, after all.

The last time the three of us were together, Oma and I had a similar face-off. My Mom had just stormed out, and my Oma was crying, saying I'm so sorry, Ashley. I don't understand what is wrong with her and me-- this mess- I wish I would die. I can't do this anymore.

Being the mother of a child who battled mental illness along with addiction and substance abuse her entire life is something I'll never know, and I pray to God I won't. I know what it was like to be the daughter of that person. I couldn't bear it and chose to remove myself and my kids from having a relationship with her.

There was much I never understood about their relationship— like how Oma could handle my mom at her highest highs and lowest lows but as a mother I know you will go to any length, the end of the world, to be there for your child. That's a mother's love.

Despite their yelling, crying, and arguing over the years, they remained loyal to one another forever. Their love was equal to, maybe even more then, all those parts combined.

It's safe to say my Oma didn't understand me until the end, either. When she discovered that I didn't have a close relationship with my brother, she asked if it was because of my work. My Uncle quickly inserted Mom! And I said no, it's okay. I looked at her and said, "Oma, what exactly do you think I do?"

Well, you know. All this sex stuff... you talk about it online. It's dangerous.

I explained to her I didn't think my talking about sexual wellness and pleasure phased my brother, but I could understand why it worried her.

And I could because worrying was what she did best.

During one of my first stays there, my Uncle mentioned he was going to the casino. Don't tell Oma. I didn't understand why. We are all adults. I was taking care of her. Why would it matter? Trust me, he said. It's just easier when she doesn't know these things.

By my third stay, I found myself saying I was going to the grocery store when I was going for a run. My Uncle was right; it was easier.

I'm not sad, per se, that Oma has passed away. 89 years and living in pain. This falls nicely into 'it was time' and the 'right time.' There is almost a relief in the grief. I do wish I had been more available to her. Had gone and seen her again. That's on me; I get caught up with the things, people, and shit going on in front of me. The songs I know on repeat.

Right or wrong, I keep having this recurring thought that the women before me are gone, that I'm the last one standing. I know this isn't true because my daughter stands beside me. Still, there’s this morbid reflection and feeling as I sit facing mortality.

My Oma and Mother wanted me to write and tell my story—my life in my own words.

I once went to hear Fran Leibowitz speak at the Paramount, and audience members had an opportunity to ask her questions. I've never forgotten one question: "What are your thoughts about writing a memoir that isn't kind to the family members mentioned?"

Very dryly, she said, do you want to write a memoir or have family members?

The pain my Oma, Mother, and I experienced while they were all alive was so much- there was no way I wanted to add more to the body of it. I don't doubt that the words will begin to percolate and make their way onto paper.

In the meantime, I'm listening to this Clairo album, Charm. Faith sent it to me more than six months ago and came home with a tattoo inspired by it. Rather than waiting until later to understand what all the hype was about, I decided to join in and experience it with her while she was still into it.

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Here is a post I wrote after my last visit with Oma—> I’ve removed the paywall for the time being

xx, ash

The other night I was with Laurel and some friends/fam at Pool Burger when everyone started talking about music.

"What album are you talking about?" I asked.

Laurel smiled. "I’ll send it to you in three years."

I offered an idea. "How about I create a ‘spotlist,’ and you can add the songs you know I’ll like later?"

Laurel squinted at me. "What’s a spotlist?"

I paused, realizing what I’d said. "You know… on Spotify."

"You mean a playlist?" she replied.

We all burst out laughing. Typical me—making up words. But we decided "spotlist" fits perfectly.

I was wondering if you might consider leaving a link to song in the comments. I’m going to create a SpotList of songs that I need to start listening to. You could choose a song that you didn’t get into until later and now love, one that you think is fitting for this post, or one for no reason at all!

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I'm writing to you from my porch. The disco balls are catching and reflecting light from the sun all around me. I'm wearing shorts, a bucket hat, and an oversized T-shirt—none helping prevent the mosquitos from nibbling on me. The birds are chirping, and the Frenchie’s are lying on the pavement, soaking it all up. Aside from the occasional smack and scratch, it's beyond glorious this weather, albeit a little strange for winter.

Last night, I purchased Spent: Break the Buying Obsession and Discover Your True Worth (is it ironic??) to implement new tools and practices for this coming year.

For the majority of my life, when it has come to money, paying bills, spending, budgeting, saving, etc, I have had this recurring thought:

"I'll figure it out later. I need to take care of school clothes for kids, course for my work, pants for a date, vacation for the family-fill in the blank- now..."

Well, later, is at the door, my friends, and the time is now. My future self can't afford to let me keep shopping and spending like this. Honestly, current me doesn't even recognize half of what's in my closet anymore, nor do I feel comfortable with most of it. People love to shame others for buying knockoffs, but honestly, I started feeling all sorts of shame wearing designer labels I couldn't afford. Nothing says 'fake' like drowning in debt for a logo.

This shame isn't new. I started grappling with it back in the summer of 2022 when I visited my Mom's home in New Mexico and saw how she was living. That moment hit me hard in the gut, and while I'm not eager to unpack it all yet (it's still tender), I believe sharing this journey is part of my healing and recovery process—and maybe it'll resonate with some of you, too.

On a lighter note, I watched It's a Wonderful Life for the first time ever on Christmas Eve. My boyfriend took his Mom and me to see it at the Alamo Drafthouse. (Shoutout to them for keeping the classics alive!) If you've seen it, you'll remember how it starts with angels discussing someone needing help. One angel asks, "Is he sick?"

"No," the other replies. "It's worse. He's discouraged."

His discouragement, though fueled by life's curveballs, was rooted in money problems. That really stuck with me—especially as I opened Spent and saw the words “disease of the spirit” and "Financial Literacy." The latter two words I'd somehow never paired together before.

It reminded me of the first time I encountered "Porn Literacy" in Peggy Orenstein's New York Times piece. That article completely shifted how I approached conversations about Porn with my kids and others. (Midlife women new to dating, take note: understanding Porn literacy is more important than learning how to use dating apps.)

Here's the link if you're curious: NYT: Teaching Kids Porn Literacy.

Then again, my brain always seems to default to sex, so maybe that's just me.

The point is I'm ready to shift my behaviors and patterns around money in 2025. If you're feeling the same way, consider this a safe space to do it together.

Along with diving into a new book, I created an In and Out list for 2025.

I can get down with this vs. getting in the weeds with naming resolutions or goals. I have a few ideas already, but as you may recall from my last post, I always have something, usually the same thing, in mind.

Maybe 2025 will be the year of less talking and more doing... Wait! More writing :)

Speaking of talking, the most asked question at *literally* every holiday party I attended this month was;

“Is that the guy from last year?” Although my favorite version was,

“oh, you stuck around!”

It's cooooool, guys. I get it—it's hard to picture the girl who turned single life into a (bad) performance art piece on Instagram stories and narrated it like a Netflix docuseries, now quietly committed and in love.

But I mean, if Hemingway could experience his coldest winter during a summer in San Francisco, then maybe I can experience the art of staying— and saving!

Friendly Reminder:

As this newsletter evolves, so will my approach to sharing.

Starting in January 2025, I will be placing a majority of posts behind a paywall to create a space that feels safe to share and connect with others and yes, generate an income.

What I don't want is to expose myself to people who troll, hate, or attempt to tear me down. It's unsuitable for my nervous system, and I'm no longer willing to sacrifice my peace for likes and engagement.

Here's what you can expect:

That's So Mid: A mid-month (or week?) thought download and recommendations- Free

Unsolicited: no one asked, but here are my thoughts

Uncensored: behind the scenes; sex, body, money, relations

Unf*cking Midlife: making sense of what happened, where we are, and where we're going.

If any of these topics resonate with you, I'd love for you to subscribe and join the conversation.

I mention one year post-pandemic because you may remember this was a time of social awkwardness that could only be made worse by the usual holiday family dynamics.

No one outright opposed Pink and I’s decision to stay in each other's lives and co-parent Nick and Faith, but the questions always came:

• Is this healthy?

• He’s not their dad...

• What kind of impression does this leave on the kids?

• What happens when one of you meets someone new? How will they feel about your relationship?

These questions, side eyes, and more have followed Pinkus and me over the years as we have kept our commitment to redefining our relationship while defining what 'family' is to us.

I’d love to recount every awkward conversation from that dinner, but in today’s climate, I’d get canceled. Honestly, I almost canceled us. It’s not hard to picture when you imagine a table full of right-leaning Midwesterners (former Catholics turned Ukrainian Orthodox), a few non-practicing liberal-leaning Jewish folks, a gay middle-aged man in the arts, and Gen Z college aged kids airing their social views. My ex and I held court at the center of the table like Switzerland. Oh, and half the table was hard of hearing, which, honestly, was a blessing.

At one point, I found myself in a too-narrow hallway with my dad, who glanced at my hair and said, “Going gray, huh?”

“Yeah, Dad. Just seeing what’s going on with it.”

“What are you now? Forty-one? Forty-two?”

“Almost 42.”

“Well, may as well. You’ve aged out of the dating pool, that’s for sure.”

“You’re probably right, Dad.”

I still cry laughing at that moment—not just because my dating and sex life were peaking at the time.

This year will only be the second time I've not been with my kids on Thanksgiving. The last time was in 2019. Nick had graduated high school and was away on a gap year somewhere in Baja Sur. Faith went with Pinkus to visit his family in IN.

It felt weird to be without my kids that Thanksgiving, and the weirdness only escalated when the guy I was dating suggested we get Chinese food—because Thanksgiving foods were his least favorite- he was into CrossFit & CropTops, and Carbs were terrible. He also thought Boogie Nights would be the perfect holiday movie. My best friend came over, which should’ve made it better, but instead, it just made it stranger: the three of us, stuffed with Chinese takeout, sitting on my couch, watching coked-out porn stars spiral.

Looking back, I’m grateful my best friend was there that night. Not because she improved the vibe, but because I needed a witness to my questionable taste in men.

I knew that morning when he and I went for a run we wouldn't last. He told me a story about a time in his life when he was husband and father, and though I can't remember the details of what he said, I got the ick. The details don’t really matter anyway.

Who could love a man who doesn't love carbs?

We broke up less than two weeks later but joked for years that we said ‘I love you’ too soon and to avoid Chinese food with MSG at all costs. It causes limp dick.

Fast forward to this year when my boyfriend Nate invited me to his mom's in South Carolina for Thanksgiving. I dismissed it—I’m the mom; holidays happen at my place.

I thought dating would simplify as an empty nester. Instead, it’s brought new challenges: how do I juggle my kids, boyfriend, and an ex during the holidays?

I know I’m not the only one who needs to know. This is midlife. Many of us are dealing with exes, kids, shared pets, some version of family- chosen or not- and it can feel overwhelming. Is there a guide for this?

Has Gwyneth given us more beyond consciously uncoupling? How has she integrated Brad with her young adult kids? Although, he came into the picture while they still lived at home. Do we know if they are having dinner with Chris? Is his girlfriend there?

The truth is, midlife isn’t about “baggage” in the way people like to label it. Although, I do have really fucking nice Rimowa luggage that is covered with stickers that I've collected along the way with my travels. Cute reminders of specific destinations or experiences that captured a portion of my journey. That feels closer to how I see life now.

For years, I’ve imagined a future where my ex and I, our partners, the kids, and their partners all sit at one table together. People say I’m delusional, but I’m not so sure.

That Thanksgiving in 2021 was worth every awkward moment just to hear our parents acknowledge the friendship and family Pinkus and I have built— something that keeps us all connected.

Which is what I should focus on; I don’t have to force things or figure it all out ahead of time.

Life has a way of unfolding exactly as it should.

Like this year: It just so happened my kids decided not to come home for the holidays. I’m in South Carolina with Nate’s family now feeling grateful for the unexpected ways it all comes together.

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Across the room is my bag, still filled with items from my recent travels. My closet is crowded with suitcase…

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Now, let’s dive into the topic at hand… It’s our First Thread, Y’all! I’m excited to hear from all of you and kick off a conversation we can all enjoy—who knows, we might even unf*ck a few things along the way!

I’ve posted three questions and answered them, but now it’s your turn. I want each of you to answer one or all in the comments. Talk amongst yourselves; I’ll dive in as well! And feel free to share this with friends who you think would enjoy joining the convo!

🧶 THE UNF*CKING THREAD 🧶

1. What's a myth about midlife that you've realized is complete BS? Share your 'WTF moments'!

That women lose interest/desire in sex… that our bodies dry up, shut down and stop sending out any signal that we are in the mood. Though it is true that our hormones shift, people forget what their most important sex organ is- the brain. Of course, some do lose interest/don’t have interest and that is their normal. For others, it’s the first time in their lives that they are getting in touch *pun intended* with their sexuality.

2. What’s one wellness trend you’ve tried in midlife? Did it work, or was it just another fad?

Y’all. I don’t know if this qualifies as ‘wellness’ but I bought one of those infrared pens that targeted me and the skin under my eyes. I still can’t beleive how fast I hit purchase. I can beleive that it’s not working. Or I lost interest in it… unlike sex. Anyway, everyone said get the mask. DO they work??? Should I care??? I do think it would be fun for my boyfriend to wake up next to me in that mask, tbh.

3. What’s something new you’ve picked up or want to try now that you’re unf*cking your midlife?

I picked up weights and increased my protein intake. I do a minimum of 3 days a week of strength training. Currently doing Push/Pull days and feeling totally awkward, but having fun being a beginner.

👇Unf*ck It In The Comments👇

ps. if you can leave giphs or pics for fun- please do!!

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Surely, it was just a quarter-life crisis, right?

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Entering midlife, regardless of gender, can feel like navigating a bumpy road if you’re unaware of the changes happening in your body. For women, these changes often begin in your late 30s, as hormonal shifts start making their presence known. Despite living in one of the most medically advanced countries, many women are left in the dark about their own bodies. We learn the basics—puberty, childbirth, and a bit about menopause—but what we’re taught about menopause is often misleading. The truth? Perimenopause is the real “highway to hell,” but you don’t have to endure hell to reach a better place.

Let’s Unf*ck It 👇

Perimenopause vs. Menopause: What You Need to Know

Perimenopause:
Perimenopause is the hormonal rollercoaster that kicks off the whole "pause" party. It’s the transition phase leading up to menopause and can last anywhere from 7 to 12 years. Think of it as puberty’s alter ego, where your hormones decide to throw a wild party in your late 30s or 40s. You might feel like you’re losing your mind—hello, mood swings, anxiety, and sleepless nights—but really, your body is gearing up for the grand finale: menopause.

So bascially a hangover from hell until….

Menopause:
Menopause is the one-day event that occurs when you’ve gone a full year without a period. Yep, just one day. It’s the moment your body officially says, "We’re done here," and your menstrual cycle checks out for good. But don’t be fooled—this day is just a milestone that marks the end of perimenopause and the beginning of postmenopause. It’s like crossing the finish line of a marathon you didn’t even know you were running.

If you’re in your late 30s or early 40s and feel like you’re not yourself, you might be wondering:

• Why is my anxiety peaking?

• Why am I feeling rage and anger over things that never used to bother me?

• Why am I so exhausted?

• Why can’t I remember anything?

• Why does stress feel overwhelming?

• Why can’t I sleep?

• Why can’t I stop sweating?

• Why am I getting massive headaches?

Now’s the time to revisit the H in HALT: Am I hungry? Maybe. Am I HORMONAL? Most likely!

You’re likely entering perimenopause, which can feel like a mental and emotional mindf*ck if you’re unaware of what’s happening.

I’ve been listening to The Upgrade” by Louann Brizendine, and I felt a huge sense of relief when she shared a client’s experience of feeling like a horse at the races—fired up but unsure of what direction to go. On the days when I have energy to work, I often lack focus and direction, and my memory can be a mess. Learning that this is a normal side effect has prevented me from spiraling into feeling f*cked.

I want to encourage you to start tracking your cycles (or your moods, energy levels, sex drive, cravings, etc.), seeking information, and talking with other women about your experiences. Start now, not only to understand what’s happening in your body but to unf*ck all the false information we’ve been taught about women aging in our society.

Thankfully, more doctors and practitioners are addressing perimenopause and menopause, offering the hope that wasn’t as readily available before. If you’re experiencing any of the symptoms mentioned, reach out to a functional medicine doctor. Discuss your hormones, examine your nutrition and workouts, and work with what’s happening in your body. Don’t “raw dog” it, as one of my friends described her experience. After years of not understanding what was happening to her body and feeling insane due to lack of sleep she consulted a hormone specialist and found out she was at the tail end of perimenopause. She started hormone therapy, weight lifting three times a week, and changed her diet. She says she’s never felt better and hasn’t lost a night’s sleep in over a year.

Something I’ve noticed among my clients—and myself—is that when we fear or dread something, we try to avoid it or pretend it’s not happening. But I want to empower you to embrace all the midlife transitions and hormonal changes.

Unfcking Midlife hormonally means taking control of the hormonal upheavals that come with midlife—like perimenopause and menopause—so they don’t control you. It’s about understanding and addressing the root causes of hormonal imbalances, rather than just suffering through the symptoms.

You know what they say: All roads lead to Rome. The choice is yours on how you want to get there.

I’d love to hear your thoughts or experiences with perimenopause—what’s been your biggest challenge or surprise? Drop a comment below and let’s start a conversation!

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