Wellbeing Advice for Midlife Women Is 90% Supplements and Yoga. Here’s the Other 10%.
- 2 hours ago
- 8 min read
give Apparently, somewhere around the age of 45, women are quietly issued with a yoga mat, a tub of magnesium and instructions to start giving a shit about protein.
Welcome to midlife wellbeing.
Can't sleep?
Magnesium.
Feeling anxious?
Magnesium.
Knackered?
Vitamin D.
Stressed?
Yoga.
Can't remember the name of the woman you've worked with for seven years, have lost your glasses while they're ON YOUR FUCKING HEAD, and briefly considered changing your name to Susan and moving alone to a shepherd's hut in Scotland?
Have you tried breathwork?
Yes, Brenda.
I've tried breathing.
I've actually been doing it fairly consistently since 1971.
And yet here we fucking are.
Don't misunderstand me.
I love wellbeing.
I meditate. I walk. I journal. I spend time outdoors. I eat differently. I've stopped drinking. I've stopped smoking. I'm looking after myself in ways I didn't when I was younger.
But I think we've accidentally turned women's wellbeing into another enormous list of things we're supposed to be good at.
Supplements.
Protein.
Steps.
Sleep scores.
Cold-water swimming.
Yoga.
Collagen.
Skincare.
Green shit pulverised into drinks.
And apparently we're supposed to do all of this while simultaneously accepting the absolute FUCKERY occurring in our own bodies.
Because nobody adequately prepares you for the physical weirdness of midlife.
Let's start with the fucking chin hairs.
What ARE they?
You can have the smoothest chin you've had all week, go to bed, wake up the following morning and suddenly there's a hair approximately nine feet long hanging from your face.
Where was it yesterday?
Was it INSIDE MY HEAD?
And they're not delicate little hairs either.
Oh no.
They're industrial.
You grab the bastard with your tweezers and pull and it feels like it's attached directly to your fucking brain stem.
Your eyes water.
Your left leg twitches.
You briefly remember something that happened in 1987.
PING.
Out it comes.
And you hold it up triumphantly like you've just removed Excalibur from the stone.
Then there are the eyebrows.
Or what's left of them.
The lovely dark eyebrow hairs slowly disappear and in their place arrive three grey ones.
Not normal eyebrow hairs.
Wizard hairs.
They grow in completely different directions and appear to have their own political opinions.
One points north.
One curls back towards your ear.
And the third is so long you could tuck it behind your fucking head.
You pluck that one and immediately wonder whether you've disconnected something important.
"Nick, if I forget how to drive tomorrow, it's because I've just removed an eyebrow hair that was attached to my frontal lobe."
And then there's the acne.
EXCUSE ME?
I thought we'd done this.
I did adolescence.
I served my fucking time.
Surely one of the few benefits of getting older should be that I no longer wake up with a spot the size of Ben Nevis on my chin.
But apparently menopause has decided:
WRINKLES AND ACNE.
At the same fucking time.
Pick a lane.
My face is simultaneously 16 and 55.
I've got a hormonal spot on my chin, a line across my forehead and a grey eyebrow hair attempting to contact the International Space Station.
And then...
THE BROWN SPOTS.
Where did they come from?
One minute you've got freckles.
Cute.
Sun-kissed.
Youthful.
Then suddenly one of them has bought the neighbouring property, knocked through the kitchen and become a fucking bungalow.
You stare at your hand thinking:
"Was that there yesterday?"
Then you find another one.
And another.
Suddenly your skin appears to be developing its own map of the British Isles.
But none of this compares to the moment you decide to wear the skirt.
You know the skirt.
The gorgeous one.
The one that used to sit beautifully around your waist.
The one that made you think:
Oh yes. I've still fucking got it.
You pull it out of the wardrobe.
You haven't worn it for a while, but that's fine.
You step into it.
Pull it up.
And somewhere around your thighs you realise negotiations are going badly.
You wriggle.
You breathe in.
You pull.
You jump.
You perform a manoeuvre that would require a risk assessment in most workplaces.
Eventually...
THE ZIP CLOSES.
VICTORY.
Except you look in the mirror.
And somehow your middle now looks as though somebody has stuffed a child's inflatable swimming ring down the front of your knickers.
WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?
You're standing there thinking:
"I don't remember bringing a rubber ring upstairs."
And this is where women's wellbeing gets really bloody interesting.
Because the first thing we're taught to do is attack the body.
Lose weight.
Tone up.
Fix your skin.
Hide your stomach.
Colour your hair.
Pluck your chin.
Buy anti-ageing cream.
Look younger.
Be younger.
GET YOUR OLD BODY BACK.
But what if I don't want to spend the next twenty years trying to resurrect a woman who no longer exists?
Your body isn't a renovation project.
That's the bit I'm learning.
My body has changed.
Of course it fucking has.
It's been carrying me around for 55 years.
It's survived grief.
Stress.
Pregnancy and motherhood.
Menopause.
Cigarettes.
Alcohol.
Bad diets.
Good diets.
Sleepless nights.
Heartbreak.
Laughter.
Illness.
Work.
Love.
Loss.
And an absolutely heroic quantity of bullshit.
Perhaps it deserves slightly more kindness than me standing in front of the mirror grabbing my stomach and calling it disgusting.
Take care of your body.
Absolutely.
Move it.
Feed it.
Rest it.
Get medical support when it needs it.
Take medication when you need medication.
Wear SPF.
Eat the bloody vegetables.
And yes, remove the chin hair before it develops its own postcode.
But maybe stop treating ageing like evidence that you've somehow failed.
You haven't failed.
You've aged.
Congratulations. That's what happens when you don't die.
And wellbeing is so much bigger than what happens to your body anyway.
Sometimes wellbeing is admitting you're fucking miserable.
There's one for the supplement aisle.
Because you can take every vitamin known to humanity, but if you hate your job, resent your marriage, haven't had a proper conversation with your partner in three years and spend your entire life meeting everybody else's needs...
There isn't enough magnesium in Holland & Barrett.
Sometimes the healthiest sentence a woman can say is:
"I'm not happy."
Not because she's ungrateful.
Not because she's having a midlife crisis.
But because she's finally stopped lying to herself.
Wellbeing is having boundaries that piss people off.
Women have been taught that being good means being available.
Answer the phone.
Help out.
Say yes.
Don't disappoint anybody.
Don't be difficult.
Don't make things awkward.
Keep everybody happy.
Then we reach midlife completely fucking exhausted and wonder why another bath bomb hasn't sorted it.
Maybe wellbeing sometimes looks like:
No.
That's it.
No twelve-paragraph apology.
No fictional dental appointment.
No elaborate story involving your neighbour's cat.
Just:
"No thanks. I don't want to."
Your wellbeing doesn't require everybody else's approval.
Wellbeing is recognising what your rage is trying to tell you.
Rage gets a terrible reputation in menopausal women.
She's hormonal.
She's moody.
She's difficult.
She's changed.
Maybe.
But sometimes rage is information.
Sometimes it's the part of you that's finally had enough.
Enough being interrupted.
Enough being taken for granted.
Enough carrying everybody else's emotional luggage.
Enough doing everything.
Enough swallowing your opinion because telling the truth might make somebody uncomfortable.
That doesn't give us permission to treat people like shit.
But it does give us permission to ask:
What is this anger trying to tell me?
Because underneath:
"EVERYBODY CAN FUCK OFF."
might actually be:
"I'm overwhelmed."
"I need help."
"I don't feel heard."
"I need something to change."
And that is wellbeing too.
Wellbeing is going to the bloody doctor.
Needing medical support isn't a wellness failure.
Medication can be wellbeing.
HRT can be wellbeing.
Antidepressants can be wellbeing.
Blood-pressure medication can be wellbeing.
Physiotherapy can be wellbeing.
Therapy can be wellbeing.
Going back because you know something isn't right can be wellbeing.
You do not win a medal for suffering naturally.
And please don't let anyone convince you that every menopause symptom can be cured by drinking fermented yak milk while standing barefoot in the garden at sunrise.
Sometimes you need a fucking doctor.
Wellbeing is looking at your relationships.
We love talking about cortisol.
We're considerably less enthusiastic about talking about Colin.
You can optimise your morning routine until the cows come home, but if somebody in your life regularly makes you feel small, anxious, invisible or completely depleted, perhaps the problem isn't your morning routine.
Midlife changes relationships.
Marriage changes.
Sex changes.
Friendships change.
Families change.
You change.
Sometimes relationships need renegotiating around the woman you're becoming.
What do I need?
What do you need?
What's disappeared between us?
What have we stopped saying?
What needs to change?
That conversation might do more for your wellbeing than another bottle of ashwagandha.
Wellbeing is doing things that serve absolutely no purpose.
Paint.
Walk.
Write.
Dance.
Garden.
Swim.
Sing badly.
Sit outside with a coffee.
Buy yourself flowers.
Read a filthy novel in the bath.
Do something because it makes you feel alive.
Women are incredibly good at turning enjoyment into productivity.
Start walking?
COUNT THE STEPS.
Start running?
DOWNLOAD AN APP.
Start painting?
SELL IT.
Read?
SET A YEARLY TARGET.
For fuck's sake.
You are allowed to enjoy something without monetising it, measuring it, improving it or turning it into another bastard achievement.
Joy is allowed to be completely fucking useless.
And finally, wellbeing is accepting that something might have to change.
This is the part nobody can sell you in a bottle.
Because sometimes the thing standing between you and feeling better isn't something you need to add.
It's something you need to stop.
Something you need to question.
Something you need to say.
Something you need to leave behind.
A habit.
A belief.
A friendship.
A role you've outgrown.
The constant rushing.
The people pleasing.
The drinking that's become more frequent than you'd like to admit.
The cigarette you keep promising you'll stop smoking.
The belief that everybody else's happiness is somehow your responsibility.
Maybe the woman who could cope with absolutely everything doesn't need resurrecting.
Maybe she deserves a fucking retirement party.
So yes.
Take your magnesium.
Do your yoga.
Eat your protein.
Walk.
Sleep.
Meditate.
Take your medication.
Go outside.
Look after your gorgeous, changing, slightly bewildering midlife body.
Pluck the chin hair.
Have a stern word with the eyebrow.
Put something on the hormonal spot.
And if the skirt doesn't fit anymore?
Buy a fucking skirt that does.
Because your body does not exist to fit the skirt.
The skirt exists to fit your body.
And while you're sorting all that out, ask yourself the questions that don't appear on the back of a supplement bottle:
What feels good?
What hurts?
What am I tolerating?
What do I need?
What am I doing because I genuinely want to?
What am I doing because I've spent my whole life believing a good woman should?
And the big bastard:
If nobody was going to be disappointed in me, what would I change?
Sit with that one.
Because perhaps wellbeing in midlife isn't about becoming better at coping with your life.
Perhaps it's about finally creating a life you don't constantly need to recover from.
That, for me, is the other ten percent.
And I reckon it's the bit we need to start talking about.
Women who refuse to suffer politely live here.
Welcome to Wellbeing Wednesday, Moos.
We've got magnesium.
We've got chin hairs.
We've got rubber-ring stomachs.
And we've got some fucking living to do.
Love from Missy Moo x
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