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[Excerpt from my upcoming book "Aging Naked"]
Shaming experiences are deeply personal in the sense that what shames me, might not shame you and visa-versa. I find certain things shameful because of the lenses I use in life to create meaning, and those lenses were created over a lifetime of meaning-making experiences, rooted in my childhood and reinforced throughout my life. Shame is also the core driving force behind those "shoulds" I referenced earlier – beliefs we have internalized through the years that tell us whether we are good or bad, on track or off, worthy or unworthy. We all have some should-driven notions about our ideal selves – our narratives of who we believe we are (or should be), and if we veer too far off of our should-driven path, we often feel shame in response. If shame is left unchecked in our lives, we risk having the targets of our shame serve as a portal through which we view ourselves, how we think others view us, and eventually, how we view the world.
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{Excerpt from my upcoming book "Aging Naked"]
One of the driving emotions that keeps authenticity and transparency at bay is shame. Almost every woman I’ve worked with in my counseling practice has admitted to experiencing intense feelings of shame. They’re ashamed of some aspect of their personality, ashamed of feelings they have, ashamed of their bodies, ashamed of something that has happened to them, or something they did to someone else. Men feel shame as well, but because so many aspects of the female experience are stigmatized, women tend to feel shame more profoundly and holistically. There are also fewer supportive outlets where women can admit to their feelings of shame and receive support, because often in society, when a woman does admit to something she feels ashamed about—past promiscuity, low self-confidence, concerns about her body shape or size, she is likely to be shamed even more, by both men and women. Aging can exacerbate our feelings of shame in many ways and for many reasons. Several of the signs of aging tend to be highly stigmatized, particularly for women, such as graying hair, wrinkled necks, sagging breasts, weight gain, and loss of overall skin tone. Add to that the fact that 40% of women over 50 snore, which isn’t considered very feminine, and over 50% have leaking bladders, also traditionally “unfeminine.” It’s not very surprising then that many women feel ashamed and want to hide themselves, while trying desperately not to sneeze. [Excerpt from my upcoming book "Aging Naked"]
Many of today’s middle-aged women are raising children, working inside and outside of the home, caring for aging parents, and tending to their partners (or trying to), while doing their best to remain fresh and youthful. And as a result, they often feel over-stretched, overwhelmed, over-exhausted, and under-appreciated. A recent Gallup Health and Well-Being Index report found that women approaching midlife had the highest levels of stress among all age groups and genders. That’s more stress than younger women, more stress than older women, and more stress than men. Even with our increased choices and handy “time-saving” electronic gadgets, today’s middle-aged women not only experience more stress than all other demographics, but they experience more stress than all previous generations of women as well, and there doesn’t seem to be any relief in sight. Excerpt from my upcoming book "Aging Naked"]
I was an infant when we moved into our home in Eagle Rock and I don’t recall ever having to make friends. I just had them. They’d always been there. But at the age of 11 or 12, I was plunged into a school environment with kids who seemed far older than myself. One moment I was in sixth grade exchanging friendship rings with my best friend after pricking our index fingers with a needle and pressing them together to create a blood-sister bond, and the next moment I was sitting at a shared table in Algebra class listening to adult-like teens swap stories of smoking pot and making out. Shortly after starting at my new school, a girl in one of my classes asked about my ring and I proudly shared the story of its meaning—of two friends who forged a relationship over a lifetime of playing with Barbies, pledging their eternal commitment to remaining soul sisters. Of course, I didn’t say it quite so eloquently, but I did mention something about it being a friendship ring, and I know I mentioned that my friend was a girl. And that was enough for my new classmate to spread rumors throughout the school that I was a lesbian. It was 1972 and I had no idea what that word meant, but I know now that it was meant as an insult. This is a story about the importance of 1) having a good sense of humor, and 2) never giving up.
About 5 years ago I took 5 million classes from Writers Digest on how to write a query letter for my book Aging Naked. At the time I only had two chapters completed, but was still actively blogging with HuffPost, so I really emphasized the popularity of my blog with the same title. I was so confident that I'd be picked up right away.. Why? Well, because I'd already written three academic books in the same general area. And I have the credentials to write a self help book. And, because I'm a good writer. Anyway, the workshop leaders recommended including the link to our blogs in our query letters, which I proudly included. I was regularly featured on several HuffPost "verticals," including Huff Post Women and Huff Post 50, and many of my posts had gone viral, so yeah, I was pretty confident. And yet, I didn't get much response, This was very confusing to me. I received a few requests for my proposal (okay, two), but really nothing else. I was baffled. I mean, I know it's really difficult to land a literary agent. In fact, it's difficult to even get your work in front of a literary agent, so I wasn't under any misconceptions that I've have a bidding war on my hands, but I expected more than complete silence. So at some point I sent my query letter to a friend to review and she quickly pointed out something one teeny-tiny error with a very big punch. Apparently, when she clicked on the link to my blog, it took her to a porn site. A porn site! Somehow when I copied and pasted the blog link into the letter, something went awry, and I never thought to check it. So the next time you feel badly about yourself, the next time you are certain you've made a mistake you can never recover from, just remember that I, a university professor, therapist, mother of a son, and all around detail-oriented person, sent porn to just about every literary agent in the entire country.. Did I give up? Nope! But I do hope these agents didn't keep good records and have really poor memories.  I love the idea of Christmas. Of any holiday really that conjures up images of a close network of emotionally healthy family and friends gathering together, clinking glasses with children under foot, cooking, eating, opening gifts, blah, blah.
But here's the thing, that's not my world. That's not my reality. I mean, sure I have family who I love (although we've been torn apart by Trumpian politics and Q-ideology). I have wonderful friends too, who spend Christmas with their husbands, children and their own extended family. The truth is, that what I mostly felt during the holidays was pressure, stress, sadness, and whole lot of loneliness. Why? Because the holidays for me just seemed to be a mirror held up to my face reminding me of all I didn't have. I don't have a husband (or partner). I don't have a big family. I don't have a massive tribe of geographically close friends. I don't have a lot of disposable income. I don't have a lot of time, and I don't have a lot of help. As a single mother, I have always felt a tremendous amount of pressure to create holiday magic for my son, especially to make up for all the things we lacked. So I indulged him with every holiday ritual old and new that I could think of. Tons of decorations including a real tree perfectly decorated, special gifts and stocking stuffers wrapped in either "mom paper" or "Santa paper," elves on stupid shelves, fake Santa-written letters left on an empty plate with cookie crumbs, and dirty boot prints leading from the fireplace. I even got Christmas stocking for our two dogs and cat!  have anxiety. I have rarely spoken about my anxiety problems though because most of my anxious thoughts are so irrational. And to be honest, I found them a bit of a nuisance and pretty embarrassing because admitting to feeling unchecked anxiety conflicted with my persona of being a glass-half-full, carefree soul in pursuit of an optimistic life filled with Oprah-inspired gratitude.
My belief that I needed to be always-optimistic (lest I anger the gratitude gods) meant that I needed to hide my anxious parts, and instead present the image I thought was expected of me. An optimistic, wisdom-filled, gratitude-espousing, never fearful, never anxious, mask-wearing beacon of hope for others. I also thought my feelings were normal. Yes, I believed that everyone experienced heart-racing, fear-gripping, body-freezing angst randomly throughout the day and night for no apparent reason. 
This is the third blog post in my series “A Year Without Fear.” The theme of this blog series has generated a lot of talk, and a little bit of controversy. The comments went something like this:
“Can we really live completely without fear?” …“Should we even try to live without fear?” …“Can’t fear be a good thing, even though we don’t like it?” …“Isn’t it the fear that reminds us we’re all human?” I suppose what I mean when I reference irrational fear is really the feeling of anxiety about things over which we have little control. When we’re anxious, we’re afraid—we may be afraid of being rejected, afraid of losing a loved one, afraid of losing our job, afraid of being found out in some way that makes us feel unlovable. We may feel afraid and anxious and have no idea of the cause.  I have a beach cove I go to when I need some Zen time or a quiet place to write. It’s a beautiful part of Laguna Beach, my home for the past two years. It’s generally unknown to tourists, hidden away down a long path and a steep flight of stairs. There are shallow caves along the back of the cove that provide some protection from the sun in the summer, and in the winter make for some great little writing spots.
That’s where I am right now—tucked away in a shallow beach cave, writing, listening to the crashing waves inch closer to me as the tide creeps in. I have other favorite writing spots too, but I come here when I’m having an off day, which for me means a day dealing with unchecked fear and anxiety.  Shutterstock It may come as a surprise to some of you that I struggle with fear, but I do. Let me clarify that—I struggle with irrational fear. Some fear is good. Fear keeps me from taking a shortcut down a dark alley at night, from going into basements when I hear creepy noises, and from jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. Rational fear is not what I’m talking about. No, I’m talking about the what if fears.
The what if I never get tenure and lose my job fear. The what if I run out of money and become homeless fear. The what if I get cancer fear. The what if something bad happens to my son fear. The what if I make another bad decision in a relationship fear (which is closely related to the what if I die alone fear). And my most frequent fear visitor, the what if I take a huge risk in my quest for a meaningful and relevant life and fall squarely on my face fear. |
Hello!This is a blog for middle-aged women, like me, who want to live a life of increased authenticity, and greater well-being, with fewer façades, less role-playing and a lot more fun. I chose a photo with myself and my son because he is my heart. You can also find my blog posts featured on
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