Twenty and Ugly. Fifty and Beautiful.
voices within
Twenty and ugly. Fifty and beautiful.
It’s topsy turvy according to society's script of fading beauty and charms, but I can’t be alone in this discovery. My mum used to say, “you’ll wish your life away”, when I would come to her tearfully, wishing I had this or that. I never really knew what she meant until recently. When I was a teen, I couldn’t wait to be twenty, so I’d be taken seriously, then thirty when it would all supposedly come together. Then I was forty and juggling family, wishing I’d realised the advantages of youth. More recently, I’ve been frightened of aging, of it being too late for me to make my mark, and then something snapped, landing me on the therapist’s couch. Mum was right.
The snap wasn’t instantaneous. Mid-life — the classic existential crisis — I divorced and my career faltered, which sent me reeling and reassessing my life and where I wanted to be while caring for my two children. Looking back over the last five years, the divorce was honestly the best thing to have happened. For anyone facing that trauma — please be advised it will get better, and the possibilities, while daunting and frightening, are exciting too. At least your life is changing — hallelujah, not ending; I am definitely wiser, happier, sillier, and thank god I’m off that predictable, plodding trajectory.
I think I was told I was ugly by my siblings, reinforced by my experiences at primary school — or perhaps I projected it having been convinced. At fourteen, I recall looking into the mirror with disgust, deciding there was no hope of improvement, so I had best compensate with success, style or humour. Pick a role model and emulate them; of course, the anxiety is being found out. People look at me skeptically when I’ve told them I used to believe I was ugly because I am not, though I have gotten better looking. Maybe it’s because I returned to myself. I have a positive, outgoing demeanour, though it was another story interiorly.
It’s a work-in-progress to find compassion for those guiding voices within that tried to protect me from humiliation with excoriation. Don’t get above or ahead of yourself, yet do better. Where did I first hear and absorb these directives into my inner world, along with hopeless, useless, plain, too sensitive, too much and not enough? Joys are shadowed by a voice warning — don’t get comfortable or qualify if you were lucky. But despite these loud characters, there has always been another, quieter voice pushed down and deep within that says you’re capable, possibly of great things and great love. Let’s give her space at this raucous table of inner voices; this is the work. My therapist says I can develop these voices to recognise each other, share views, and finally listen to the unresolved trauma so it won’t keep pressing its point home. Some of it flowing through generations, which I might halt so that it ends here. Already I see traits in my daughters that I shared with my mother. I want to save them from suffering.
I took up cycling and listening to music, and my dating life played out in my head on those rides. As I listened to singers pouring out love songs, I wondered if they were no longer meant for people my age, that I’d had my chance and blown it. But it’s not true that the voice that doubted was wrong. I am at a crossroads with work, but I am in love and discovering joy I didn’t know was possible, let alone could be mine; and my body is like something I’ve never truly known in how responsive she is. There are gardens to be unearthed — don’t believe the script that middle age is all about diminishing returns — my life is expanding.
After I spasmed, worried my crumbling career and family made me an utter failure, I felt such shame. The only way forward was within, to embrace the child I’d buried and somehow get to know myself, so I could come up with the answers of where next, and live my life more wholly.
I’ve been reflecting on the idea that happiness is over the hill, around the corner, or when. When we make it, we’ll be happy, we tell ourselves, yet it shifts like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Maybe the “there” isn’t the point; all that exists is now, and by yearning forward, we miss enjoying what is. I’ve met incredibly successful people, yet their happiness wasn’t assured, and conversely, others who had little, yet seemed more content.
We look back to times in our past and realise they were some of life’s best, though we were often poor and lost, and why didn’t we know it then? Much of it is expectations that we’ve bought into, and attitudes like markers of success by certain ages or seeing divorce as a failure. In contrast, it could be considered a celebration of a relationship that came into being and rightfully finished, so that both parties might grow. I am glad I went through it, as it led me here.
People bemoan online dating, and I appreciate why — it can be discouraging and depressing to be in and look through a human catalogue, but I learned valuable lessons. I learned much about myself, men, sexuality, ineptitude, tenderness, and shared humanity. The dates were, at times, dastardly or comical, occasionally dull, but sometimes lovely.
On occasion, I allowed myself to be influenced by others who urged me towards what they perceived as more suitable matches than those which I was drawn. This travesty taught me to listen to myself more as I sat at an awkward date thinking, why am I here? I want to be open to different people, but there has to be a base level of attraction.
My biggest fear, starting out, was rejecting others, oddly enough. I kept thinking, treat others how you want to be treated. I was moved when a few men thanked me for taking the time to kindly explain rather than ghost them; then, I’d thank them and everyone left with dignity. I have remained friends with one, though that’s rare. Importantly, I discovered that I was attractive to others, and I leaned into that. Occasionally, I was given the descriptor of sexy. That didn’t happen in my youth. I decided to open myself up to experience and use that old adage — fake it until you make it, feel beautiful even if I wasn’t truly convinced. Confidence is attractive and sexy, unlike shame and fear, and it’s a lot more fun.
I have been reading up on intergenerational trauma and undergoing schematic therapy, which I accidentally stumbled upon, not even knowing what it was. It aims to help people understand and change long-term life patterns. The therapy identifies early maladaptive schemas, coping styles, and modes, and challenges them systematically.
A friend had recommended this woman when I was in a time of crisis, but the therapist was unavailable. A year passed before I finally got an appointment at a time of relative calm. The therapist had sent me some information, but I’d not bothered to read it. When I found myself sitting on her couch, I stumbled upon an apology that I really didn’t need to be there, as there was nothing terribly problematic. She surprised me by saying it was the best time to begin, as we could start work straight away. I knew my body language gave away my scepticism.
When the pandemic happened, I decided to work with her. The work makes sense, despite seeming rather odd — bringing my attention to bodily sensations, and where I look when talking of painful memories — brain mapping. It is confronting and emotionally draining, but I feel the clouds clearing, a glimmer of hope that I can be kinder to myself and more authentic. I’d previously gone to therapy to try and save my marriage, and the first time, when I had a significant fall out with a friend and couldn’t get past it. Traditional talk therapy was effective, but I’d never before examined my thinking, identity, and nature.
I prickled at the suggestion that my childhood was neglectful, thinking it was terribly unfair on my parents, who I knew had loved me and done their best. This woman helped me see the programming I had inherited and absorbed unconsciously, and the circumstances that may have contributed to my struggles within. For instance, when I was eighteen months old, my mother, pregnant with my younger brother, discovered she had a heart condition that required major surgery. They were advised to abort, as the risk of death for both baby and mother was high, but my mother braved onward. How traumatic for my parents not knowing what would happen, and my dad running a farm, and mum with three children under six to care for, and weakened by her damaged heart. (Miraculously, they pulled through, but her recovery was arduous.) Years later, she said I was just too much for her at the time, and she couldn’t deal with me. This message has been absorbed into my body, this sense of being extraneous and annoying, and it became a running joke in the family. I am talkative, energetic and curious, which got me into trouble.
I recall my mother’s words if given a compliment: I’m nothing — nothing special — we’re just ordinary people. I hear this terrible descriptor of nothingness, and I’m pained because it is a fear of mine.
My mum was actually incredible. Strong, stoic, driven, stylish, self-educated and creative, yet would never have credited herself as such, except for strength, she’d own that. Her father took her out of school at thirteen to work in their news agency, so her dreams were curbed. If she were still with us, I’d tell her how beautiful she is, but she’d struggle to hear it. Her upbringing can’t have been easy, steeped in religion; her family turned their back because she married my dad, a non-Catholic, and she could not be physically affectionate with her children.
You know those people we say are their own worst enemy? It’s a tragedy where others clearly see their potential, but they’re too busy preparing for the worst or self-sabotaging to step up to the plate with confidence, with the shining hope of why not them. It’s their thinking holding them back, not who they are. So easy to say, yet so challenging to change, and first, there must be awareness.
My voices are still with me, and the idea is not to get rid of them, but to hear them, so they feel less need to butt in to prevent suffering, and in doing so, create it. When I feel happiness or take pride, a voice — the hurt six-year-old or furious fourteen-year-old within might panic and say, it’s nothing, others have done so much more than you, anyone could have done it. I have to listen to them and tell them with my wiser voice of today that it’s okay, that we’ve got this.
Maybe, don’t get ahead of yourself, is actually a kind or wise phrase, not a descriptor of arrogance or false pride, as was my interpretation, but simply means stay present. Be present, instead of fearing what might happen, or shame from past experience taking over.
If you feel beautiful, you are. If you can’t think that, do the work, and you can. You can. Step into your beautiful self, the child of two or three years of age who faced the world with such optimism. They are still there, waiting for you to see and embrace them. Join me in the beautiful project.
I have always been able to laugh at myself and connect with others by sharing stories about my failings, so this feels particularly vulnerable because I’ve told you about beauty, which feels raw, like a tiny fresh flower bud in a field of snow.
