Do you ever think of how women become more alluring as they age?? Her grey hair seemed woven with courage and wisdom. An elegant rebellion against society’s narrow expectations. She no longer bites her tongue. She’s done with silence. I admire women who are bold enough to speak their minds and refuse to downplay their worth. Their stance is unshakeable, and their mere presence commands both respect and attention. But why does ageing look so different for men and women in the world’s eyes? When does admiration turn into judgment?

Gendered Childhoods and Mansplaining:

At what stage did we learn that ageing is a bad thing, linked to decline, loss, and fading youth? According to a study, the response is very early in childhood.  Why? Because of the insidious ageism that reinforces limiting ideologies, reducing old age to decline and invisibility, both personally and systemically. It is both systemic (forming rules, policies, and laws) and personal (influencing ideas, sentiments, behaviours, and relationships). Ageism reduces ageing to a number—a label shaped by patriarchy. When combined, these concepts serve as a reminder that ageism is deeply ingrained in both our institutions and ourselves, both intentionally and unintentionally, from childhood itself.

As a child, I thought boys could do almost anything they wanted with little to no repercussions. At most, a mild scolding, nothing more. In contrast, girls were instructed on how to feel, think, and look. Not to mention what one should eat, say, or do. Fortunately, my parents made an effort to treat me equally, and I was regarded as bold because I loved scaling trees and detested being constrained by my clothing. The societal expectations, however, were leeched onto me despite my parents’ best attempts to keep them at bay. I watched my friends compromise their authenticity for male approval.

Despite my frustration, I eventually gave in to the same behaviour I once resented. As a teenager, I began to attract male attention, and with it came a shift. The double standards between boys and girls were just another unfair reality. I learned to smile. I learned to please. Before I understood how toxic it all was, I was already performing. The loud, relentless voice of the patriarchy drowned out my own. It told me I was wrong to feel comfortable in my skin.

Years of mansplaining dulled my awareness. Smiling and nodding to gain their approval and looking tame became the norm. But there came a point where I realised how conditioned I had been by those around me to fit the ideal box of being the nice girl and people pleaser.. If I am too loud, too bold or have a voice of my own, I would not be serving the ideal perception of perfectionism that the patriarchal standards hold.

The Woman I Aspire to Become

Stereotypes distort reality, and ageing is no exception. It is a multifaceted process that defies fixed definitions and resists simplification. Ageism operates on both a systemic and personal level. Society often reinforces it by presenting ageing in binary terms—either young or old—ignoring the nuanced spectrum in between. In reality, ageing doesn’t follow a one-size-fits-all model. Our lives rarely unfold in tidy, predictable phases, yet we continue to impose rigid frameworks on them.

We often ignore the difference between biological and chronological age, or the fact that ageing is as much about mindset as it is about numbers. The politics of ageing exists on a spectrum, not a binary. Today, people—especially women—are living longer, healthier lives and have access to opportunities that older generations could never imagine. So why do we struggle to reimagine ageing for what it truly is or could be? Part of the answer lies within ourselves: in the internalised ageism we’ve absorbed since childhood. These beliefs become the silent architecture of our thinking.

When ageism intersects with sexism, however, it’s women who suffer the most. Ageing men are celebrated as “silver foxes” and “wise elders,” but ageing women are disregarded as irrelevant, no more than “old trouts” or “past their prime.” In work and life, age becomes a double-edged sword for women. But then, I saw something different. I encountered an older woman who radiated courage.

Her presence sparked something in me, as if someone had called my name from another room. I asked myself, “How do I become her?” I believed courage was the answer. So I spoke up, stopped going places out of obligation, and voiced my disagreements instead of swallowing them. But I wasn’t treated like her. They called me dramatic. Emotional. Too young to understand. I discovered that having courage without the guidance of wisdom can often be seen as just being naive.

For years, I watered myself down into digestible versions of who I thought I had to be. One night, I asked myself: What would I do if I were in charge of my life? That question led me to a crossroads. I stood between the comfort of who I had been and the unknown of who I could become.

I couldn’t see where it would lead, but I held on. And somewhere in those confounding conundrums, I found my voice in my writing. I stopped worrying about breaking the rules and started making my own. I learned where I ended and where others began. I discovered the power of “no.” I used to believe older women were fearless because they defied social norms.  But that’s only part of it. Their glow doesn’t just come from rebellion—it comes from experience, insight, and self-possession. And I realised: I don’t have to wait until I’m older to start embodying that.

As Brendan Kennelly said, “You make your music / Always in tune with yourself.” There is no perfect age or moment for becoming. We’re always capable of learning something new, discovering untapped talents, or falling in love with new passions. Growing older doesn’t diminish us. If anything, it expands us. I no longer feel the need to wait to speak up. I’ve earned the freedom I used to crave. I may not have all the answers, but I carry the lessons of what I’ve lived, loved, and lost. The thought of growing into an older, wiser woman excites me.