WOMAN VS. TIME

TIME, I’m Calling You Out

Beneath all the layers of clothing—

the orange peel skin, the fine lines and wrinkles,

the dimples, textured and deep—

beats the heart of a warrior.

Aging is inevitable. But aging with grace and gusto? That’s a choice and a fierce one.

Time has a reputation: ruthless, unrelenting, the great ravager of “beauty.” It steals collagen, carves lines, and pulls everything south like gravity on a mission. No miracle cream can stop it. No age-defying makeup can truly hide it. No “perfecting” potion can hold back the tide.

These days, though? Grey hair rules.

Divas are rocking the silver like queens.

But here’s the paradox: Time isn’t just a thief, it’s also the Robin Hood of age.

What it steals in youth, it returns in a different currency: presence, character, and a kind of elegance that can’t be bought or Botoxed. It trades in wisdom, laughter lines, and stories stitched into skin. This is beauty with substance. Beauty that knows.

So let me say this clearly: I do not want to be “age-defying.”

I want to be age-defining.

Aging with intention toward freedom

I can almost taste it.

My future self.

She is barefoot. Loose-limbed and sun-warmed, wrapped in a caftan, toes curled into beach sand. She has nowhere to be. No deadlines. No Monday meetings. No inbox demanding to be cleared before 10 a.m. No surveys or spreadsheets to complete, just a blank slate to be coloured in... or not.

She has earned this. 

I have earned her.

After a lifetime of work, of showing up, pushing through, staying late, starting early, being on call 24/7, she is what waits for me on the other side. She is my reward.

And I’m inching toward her now.

This last year before retirement is moving in two strange, contradictory directions: excruciatingly slow and lightning fast. Days crawl. Months disappear. I wake up and it’s Monday; I blink and it’s Friday.

And yet...I feel every second of it.

My body carries the weight of time, while my spirit strains forward like a dog at the end of a leash, desperate to run free.

I am 59 years old. I am not done.

But I am ready.

Ready to lay down the version of myself who clocked in and showed up every day.

The one who was always reliable, punctual, professional, productive.

The one who played by the rules, climbed the rungs, held it all together.

She’s still here, but she’s beginning to loosen her grip.

There is another version of me just over the horizon.

She is softer. Wiser. Lighter.

She doesn’t glance at clocks.

She doesn’t measure her worth in output or efficiency.

She reads novels in the morning and walks until the sky changes colour.

She says “no” easily. She laughs loudly. She sleeps well.

She carries all her former selves with tenderness,

but she belongs only to herself now.

I am not afraid of aging.

I am aging toward something.

Toward freedom.

Toward rest.

Toward peace.

Let this be my statement of intent:

I will not fade, I will glow, quietly but unmistakably.

And I will walk barefoot, on my own time, into the years ahead...free.

I will not “wind down”, I will open up.

May it be a time of wonder.

May I keep my sense of humour intact... always.

May my memories stay vivid, and my spirit even more so.

And may I never go gently.

Because one of the cruelest truths of life is this: we all grow old whether we’re ready or not. You can be locked away from the world, live small, stay still and you’ll still age right along with everyone else.

Biology doesn’t ask for experience or permission.

Some of us are born with ancientness in our bones already carrying the weight of generations before we even wrinkle.

Maybe that’s a gift.

Maybe that’s the real head start.

So yes, Woman vs. Time may sound like a battle.

But maybe it’s a dance. Awkward, relentless, intimate.

And in the end, I plan to lead...

to sway my hips to the primal beat of hearts and drums, 

and invite the universe to guide me home.