Stuck somewhere between 'dang I'm young' and 'wow I'm halfway to 40'

Mar 10, 2025

The other night, I was en route in an Uber to a Medellin community event on the other side of town.

I’d likely be one of the oldest people at the event, as I’ve become accustomed, but was at ease knowing another friend or two also planned to attend: both of them slightly more mature than myself.

As I tend to do, I struck up conversation with the driver to practice my broken Spanish on the traffic-filled 30 minute route.

Now, to be fair, I’d strike up conversation with any Uber driver, because I’m one of those people. But, I do leap for the opportunity in Colombia because while every now and then a Colombian will shun my attempts at communicating by feigning they don’t understand anything I say, most oblige me with a friendly smile. And are more than happy to help correct my incorrect phrasing or misused word choice.

“I like this song,” I said to the driver (in Spanish), pointing to his radio and the reggaeton wafting from it and out the cracked windows.

“Ah yes,” he smiled, turning it up for me. “It’s an old Reggaeton song.”

As we bopped along in the traffic, each of us using our hands to dance along to the song, I went on to tell him about all the Reggaeton singers I like from Medellin and which songs I prefer, too.

With the familiarity that naturally comes from exchanging musical tastes with strangers, we began to discuss our personal lives and his family, which comprised of a wife and two daughters, aged 4 and 8.

“Do you have kids?” He asked, after he showed me a picture of them on his phone.

“Not yet,” I said. “One day. It’s my last big dream in life.”

He smiled. “Well you’re muy joven (very young), you have time.”

“I’m not young,” I retorted, almost shamefully, but thankful for the compliment.

He balked. “You are very young.” And when he guessed my age, I nearly laughed in his face.

“I just dress young.” I pointed to my baggy jeans, all the rage here among Colombian ladies, and crop top black fitted shirt.

“How old?” He insisted. “I’m 28.”

“32,” I lied, the age escaping my mouth so quickly I almost believed it myself.

His eyes lit up. “You?”

“Si,” I said, digging my heels into the fib.

He made a disparaging face, which immediately caused me to flush. If only he knew how old I actually was, I thought. He’d have a heart attack here on the highway.

“You are still very pretty,” he said, as though somehow I’d survived my cultural expiration date.

I chuckled. “Okay, thank you.”

I wanted to say, “Yes, 35-year olds are actually still hot and most women never hotter than when they age and grow into themselves.”

But instead, I kept my little lie to myself. And we continued to sing along to Camilo and Shakira’s ‘Tutu - Remix’, the familiar shame creeping into my veins. As it often does these days:

“Maybe you’re too old to be singing this kind of music.”

“You’ll only be able to fool people for so long before they look at you differently.”

And worse:

One day, not that far off anymore, I’ll begin to feel totally fucking invisible in society.

And to be totally honest, I have no idea how I’ll handle that.

Back in February, I was invited to a Superbowl party here in Medellin by a friend, also in her late 30s.

“We’re going to be the youngest people there,” she informed me proudly.

“Oh wow,” I lamented. “That’s a rarity.”

“Yeah, it’s all my older lady friends - the retired ones.”

I grinned. “Great. We’ll feel young and spritely.”

The truth being I couldn’t wait to go hang out in a 60-something woman’s nicely decorated apartment, drinking fine wine and sitting on comfortable chairs not bought at the Colombian equivalent to IKEA.

No migraine from cheap ass wine, I pondered. I was in.

And as suspected, I had a great time hanging on a balcony surrounded by four or five other ladies all in their senior citizen passivity years. Saying whatever the hell they wanted to, eating and drinking at whatever volume suited them: a type of confidence that really only comes to women once they’ve accepted society’s tendency to overlook them.

We spoke about marriage and children, and Colombian culture. About their personal reasons for leaving the USA and landing here in Medellin, a culture often earmarked for its sexy, younger vibe and vibrant nightlife. A way of being that often feels like if you’re a gringo here and not in crop tops — not feening for love and adoration in a low-lit bar — then why else park yourself in this town?

It felt validating to talk to older gringa women who love this city in the same way that I do: not for its cheap drinks and 4AM dance clubs, but for its people, weather, mas tranquila way of life, outdoor activity, and overwhelmingly calming mountainous views and regions.

I felt validated, por fin, for continuing to trek back here as a tourist every year since I first came in 2021. A kind of pleading “THANK YOU,” escaping my lips when one of them would mention Medellin’s allure for older folks.

“I’ll die here,” one lady from Washington ascertained, flicking the ash of her cigarette. “My husband and I will never live back in the US, only to see our kids. Our country is in shambles. The good days are over.”

“And the healthcare,” Another lady commented. “I live here stress-free knowing I’ll never be bankrupted by a disease.”

As we turned the conversation into the failures of the American healthcare system, and then eventually into the oddities of aging in general, what threw me off, however, and comes into mind as I stream-of-conscious this essay, is the way one of the women looked at me at one point in the evening, a few glasses of wine in, and commented:

“Women do become invisible as you age. I don’t think anyone should be lied to about that,” she had a sort of longing as she said it, which I picked up on immediately. The feeling it served the same type of feeling I wrestle with now as a mid-30s woman, and not a 20s gal. The way I now more regularly feel overlooked at a bar or restaurant, on the streets, or in simple exchanges where someone asks my age and when I say the truth, they seem to hold back or speak a bit differently to me. And none more than by men.

“It remains a man’s world when you get old. But once you accept that, which is not easy, there’s another kind of freedom you unlock as woman,” she said. “It’s different than when you’re young. You’ll understand one day,” she nodded toward me.

Something about that sentiment flattened my otherwise uplifted spirit; a sneaking suspicion confirmed in less than a minute:

I have no idea how I’m going to age with grace. It does not sound like my cup of social tea.

A few months ago, when I wrote about finding out that my recent much-younger Colombian ex now was dating a much-younger woman than even he, I had a full out mental meltdown.

Ego-induced? Sure.

I was irate with a crushed ego.

But, more than that and as I concluded, it was because I was racked with jealousy of the time I had lost with him, and the time he was now seemingly getting back by going backwards in time with another woman. He has decades to figure out fatherhood. I have years.

In some unconscious way, I had probably chosen to pursue a relationship with a younger man for the exact reasons you might assume from this essay.

I wanted the passion that comes from youthful, bright-eyed relationships, and I wanted to stay feeling vibrantly young, which his immaturity certainly fueled and then subsequently crushed: one of us needing to logically plot the future and our finances, and you can imagine which of the two of us that fell to.

But mostly, I do not want to fade into suburban oblivion. Or into a boring aged relationship. Because, as we all know, grand gestures are adrenaline-inducing and sexy. Paying bills together and plotting 401ks less so. And by your mid-30s — no matter how much I’ve tried to avert the overhanging responsibilities in adulthood — life seemingly does become an increasing amount of bogged down premiums and shit to take care of.

I don’t want a relationship that constantly reminds me of our age, and how the wide-eyed days of exploration and youth are fading.

Certainly, I want to keep the charade going that I am young at soul, full of energy, able to dance at a bar til 2AM when the moment strikes, and able to dream playfully without the pesky buzz of time.

I want to have a relationship where we both help each other feel young and excitable. Only, I want them to also have their shit together financially and emotionally.

Desafortunadamente, it seems hard to find a balance of the two.

Still, I hold onto hope.

Once upon a time, I used to feel my age.

There was a time when 25 sounded exactly where I should be: dating non-committal hippy musicians in Brooklyn. Scraping by paycheck-to-paycheck on my New York City rent.

A rat nest here or there behind the oven of my disgusting, unkempt apartment kitchen.

Avoiding advances of older male clients in my 20-something bottom to mid-management Public Relations career by playing dumb.

Drinking wine at happy hours with co-workers then secretly dating a handful of them.

Staying out til 2:00AM on a Tuesday for no reason other than pure vibes.

When I’d vocalize my age, it rolled off the tongue:

“I’m 26. And I act just like it,” I could’ve said to anyone who asked.

Proudly. Without further thought.

“Everything in the world is advertised and geared for me.”

The shows, the clothes, the adverts, the marketing language. The magazines and social media subliminal messages.

There’s a time in life when every single thing you read or watch seems aimed at your current angst or life juncture. The words all speaking straight to your experience. To your own youthful blundering in the world.

I could date younger, older, my age — dream about the future as a still very far reaching concept. I had endless chapters ahead to chill out and become a mother.

Years to make up the lost sleep. To change careers. To swap relationships if they weren’t serving either person. To say ‘yes’ to an event I wasn’t sure about because hell who knows who I may meet?

I was arrogant with risk. Confident with the clock. I loved everyone.

I’d run without stretching. Become fleetingly enamored with the troubled guy in the corner of the party because maybe he could change. Wade into hot springs with nothing but my birthday suit in the Colorado mountains. Get tattoos on a whim.

I felt a type of freedom to explore different modes of being, alternative ways to exist, however far-reaching and non-traditional. I was engaged once to a guy who proposed naked and made us sing to the gods before every meal.

(Side note: we didn’t marry. I did conclude I’m not one to sing to the gods before a meal, but I appreciate his ritualistic nature to this day anyhow.)

When I’d meet mid-to-late 30 somethings who were still flocking around us mid-20 or late-20 somethings, I’d never voice it, but I’d write off:

“What a Peter Pan. Your youthful days are over bro, figure your shit out.”

Lately, I realize I’m now often that oldest person at the get together.

And I wish I could go back in time and apologize to the unsuspecting older victims of my mentality:

“Sorry, guy. I misjudged you. I get it now. No one really knows anything do they?”

In this generation, we certainly don’t know how to age.

And at 35, I certainly no longer understand how to really connect with my age: so many of my friends back from my youth married for nearly a decade now with young children in school.

Then, on the flipside, many just now finding their mate in life or not looking, and not desiring at all to have children or do a nuclear family-type structure.

It’s a polarizing social time to live in, which extends to a polarizing way of aging.

Some days, I can sway by the adage “age is just a number.”

But, then on others, I realize my biological tock is clicking and if I want to have children, and factor in the likely struggle I’ll have with PCOS in order to do it, I’m already frankly behind the ball.

I froze my eggs, sure. Everyone loves to point to that and act like I’m home free.

But, you and I both know it guarantees really nothing. Only a type of mental insurance that keeps me from going full out anxiety insane with the constant ticking in my ear.

Recently, someone asked if I really wanted to be a mother. If I knew what it meant.

The way they asked it implied they were skeptical of my ability to do so.

“You have to give up your way of life,” they suggested. “You can’t live at all like you have been the last few years. I just hope you know that.”

As much as the older woman’s comment at the Superbowl party about invisibility has lived with me, this one has too.

Because it’s disheartening to feel like because I fight against the fray of societal aging expectation, I’m being bookmarked as someone incapable of giving and raising life.

Personally — though I have no real way of knowing — I think I’ll be a great mother.

Probably a bit eccentric and a little less calming than I’d like to be, but I think I’ll be a damn good parent if only because I certainly do not need a child to pour my entire identity into. I have had a whole big, grand life prior to motherhood. My child will not be someone I unwittingly place all my lost, forgotten dreams into in hopes they achieve what I didn’t.

That lack of pressure, a gift to any child in my humble opinion.

I’m also caring, mostly empathetic, sensitive, and full of a ton of love to give to a kid. I am open-minded, able to remember and recall that overwrought emotional state of teenage-hood, and I have a great extended family to offer to my own offspring.

I’ve worked hard in my career, am currently financially stable (praise be that it lasts because lordy, in this stock market economy IDK what to expect anymore), and I have a ton of energy to give to a child whom I know will also have boundless energy themselves.

So what if I want to travel with them more than the norm? Or have them spend summers in Spain or Colombia while they learn Spanish? Plenty of people have kids and are forced to move around with them. Think of Army Brats. Or the millions of families who move for one of the parents job changes.

Of course, I’ll give my kid autonomy once they get older to decide what they want. And yes, I fully expect that how I dream the future is not how it’ll always pan out.

I just don’t think we need to go around getting old and bursting our own bubbles so often.

Whether it’s about how to raise kids or how to live our aging lives.

And maybe that’s the prevailing point I want to make today, as I wrap up this post to go back to work.

I have no idea how to age in today’s society, and frankly little interest in considering the decades of invisibility that are likely to come as a woman. I don’t know if I’m going to have to totally re-route my life as a mother, or if one day I’ll end up mid-appreciated with a box of Walgreen chocolates from a partner on Valentine’s Day.

But, in the meantime, can’t one dream on anyway?

If this is all inevitable anyhow, can’t I ward it off as long as possible? If Shakira can come out with heart-wrenching break up bangers at 45, can’t I wear crop tops for as long as I feel confident doing it? Or attend connection-seeking events even if the average person there is the age I moved from NYC to Colorado some 7 years ago, before the van, long before Colombia.

Back then, before 35, an age I barely even considered. A number that sounded almost foreign to me, like a grown-up age that belonged to people who paid their property taxes on time and had dinner parties with wine pairings.

Yet here I am, on the other side of that number, still feeling the same pull toward adventure, toward spontaneity, toward a life that doesn’t fit neatly into the expectations I had for myself.

When you’re young, you see age as a linear progression, a steady climb toward some inevitable peak. But as you get older, you realize it’s more like waves—ebbing and flowing between moments of youthfulness and moments of realization, between feeling limitless and suddenly, inexplicably, being hyper-aware of the clock ticking in the background.

I don’t feel 35. But then again, maybe no one ever really does. Maybe we all reach a certain age expecting to feel different, expecting to have unlocked some grand wisdom or understanding, only to realize we’re still the same person we were a decade ago—just with a few more experiences, a few more bruises, and a sharper awareness of time’s passage.

I think about the women I met at that Super Bowl party, the way they laughed freely, the way they spoke with an unshaken confidence that comes from no longer giving a damn what anyone else thinks. I think about what it must feel like to arrive at that point—to shed the burden of being perceived in a certain way, to no longer crave validation, to exist entirely for yourself.

Maybe one day I’ll wake up and realize I don’t care about the way people look at me when I tell them my real age. Maybe one day I’ll stop chasing the feeling of being young and simply embrace the version of myself that exists right now—without caveats, without apologies, without the nagging urge to shave off a few years when asked.

Maybe one day I won’t be afraid of becoming invisible.

But for now, I’ll keep dancing to reggaeton in the front seat of Ubers. I’ll probably tell them I’m younger than I am.

And if I’m lucky, when I’m sitting on a balcony in my senior years, wine glass full, I’ll look back and blow out the version of me who was once hung up on time, knowing she had nothing to be confused of after all.

Lindsey Hall Writes

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