Beautifully-Aged

Then THE moment came. HRT understood the assignment, and I was at the peak—when I realized I was smothering my own joy into a pillow like I was trying not to wake the kids… who no longer lived here.

Sadly—and yes, that’s the mom in me talking—I was an empty-nester, midlife high school English teacher, still operating like someone might knock on the door at any second needing a snack, a signature, or an existential pep talk.

It took me a second to find my concentration again—and then my hesitation ran out of the room like its ass was on fire.

As a single mom of three boys, I’d been the quiet one for 26 years. They were rowdy, rambunctious little whirling dervishes. My line about my youngest was,

“If you can’t find him, look up” because he was always hanging, climbing, and knocking around the house on his stilts.The stilts were wooden on wood floors, and he was on them constantly.

I didn’t even know how much I hated the noise until it was gone—then I loved it. Then I longed for it.

Now it’s so quiet—but the voice in my head? She’s got a megaphone. What was she hollering about?

The only noise left was me: a former single mom picking a fight with silence. So I did what any emotionally responsible adult would do—I turned on reruns of 90 Day Fiancé to feel functional and to fill the house with other people’s chaos.

No matter what I did, I couldn’t quiet the voices in my head. So I tried something else.

Center.

Calm.

Listen.

I needed something. I needed me.

I’d neglected needs that needed attention for so long I barely recognized them as mine.

Not the mom. Not the teacher. Not the manager of everyone else’s comfort. Me—the Woman.

It was time for a long-overdue divorce from “Mommy, the Identity.” Time to reclaim what I used to carry so naturally… the thing that, honestly, got me into this whole parenting predicament in the first place: my smoldering sexuality.And my partner deserved the kind of noise that says we’re alive, we’re in love, and we’re alone.

When I shared my newfound amplification with my gaggle of gals, I got a resounding roar back—pure agreement. I was the last to enter the kidless club, and they all knew exactly what I’d discovered.

Whether single or partnered, their advice was the same: fill your life with your own noise now. Noise of love. Noise of regret. Noise of joy. Noise of sorrow. And certainly—noise of pleasure.

It’s a strange kind of whiplash—going from caretaker of children to being the sole caretaker of your own soul.But here’s what I’m realizing: I’m the same goofy, sexy, mindful, brilliant woman I’ve always been. Just because everything looks different—my space, and my… ahem…space as I stare down my muffin top—doesn’t mean I’m any less me.

So I took off the frumpy, worn-out old mom hat and replaced it with a shiny new one—one full of mojo and sass. A declaration of noise.

It’s time to reclaim my voice, and I’m going to start by moving this pillow and filling my space with NOISE.