H is for:

Home
Hunger
Holding
Hope
Hesitation
Healing
Heat
Hollow
Hands
Horizon

This week’s Gateless prompt:

Write about home.

Not the address — the feeling.

A place you returned to.
A place you left.
Or a place you’re still searching for.

Where did your body feel at ease?
Where did it feel like it had to brace?

Write for 10–15 minutes.
No editing. No fixing. Just follow what rises.

If you’ve been circling questions about where you belong — in your body, your life, your next chapter — you might also find something in Are You There, God? It’s Me, Menopause.

Sometimes the real homecoming is internal.

Subscribe now

I is for:

Identity
Instinct
Invisible
Intuition
In-between
Impact
Isolation
Impatience
Invitation
Ignition

Jeez, I forget how INTERESTING the letter I really is (see what i did there?)

This week’s Gateless prompt:

Write about who you are becoming.

Not who you were.
Not who you’re expected to be.

The version of you that’s forming now.

What feels unfamiliar?
What feels quietly true?

Write without stopping.

20 minutes. No editing. Just throw those words on the page. Share if you’d like some Gateless feedback love, love!

Midlife has a way of rearranging identity in ways we didn’t plan.

That thread runs through Are You There, God? It’s Me, Menopause — the question of who we are when the old version no longer fits. Here’s a sneak peek:

Preorder here!

Whew, that felt good to share! My debut novel comes out this fall- but you can already preorder it via Amazon, Barnes & Noble, the usual…

And this is the kind of book you share with you friends—

I am giving away FIVE SIGNED GALLEYS!!! Just share this page with your TWAT group (don’t know what I mean? Keep reading along with me ;)

Much love, loves—letter J is next week!

xoxoxox

Oh, and let’s not forget our little Quickies! now in it’s 3rd printing!!! It’s a great graduation gift, summer beach read (like this gorgeous gal)…

Have you had not your quickie yet? Oh honey—order here!

G is for:

• Garden

• Grief

• Grace

• Ground

• Gift

• Ghost

• Growth

• Gravity

• Goodbye

• Glow

This week’s Gateless prompt:

Write about something that grows.

It might be a plant, a relationship, a child, a wound, a hope, or a version of yourself.

What changed over time?
What did it need in order to grow?
What surprised you most about the process?

Write for 10–15 minutes without stopping.
No editing. No polishing. Just keep your hand moving.

A gentle reminder of the Gateless guidelines

• Write fast and without stopping.

• Don’t edit while you write.

• Don’t judge your work.

• Let the writing surprise you.

• Follow the energy, not the grammar.

If you choose to share your writing in the comments, you’re welcome to read and respond to others as well.

When responding:

• Be kind.

• Be specific about what moved you.

• Reflect back what you noticed or felt.

• No critiques, corrections, or advice—just witnessing.

This is a space for honest words, not perfect ones.

Xoxo,

Heather

F is for:

• Fire

• Fear

• Freedom

• Family

• Flight

• Failure

• Forgiveness

• Fracture

• Future

• Fuel

This week’s Gateless prompt:

Write about a fire.

It could be a literal one, or something that burned through your life—
a passion, an argument, a desire, a loss, a turning point.

What did the fire take?
What did it leave behind?
Are there still embers?

Write for 10–15 minutes without stopping.
No editing. No polishing. Just keep your hand moving.

A gentle reminder of the Gateless guidelines

• Write fast and without stopping.

• Don’t edit while you write.

• Don’t judge your work.

• Let the writing surprise you.

• Follow the energy, not the grammar.

If you choose to share your writing in the comments, you’re welcome to read and respond to others as well.

When responding:

• Be kind.

• Be specific about what moved you.

• Reflect back what you noticed or felt.

• No critiques, corrections, or advice—just witnessing.

This is a space for honest words, not perfect ones.

—Heather

E is for:

• Edge

• Enough

• Escape

• Embrace

• Ending

• Energy

• Echo

• Ember

• Expectation

• Ease

This week’s Gateless prompt:

Write about an edge.
A moment when you felt close to something—
a decision, a change, a truth, a goodbye.

What kind of edge was it?
Did you step forward, step back, or stay exactly where you were?
What did that edge teach you?

Write for 10–15 minutes without stopping.
No editing. No polishing. Just keep your hand moving.

A gentle reminder of the Gateless guidelines

• Write fast and without stopping.

• Don’t edit while you write.

• Don’t judge your work.

• Let the writing surprise you.

• Follow the energy, not the grammar.

If you choose to share your writing in the comments, you’re welcome to read and respond to others as well.

When responding:

• Be kind.

• Be specific about what moved you.

• Reflect back what you noticed or felt.

• No critiques, corrections, or advice—just witnessing.

This is a space for honest words, not perfect ones.

—Heather

D is for:

• Door

• Desire

• Disappointment

• Detour

• Daughter

• Dream

• Doubt

• Devotion

• Departure

• Dawn

This week’s Gateless prompt:

Write about a door.

It can be a real one or a metaphorical one.

A door you closed.
A door you walked through.
A door you were afraid to open.
Or one that opened for you when you weren’t expecting it.

Where were you?
What was on the other side?
What part of you crossed the threshold?

Write for 10–15 minutes without stopping.
No editing. No polishing. Just keep your hand moving.

A gentle reminder of the Gateless guidelines

• Write fast and without stopping.

• Don’t edit while you write.

• Don’t judge your work.

• Let the writing surprise you.

• Follow the energy, not the grammar.

If you choose to share your writing in the comments, you’re welcome to read and respond to others as well.

When responding:

• Be kind.

• Be specific about what moved you.

• Reflect back what you noticed or felt.

• No critiques, corrections, or advice—just witnessing.

(that’s me right now, the cow being slung across the highway).

I keep thinking I should write something wise or beautifully composed here, but the truth is I’m tired. Sleep has been uneven. My body reminds me I’m not twenty-five anymore. Most days, I’m just keeping the household running and the people I love steady.

The novel is still moving forward, somehow. So am I.

This is just a small dispatch to say: I’m here. Not polished, not profound—just present. And sometimes, in midlife, that’s the bravest place to stand.

Yet the writing continues and so, my dearest lovelies…

We’ve arrived at the letter C.

Subscribe now

C is for:

• Change

• Courage

• Comfort

• Chaos

• Crone

• Clarity

• Crossing

• Calling

• Collapse

• Creation

This week’s Gateless prompt:

Write about a moment when something in your life cracked open.
Not necessarily a dramatic event—just a shift. A realization. A quiet turning point.

Where were you?
What did you notice first?
What changed after that moment?

Write for 20 minutes without stopping.
No editing. No judging. Just the truth of the moment.

If you feel like sharing, I’d love to hear what surfaced for you.

Opening Meditation

Sit where your spine can lengthen without effort.

Let your hands rest open in your lap.
Inhale through your nose.
Exhale through your mouth — long and soft.

Notice where you are holding today.
Your jaw.
Your shoulders.
Your chest.

Let the air move there.

You don’t need to be wise here.
You only need to be honest.

Close your eyes.

Picture yourself at an age when you did not yet know what you know now.
Let that body arrive.
Let that room arrive.

When you feel the shift, open your eyes.

Gateless Agreements

In this space, we practice:

• Speaking only about the work, never the writer.
• Letting the writing sit in the center of the crystal — unattached, unclaimed.
• No fixing, no teaching, no personal stories in response.
• Sharing is always optional. Always.

This is a place for gorgeous dopamine hits —
and for gently bitch-slapping the inner critic who insists you aren’t enough.

🅑 — Before You Became

Prompt:

Write about who you were before you became who you are now.

Not a list of achievements — a state of being.

What did your days smell like?
What were you naïve about?
What felt endless then?

Let yourself speak from that earlier body.

Write for 20 minutes.

Write without stopping.
Do not fix. Do not judge. Do not reread.
Just follow whatever thread tugs first.

From the Storm — Heather’s Piece

She will never amount to anything.

I sat alone on the edge of my parents’ bed, tracing the flowering ivory stitching on their autumn-gold polyester bedspread.

They didn’t know I could hear them whispering.

“Well…” my dad said. And then he stopped. He knew I might hear.

I swallowed hard. It hurt to swallow.

Eighth-grade English was a daily form of torture, led by the Gestapo-inspired Mrs. Schwarz.
“Schwartz means black. Schwarz means brown. And brown is braun,” she would dress down any student who dared call her by the wrong name.

She stood ramrod straight, nearly six feet tall, a brunette bouffant clearly from a box kit, pointy heels, pointy face — a Disney villainess. I was Snow White to her Evil Queen.

She hated me from the moment I walked into her class. She made me diagram sentences at 7:30 in the morning in front of everyone, haunted-forest silence pressing in as chalk screeched against the board. Sweat beaded along my permed hairline, my heart beating so loudly I was sure she wanted it for herself.

At a parent-teacher conference she told my parents,
“She will amount to nothing. She has no talent, no ability, and no personality.”

In the eighties, teachers could say things like that. I imagine my parents nodded politely — the same parents who had to be reminded every night at ten o’clock that they even had a kid.

One morning, the tickle started.

The classroom was stifling, sealed tight. I tried to swallow it away before it could turn into a cough, then an asthma attack. My eyes darted around — everyone else had their heads down, trying to diagram dangling participles. I swallowed faster, knowing this was a losing battle. If I made so much as a sound, she would descend on me like Maleficent.

Then I saw it.

Shiny. Silver. Glinting in my backpack pocket.

George Washington.

Without moving anything else, I shimmied my hand down, snatched the quarter, and popped it into my mouth. Saliva flooded in. The tickle faded. I breathed.

“Miss Robertson.”

Her voice cracked the room open. “Your turn at the board.”

I startled — and swallowed.

Twenty-five cents vanished.

The rest of the day my stomach churned against President Washington. When I got home, my mom embarrasedly called Poison Control, “My 13-year-old daughter swallowed a quarter. No, I said 13, not 3.”

“At this point, ma’am, there’s nothing to do but wait,” they said. “Just make sure it passes.”

She will amount to nothing.

Every morning I checked the toilet.

One day it did pass.

The quarter had turned iridescent — rainbowed by intestinal bacteria. It was glorious.

And I realized the shit President George Washington sat in…

was Schwarz.

Brave the Weather With Us

If this work speaks to you, subscribe to Heathering the Storm — a weekly writing ritual for women who write wildly and hang on to each other through whatever storms are blowing through. And tell me below….

This is a soft place to land — a place to listen inward, loosen the grip of the day, and write from whatever weather is moving through you.

Each week we’ll do:

• a short, simple meditation
• a gentle prompt you can take in any direction
• 20 minutes — no more — of writing

Write anywhere you want:
on paper, on your laptop, in your notes app, on your wall (just… not Sharpie 😄).

When you’re done, you can keep your words just for yourself — or you can share below and we will absolutely love on them.

I’ll post my own piece too — usually a week behind — so I don’t color your experience of the prompt. This week, at the end: I’ll just share a little something I wrote for my own craft/practice—it’s raw, unedited and a wee bit feral.

Gateless Writing Agreements (the soul of this space)

These are not suggestions — they are sacred.

• We talk only about the work, never the writer.
• We do not attach writing to ourselves
(no “this happened to me once” or “here’s how I relate”).
• The writing sits in the center of the crystal and we simply notice what shines.
• No fixing. No teaching. No pressure.
• Sharing is always optional. Always.

This is not critique.
This is communion.

Only gorgeous dopamine hits.
And a firm, loving bitch-slap to the inner critic who insists you aren’t enough.

Here we go.

Subscribe now

Opening Meditation

Sit where your body can soften.

Place one hand on your chest.
One on your belly.

Inhale slowly through your nose.
Exhale through your mouth like you’re fogging a mirror.

Let your shoulders drop.
Let your jaw unclench.
Let the day loosen its grip.

There is nothing you have to prove here.
No one to impress.
Only something in you that is ready to speak.

Close your eyes.

Notice the room.
Notice your breath.
Notice the quiet storm inside you.

When you feel ready, open your eyes.

Set a timer for 20 minutes.
Write without stopping.
Do not fix. Do not judge. Do not reread.
Just follow the thread.

🅐 — THE PROMPT:

Prompt:
Write about something you once ached for.

Not wanted.
Not admired.
Ached.

Something your body leaned toward before your mind had language for it.

Where were you when this ache first appeared?
What did it feel like in your chest, your belly, your hands?
What did you believe would finally be different if you had it?

Let the wanting be bigger than the outcome.

Write for 20 minutes.

Strange & Wonderful Things About the Letter A

• A is the most common first initial in the English-speaking world — more people’s names begin with A than any other letter.
(Your ache is statistically not alone.)

• A is the first vowel babies learn to make.
That open-mouth “ahhh” sound isn’t learned — it’s remembered.

• Every alphabet in Western civilization begins with A because it descends from the Phoenician symbol for ox head — meaning A originally stood for strength, labor, and survival.

• In ancient Greek, Alpha wasn’t just a letter — it meant origin.
The place where things begin to exist.

• A is the only letter that can be both a grade and an apology.
Excellence and ache share the same shape.

• The word “ache” literally contains the sound of A twice.
Your longing is built into the letter itself.

• In music, A is the tuning note — the sound every orchestra aligns to before playing.
Before harmony, there is A.

• Neurologically, the “ah” sound opens the vagus nerve, subtly calming the nervous system. A is a nervous system whisper.

• In astrology and mysticism, A has long been linked with arrival — the moment something crosses from thought into form.

• And finally: No other letter is so often silent — and yet so necessary.
It holds space even when it makes no sound.

Here’s my writing piece for this week:

The crimson-based oracle card demands it of me:

Attend to your shadow.

Argh.
Why couldn’t I draw something sexier — like Queen of Badassery or Rose Blossoms of Divine Feminine Love?
Or literally anything else.

But I pulled it.
So. Fine.
Let’s do this.

The shadow is prolific in pop culture.

Peter Pan lost his.
The Shadow Man hunted little children in a horror film of the same name.
The werewolf’s shadow — the beast within.
Sauron’s dark tower casting its long, hungry reach.
Those creepy “shadow people” you swear you see at 3 a.m. out of the corner of your eye.

I made shadow animals as a kid.
Bunnies.
Birds with wings wide open.
Garfield.
They never scared me then.

I first met the shadow — the spiritual one — while signing my Divine Sovereign Declaration three years ago, on a blustery November night.
November 11th. 11:11.

Actually, it was 11/14 by the time we remembered to sign, but 11/11 makes for a better story. So let’s stick with that.

According to the new-age underground, the “shadow man” is a soul-sucking government construct activated by the newborn heel-prick test.

From a medical standpoint, that’s absurd.
That test screens for metabolic disorders, not demonic contracts.

But in the energetic world, apparently it’s the Church — the dark Catholic kind.

I wasn’t raised Catholic, but I do recall being tremendously constipated at the Vatican during a girls’ trip. Praying for stool salvation. God forsaked me, but the ceiling was very nice.

So the story goes: the Vatican has our DNA and can make shadow clones.

Meanwhile, True Light people don’t pay taxes, stand in line at Kroger, or worry about their driver’s-license photos.

Mine’s been around for twelve years, like a bad case of herpes —
Lisa Marie Presley on corticosteroids, sporting tragic bangs.

Anyway, we live in the Shadow Man’s world — a parallel realm where our souls were purchased at birth. Since the heel-prick test is done at Day 1 and Day 14, I assume we signed twice. Western medicine logic.

The contract was downloadable, of course.
You made a “donation” to DivineSovereign dot something and signed it in blood.

Except have you ever tried signing an 8½×11 sheet in blood?
It’s a mess.

So we used G2 gel pens and added a little blood thumbprint for flair.

We got stuck on that step for three days — debating whether we were creating a bloodline or just confirming one.

I found an old (unused) 18-gauge needle behind the Band-Aids and a tube of Calmoseptine, next to the Cottonelle wipes that dried up years ago because some shadow man left the wrapper open.

My husband insisted the contract could be broken and reinstated at will.
Why he didn’t go into contract law is beyond me.

The Vatican’t, as I call it, once labeled my IVF half-Catholic kids “abominations.”
So honestly? They can keep their incense.

If there’s a direct path to God there, I would’ve been able to poop within proximity of the Pope.

My energy healer feared the shadows.
But I’ve learned: a shadow exists only when something blocks the light.

The Bible says: “Do not identify with your shadow; it is only part of who you are.”

Totally identifying with the shadow — that’s how evil multiplies.

Shadow energy lives in our extremes.
Our fear.
Our rage.
Our overreactions.
It thrives when we feel unsafe.

I do not consent to this fuckery.

Where there is light, there must be shadow.
And where there is shadow, there must be light.

So I will attend to my shadow.
And, finally,
get a new driver’s-license photo.

See you next week, storm chasers — B is already gathering clouds.

And I actually love it.

But sometimes I also want to recline in a velvet chair like it’s 1897, dramatically reading poetry to my friends and pretending none of us has a mortgage or a login for the patient portal.

Which is probably why, as a Gateless-trained writing teacher (betcha didn’t know that part), I’ve become deeply allergic to anything that sounds like hot takes about politics, doomscrolling the end of the world, or performing outrage for the algorithm.

I want something else.

I want a corner of the internet that feels like quoting Little Shop of Horrors and meaning it:

Somewhere that’s green.

Subscribe now

So here’s what we’re doing.

Every Wednesday a fresh writing prompt will land here — free, unfussy, and waiting patiently for you. Use it that day or hoard it for later. All it asks is 20 minutes and your willingness to begin.

For the first half of the year we’ll let the alphabet be our playful backbone — 26 letters, 26 weeks. We’ll start with A(obviously). Each prompt will flirt with that week’s letter, but if your imagination runs off in a completely different direction, follow it. This is our show. We make the rules.

And because I can’t help myself, I’ll also share a few personal, oddly specific little truths about me tied to that week’s letter — the kind you only admit in good company. Think: quietly revealing, unexpectedly tender, and absolutely not curated for the internet (and yet…here we are).

You’re welcome to post what you write in the comments, and I’ll respond with Gateless feedback — meaning I’ll reflect what’s alive in your writing, not what you “should” fix. There’s a whole reticular activating system involved here, but let’s not science this one to death (I can geek out real hard). The short version: it’s built on the simple premise that when your brain isn’t under attack, creativity actually shows up.

Each week I’ll share a short piece of my own — unedited, imperfect, and sometimes a little feral.

No grammar critiques.
No punctuation policing.
Just honoring the work.

If this sounds like something you want in your week, hit subscribe so you don’t miss a prompt — and if you know someone who used to love writing but lost their way, share this with them. The cliché is true: sharing is caring, and creativity is better with company (much like nachos).

After we make it through the entire alphabet (by my trusty calendar…mid-June), I’ll start querying for beta readers for my upcoming novel Are You There, God? It’s Me, Menopause, arriving this fall.

So that’s the plan.

Every Wednesday.
Twenty minutes.
One letter.
A few secrets.
and…free.

Let’s make something strange and wonderful together.

And one more thing — if the idea of doing this over a long weekend in real life sounds delicious, answer the poll below. We’re flirting with the idea of roving little writing retreats around the U.S. and Canada — velvet chairs, brave words, and reading daring, beautiful things to each other like it’s our own secret salon. No corsets required.

Oh, and it has to be easy to get to, because I am not arriving at a creative retreat with my nervous system fried from three TSA checkpoints and a two-hour Uber ride.

Subscribe now

1. The Idea Arrives

Probably in the shower, on a walk, or when you’re supposed to be paying attention to your kid.
It is brilliant. Possibly Pulitzer-adjacent.

2. You Start Writing

A few pages. A few scenes. A vibe.
Enough to convince yourself you’re a Writer™️ and should buy new pens.

3. You Leave It Alone

For a week. A month. 14 lunar cycles. Who’s counting.

4. Writing Retreat Energy

You speed-write two chapters and feel invincible.
Everyone tells you your pages are “so strong.”
You begin mentally preparing your award-season dress.

5. Back Home, Life Happens

School lunches, patient calls, laundry, existential dread.
Novel? What novel?

6. Two Years Pass

The book ferments like ancient wine in your brain.

7. sudden panic

Someone, somewhere, is DEFINITELY writing the same book.
Possibly better. Possibly already optioned by Reese.

8. The 2 A.M. Download

Ideas fall like meteor showers.
You type feverishly into Notes, autocorrect wreaking havoc.

9. You Reopen the Draft

You whisper: This is it. This is the moment.
Then you read page one.

10. The Self-Loathing Stage

“What…what is this?”
“This isn’t writing. This is taxidermy.”
“I must be stopped.”

11. The Determination Surge

You will finish this book.
You must.
It becomes your Everest, but with more snacks.

12. The Content Blizzard

Thousand tiny download-blurbs pour in.
You suddenly understand why prophets wandered deserts.

13. The Quilt Delusion

Sure, you can stitch this together. You are crafty!
Five hours later you remember you cannot actually sew.

14. The August 16th Problem

You find a file labeled AUGUST 16 – IMPORTANT
It is, in fact, dog shit.

15. The Lovefest

Then suddenly—your characters.
Your beautiful, broken, chaotic little creations.
You love them so much it hurts.

16. The Spiral

Everything is shit again.
Especially you.
Especially chapters 7–19.

17. The Existential Spiral

Maybe everything you’ve ever written is trash.
Maybe you should pivot to pottery.

18. The Breakthrough

Something clicks.
Your pages breathe.
You type with purpose.
You feel—dare you say it—capable.

19. The Cover Reveal High

You haven’t finished the book but MY GOD that cover.
The cover alone deserves awards.

20. The One-Sided Relationship Phase

You want commitment from the book.
The book wants…space.

21. The Editor Handoff (Euphoria Version)

You send it to your developmental editor convinced she’ll adore it.
She’ll weep. She’ll call you a genius.

22. The Editor Handoff (Doom Version)

You immediately become certain she will, in fact, hate it.
Like viscerally.

23. “Done”

Except not really.
Because you can always tweak one more line,
cut one more page,
rewrite one more scene.

But eventually you learn the sacred writer truth:

A novel is never finished.
It just reaches a point where it releases you.

P.S. Speaking of creative chaos…

Guess who wrote a novel?

Are You There God? It’s Me, Menopause.

A not-quite-sequel, not-quite-reboot, very-much-midlife story about the TWATS trying to figure out marriage, motherhood, identity… and yes…

It’s my fictional debut.
It’s available for preorder.

And the cover? She slays.

👉 Preorder here on Amazon (and Barnes & Noble also)

You’re going to fall in love with the girls we grew up with…all over again.

So apparently we’re all boycotting the Big Box stores this week — a mass protest against corporate greed, fast fashion, and the soul-sucking vortex of warehouse lighting.

👏 I’m in. 👏

But also...
I have gifts to buy.
And, inconveniently, this is the only week I’m off.

So here’s my plan: resist the system and still finish my holiday shopping — with my small, sexy list of anti-corporate, pro-delight purchases.

Subscribe now

1. Plants, Glorious Plants

Support your local nursery.
Pick something living, breathing, and quietly judging the rest of us.

Aloe vera, pothos, or snake plants — all great for purifying the air and your conscience.
Bonus points if they come in a handmade pot by a local ceramicist who definitely listens to Fleetwood Mac while glazing.

2. Books That Actually Pay a Human Being Somewhere

Visit that small indie bookstore you love but forget exists until you need a last-minute birthday card.

Buy books — the ultimate anti-dumpster gift.
Request your favorites:

• Quickies: 100 Little Lessons for Living Sexily Ever After in Midlife (obviously)

• Unfixed by Kimberly Warner

• In the Judgment of Others by Eleanor Anstruther

Each sale supports an author who has made approximately $0.13 from their passion project — and a bookseller who can actually recommend something better than TikTok’s latest trauma memoir. (look at all of us in this NYC taxi!

3. Edibles (The Legal Kind… Unless You’re Lucky)

Olive oils, chocolates, teas, fancy coffee beans — consumables are the heroes of holiday gifting.
They delight, they disappear, and no one has to rent a dumpster for them later in life.

(If you live somewhere where other edibles are legal, I salute your freedom.
I, however, live in Texas — land of casseroles and moral panic — so I’ll stick to caramels.)

Bonus Round: Things That Smell Good but Don’t Cost a Soul

Local candles, handmade soaps, small-batch lotions — things that make your home feel cozy and vaguely French.

Final Thought:

Shop small. Buy little.
Gift things that grow, nourish, or get used up — not things that will haunt your attic until your kids have to Swedish-death-clean them in 2050.

Resistance can still be cute, my loves. ✨
Oh, and hey…gift a woman my substack. I promise you’ll never have to throw me away.

This week, the universe delivered the holy trifecta of midlife clarity:

• Christina Wyman’s HuffPost essay, “At 44, I’m Starting To Become Invisible To Men. Here’s What I Didn’t Expect To Feel.”

• Angela Haupt’s TIME piece, “The Best Years of Your Life Are Probably Still Ahead.”

• Donald Trump calling Catherine Lucey of Bloomberg News “quiet, piggy” for the crime of (appropriately) interrupting him with a fact.

Invisible.
Piggy.
Best years ahead.

If that doesn’t feel like the entire midlife mood board in three headlines, I don’t know what does.

There’s a certain kind of man — chronically threatened, constitutionally fragile — who looks at a midlife woman and sees one of two things:

A pig.
A ghost.

In this worldview, we are either too loud (piggy!), too quiet (invisible!), too opinionated (uppity!), or too hormonal (dangerous!). It’s like society is throwing darts at a corkboard labeled “What Should We Call Women Over 40?” and hoping something sticks.

Honestly, the branding team really needs to pick a lane.

Subscribe now

THE INVISIBILITY MYTH

Let’s start with invisibility, since everyone’s whispering about it like it’s a scandalous diagnosis.

Wyman describes the moment women hit midlife and the male gaze just… fizzles out.

No more catcalls.
No more double-takes in the produce aisle.
No more sense that you’re being silently graded on your usefulness to male passersby.

And here’s what I’ll say — good.

My worth is not tethered to whether Chad from Whole Foods notices me between the avocados and the LaCroix.

Midlife women don’t become invisible.
We become invisible to the people who only valued us for the wrong reasons.

We’re not being erased — we’re opting out.
We’re not overlooked — we’re uninterested in being an exhibit.
We’re not ignored — we simply stopped auditioning.

By the time midlife rolls around, we’ve quietly retired from the emotional gymnastics we performed for years. And the people who once benefited from those performances?

They suddenly don’t know where to put us.

THE “BEST YEARS” TRUTH

Which brings us to Haupt’s piece in TIME — a reassuring, evidence-backed reminder that our best years aren’t behind us; they’re ahead.

Not because everything suddenly becomes perfect. (Our knees would like a word.)
But because we finally have the emotional equilibrium to stop living for other people’s comfort.

We gain satisfaction, clarity, confidence, and a sharper sense of what actually matters.
It’s not that midlife magically gives us wings — it just hands us back our time, our agency, and our ability to tell nonsense to take a seat.

THE SUPERPOWER NO ONE EXPECTED

Here’s the secret that will make certain men very uncomfortable:

Midlife invisibility isn’t a curse. It’s a clearance sale on bullshit.

When you’re younger, the patriarchy trains you like a show pony:

• Smile.

• Be nice.

• Don’t make waves.

• Be desirable.

• Be accommodating.

• Take care of everything. And everyone.

But once midlife hits?
Once the hormones stop nudging us to smooth every rough edge in the universe?

We stop performing.
We stop caretaking everyone else’s egos.
We stop pretending we don’t see the double standards.

Men call this “invisibility.”
But what they really mean is:

“You’re no longer centering my comfort.”

Which is not invisibility. It’s evolution. It’s freedom.

LET’S BE CLEAR

Midlife women aren’t disappearing — we’re finally unsubscribing from everyone else’s expectations.

We’re not silent; we’ve just stopped offering free therapy to people who never reciprocated.
We’re not pigs; we’re simply done folding ourselves into emotional origami so grown men don’t have to feel discomfort.
We’re not invisible; we’re just not doing tap dances for attention anymore.

And here’s the real kicker:

Midlife women don’t lose desirability.
We just stop offering it as a community service.

That’s the part that unsettles people.

Because we’re not aiming to be liked, chosen, tolerated, or picked.
At this age, we’re aiming to be left alone unless you’re worth our time.

We’re not unfuckable — we’re simply done with anyone who brings less emotional maturity to the table than a houseplant.
We’re not quiet — we’ve just stopped narrating our existence for free.
We’re not past our prime — we’re past the age where we mistake attention for affection.

And THIS — this exact liberation —
is why Haupt is right: the best years really are ahead.
Not because life gets easier, but because we get harder to manipulate.
We get funnier, freer, saltier, bolder — and more ourselves than ever.

We have less tolerance, sure — but we also have more humor, more bite, more backbone, and far more “I’m not doing that, Todd.”

(Every woman has her own personal Todd.)

FINAL THOUGHTS

So, to the men — and institutions — pulling from the dusty filing cabinet of sexist tropes:

Piggy.
Quiet.
Invisible.
Over the hill.
Too opinionated.
Hormonal.
Shrill.
Should smile more.

Buddy, please. This isn’t Build-a-Bear.
You don’t get to assemble a woman to your liking.

Thank you for your concern. Truly.
But we’re good. Really good.
Possibly the best we’ve ever been.

And if anyone still tries to pigeonhole us?

We’re not going quietly.
And we sure as hell aren’t going piggy.

We’re going sovereign — with receipts, boundaries, a sense of humor, and SPF 50.

PS: Gentle reminder: calling women names is not a political strategy, a personality trait, or a hobby. Seek help.

Anyway. There’s now a large metal box of shame sitting in my driveway.

Subscribe now

The Backlog of Bulk Trash (and Other Existential Piles)

We have accumulated so much stuff over the years that our monthly bulk-trash pickup has basically ghosted us.
There’s a nine-month waitlist.
Just for us.

Nine months. You can literally grow a human faster than you can get our broken patio chairs picked up.

And I swear I’m constantly donating, repurposing, and re-homing perfectly good things. But then I went into the attic. And the barn. And I thought:
“Wow. That’s… a lot of shit.”

Swedish Death Cleaning, American Edition

I’ve tried the whole Swedish Death Cleaning thing — you know, decluttering so your family doesn’t have to deal with your stuff when you die?
Yeah, I had to modify it.

Because at some point I just throw up my hands and yell, “IT ALL MUST GO!”
And the next thing I know, I’m left with a single Christmas ornament, one sweater, and a pillow. That’s it.

Meanwhile, my mom thinks the Swedish death-cleaning concept is blasphemy.
She believes everything must stay — because you never know when you’ll need a decorative candle from 1984.

So where’s the sweet spot between “I might need that someday” and “I live out of a single drawer”?

The Garage Sale: Self-Torture in Broad Daylight

At one point, I decided we should have a garage sale.
You know — the middle-class ritual of putting all your junk on the lawn so strangers can haggle over your self-worth.

After sorting through half the garage, I realized someone was going to die over this project.
Probably my husband. Because he just puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. You know that pose that middle-aged white men do. Not helpful, Dave.

The Salvation Army Got Judgy

And have you noticed that the Salvation Army has become super picky lately?
Like, “Oh, this chair has a nearly invisible scratch? No thank you.”

Excuse me, sir. That chair lived a good, honest life in my own home until you showed up.
Judgment noted.

The Dumpster of Doom (and Liberation)

Since bulk trash was no longer an option — unless we wanted a 12-month rollout plan — I gave in.
We rented a dumpster.

And honestly? It was both mortifying and weirdly thrilling.
There’s something about physically tossing your baggage — the literal, not metaphorical kind — that feels holy.

Sure, I apologized to the earth and atmosphere for what I was about to do.
But also… I could breathe again.

The New Rules of Stuff

From this point forward, I’m on a no-buy cleanse — with a few important exceptions:

• Plants. They’re good for the earth and my mental health.

• Tea. Because I still don’t know what rooibos actually is, but I’m determined to find out.

• Books. Obviously. I’ll read them, then pass them along like sacred texts.

• Maybe kittens.

• Or Highland cows. (Fine. Probably not. But never say never.)

  

Dumpster, Heal Thyself

So yes. I’ve admitted it, trashed it, and tried to move on.
There’s still a twinge of guilt — but maybe that’s the price of finally letting go.

If nothing else, I’ve taught my teenagers how not to accumulate crap. Well, I’ve tried to.
Next up: Mom’s house.
Mother’s Day project, perhaps?
“Hey Mom, I’m here to help you unload your stuff — dumpster’s out back! I threw Dave in it.”

She’s going to love that.

What’s hiding in your attic?

A treadmill? A box of 90s candles? Emotional baggage in a Rubbermaid tote?

Tell me in the comments.

And if you need a healthier way to purge your soul, might I recommend the literary equivalent of a spring clean?

📘 Quickies: 100 Little Lessons for Living Sexily Ever After in Midlife
Guaranteed to clear emotional clutter — no dumpster required.

It was simple: all phones and iPads go into a basket in the kitchen at 7:00 p.m. sharp.
They stay there until morning.

This was part them, part me, because I’ll admit it—I was becoming a dopamine junkie. My FYP was a full buffet of plant-care videos, fluffy Highland cows (I’d like six for Christmas, thanks), relationship coaches with ring lights, and—because I clicked ONE LINK—college prep content for my 15-year-old.

College prep, by the way, has become a full-contact sport. When I applied, it was:

• Fill out the form.

• Write a sad essay about your character.

• Wait six months for a thin envelope.
  Now? It’s color-coded spreadsheets, “teen branding,” and $900 application camps. (and I’ll need to sign up for another damn course —see last week’s substack on that!)

Subscribe now

The Plan

I made a basket.
A cute one.
Labeled it in bubble letters (Gen X aesthetic, baby) with a sign that said:
“Devices go here at 1900!”
Because I’m still a military girl at heart.

Then I briefed the troops separately:

• My 13-year-old son: “This will be so fun! We can read and play games and be healthier.”
  He gleefully saluted. “Yay Mama!”

• My 15-year-old daughter: “We need to do this so we don’t get brain rot, savvy?”
  Her reply: “Is this mandatory-ah?”

What is that little “ah” they add to everything? Like a sarcastic exhale wrapped in a vowel. I seethed. “It is now.”

Week 1:

We argued about whether music counts as “device time.”
I replaced phones with old-school alarm clocks.
They tried to negotiate AirPods.
“Still a device,” I said. “It’s doing something to your brain.” (Unsure what, but unwilling to die on that hill yet.)

In my mind, I pictured us sitting around the fire, drinking tea, playing Sorry! and laughing like a Hallmark movie.
Reality? By the end of week one, I was the one feeling sorry.

Week 2:

We’ve hit cruising altitude at 35,000 feet.
There’s turbulence, but we’re stable.
I caved to holiday movies and “family Xbox night” (don’t judge, I’m deadly at Mortal Kombat).
My meditation app is still trapped in the kitchen, but honestly—so is my sanity, and she’s thriving.

Why Detox at All?

Because I’m saving the food detox for January 2 (duh—it’s the holidays).
And because I wanted to see what life looked like without a screen attached to every hand.

If it’s this easy for me to spiral into doomscrolling, imagine what it’s like for them.
I never played my Atari for sixteen hours straight—mostly because the Indiana Jones game was so pixelated the whip looked like a drunken staircase made of Legos.

Stats That Will Ruin Your Day

• The average American checks their phone 144 times a day.

• Teenagers spend over 8 hours daily on screens.

• 67% of adults admit to “phantom vibrations.” (Me, every time my bra strap shifts.)

• Studies now show screen fatigue can reduce focus, sleep quality, and empathy—basically, the Big Three of being human.

Even Substack Notes—my beloved, chaotic playground of writers and overthinkers—might be rewiring our patience. I adore them, but lately, I crave long-form again. Something with…paragraphs.

Coming Soon: January Detox, Round Two

Next up? Gut health cleanse.
My chicken-nugget-loving teenager may finally revolt.
The PS5 might make a brief reappearance just to drown out the complaints.

Because let’s be real—the hardest detox isn’t from sugar, caffeine, or screens.
It’s from everyone bitching about your detox.

Your Turn:

What are you detoxing from this month?
Your phone? Your ex? The group text that won’t die?
Tell me in the comments.

And if you need a little re-tox for your soul…

👉 Quickies: 100 Little Lessons for Living Sexily Ever After in Midlife is the only kind of binge I recommend this holiday season.

And stay tuned for my upcoming fictional sequel-adjacent to Judy Blume’s beloved classic… Are you there God, it’s me, Menopause, coming out May 2026!

It makes the perfect holiday gift. No screen time limits required.

Most people would delete that.
I… did not.
Because, friends, I have a problem with school.

I was in school for 28 years. Twenty-eight. That was the formal stuff. But beyond the framed diplomas there lies half-finished online courses, and a deeply suspicious “Course Completion” folder in my Gmail that I haven’t opened since Obama was in office. Yet, I keep tossing more certificates in there—like breadcrumbs for future anthropologists studying midlife women who couldn’t stop self-improving.

I am, officially, a Certified Course Whore™.

Subscribe now

A few examples of things I have paid to learn (and it ain’t exhaustive. That’s right. I said ain’t. Didn’t take a course on that yet.)

Breastfeeding educator (to teach it, not give it, thank you).
Crisis communications strategist.
Pilates instructor.
Reiki master.
Gateless writing teacher.
Youtube videographer. Kinda flunked that one hard.
iPhone photography.
Apiary school (which is officially banned in my HOA, but still…I dream).
Herbal wellness enthusiast.
Bollywood dancing.
And this is just the tip of the iceberg.
At one point, I even flirted with a “Mindful Butchering” certificate. (I wish I were kidding.)

If you’ve ever stared at a “Limited Spots Left!” banner and thought this could be my reinvention era, this one’s for you. Taylor Swift never sang about this one.

1. The dopamine of “Enroll Now.”

That little “register” button? It’s my Vegas slot machine.
I tell myself I’m learning something new, but let’s be real: I’m chasing the high of fresh notebooks, crisp syllabi, and color-coded gel pens.

There’s a rush in believing you’re still becoming someone.
The midlife brain is basically an overachieving golden retriever: throw it a shiny new certification, and it will fetch that thing like it’s the key to immortality.

2. The feminine art of collecting credentials.

Men buy boats.
Women, apparently, buy online coursework.

Data backs me up:

• Nearly 70% of non-degree credential seekers are women (New America Foundation).

• Women make up 60% of adult learners in continuing-ed programs.

• And according to Coursera, women over 40 are their fastest-growing student group.

We’re not just chasing certificates. We’re chasing possibility.
Maybe that next certification will lead to a side hustle, a second act, or at least the illusion of control in a world where our kids know how to use Google Sheets better than we do.

3. Wisdom… or just well-branded escapism?

Here’s where I spiral: am I seeking wisdom — or distraction?
Every course promises “transformation,” but sometimes what I’m really craving is permission to start over.

If you peeked inside my brain at 2 a.m., it would look like this:

• “Maybe I’ll get certified in gut health microbiome coaching. I could coach the shit out of those little microbes.”

• “Wait, I should learn pottery. It could be my entire holiday gift-giving line up.”

• “No, better yet: trauma-informed lime growing.”

It’s not education. It’s emotional feng shui.
I rearrange my identity with every new login and password. Kajabi yells “Kaching” every time I log on.

4. Why we love being students again.

Midlife women are professional shapeshifters. We’ve reinvented ourselves a dozen times — mother, boss, healer, wife, ex, founder, whatever-comes-next.
So when that course email lands, it feels like a door creaks open.

We’re not buying a class.
We’re buying a future self.

And honestly? The structure helps.
The modules, the deadlines, the gold-star dopamine hits — they make sense when life doesn’t.

5. My next course will be… about not taking more courses.

This is my pledge: before I click “Enroll,” I’ll ask—

• Do I want the knowledge, or just the new-student smell? Man, I miss that first-week-of-school smell. You remember it!

• Will I actually finish this one?

• Do I need another acronym after my name? (Heather Bartos, MD, FACOG, CBC, PCOS-C, ADHD-IYKYK.)

Until then, I’m off to audit “How to Stop Over-Certifying Your Life 101.”

🧠 Hey you, sis—here’s some homework (cuz I know you secretly love it):

Confess your weirdest or most random certification in the comments.
Calligraphy for People Who Have Nothing to Say but Love Stationery? Cottagecore Business Management? Water sommelier? Let’s build a registry of Midlife Overachievers Anonymous.

Your Midlife Reading List is Enrolling Now:

• Quickies — Because sexy is still a subject worth mastering.

• Are You There Go

  d? It’s Me, Menopause — The long, long-awaited sequel to Judy Blume’s all-star. Standby to preorder now for the course on growing wiser, not older.

Bring your own gel pens. Office hours are always open.

This year’s Menopause Society meeting more than doubled in size—think more estrogen, more excitement, and yes… more eye-rolls. Here are my completely unscientific and definitely biased takeaways:

Subscribe now

1️⃣ The Med Student Never Graduates
Every conference has her: front row, cross-legged, digital stylus poised, highlighting like her life depends on it. Bless her heart. Back in my day, we had syllabuses and pens. You know, ink. I swear the glow of her iPad could’ve powered the plenary projector. Ok, it was me. It was ME!

2️⃣ Boxed Lunches Are the New Hot Flash
I’m watching my waistline (aren’t we all?), but… Where. Were. The EFFING brownies? The mid-day coffee you wouldn’t dare drink at home? The happy hour sugar crash that makes you just open enough to network? Instead, it was cold chicken and salad purgatory. Next time, bring me some melty cheeses or I’m walking.

3️⃣ The Tea (and I Don’t Mean Herbal)
Oh, the drama. Just like high school—but with more bifocals and sensible shoes. Factions, hierarchies, alliances, whispers in the hallways. I won’t name names (mostly because their lawyers are scarier than mine), but let’s just say it was juicy. And, as always, unnecessary.

4️⃣ Academia or Bust
If you weren’t a professor at some prestigious East Coast (or California) institution, you were invisible. I wanted to stand up and yell: “Private practice docs are the ones in the trenches!” But alas, I was too busy trying to read the 6 point font on the app they gave us this year.

5️⃣ Cool Sh*t on the Horizon
AI + stem cells = a possible self-healing heart in our lifetime. Holy guacamole (which they didn’t give us either. Boo.) Yes, you heard it here first. Somewhere, Dr. Michael DeBakey (who once kicked me off an elevator, true story) is clutching his stethoscope in his grave.

6️⃣ Plenary Session Fatigue Is Real
If I never hear “plenary session” again, it’ll be too soon. What even is a plenary? Sounds like something you need antibiotics for.

7️⃣ The Meno-Influencer Dilemma
Apparently, “Meno-influencers” are frowned upon. Yet… how do they think the meeting grew so exponentially? Influencing, baby. It’s called outreach. You’re welcome.

8️⃣ Florida: Still Moist
I’m from Texas, so I can handle heat—but Florida? Florida is a damp fever dream. The hotel was a mile from the conference center (because we’ve grown too big, apparently). It was giving “medical mirage in a swamp.”

9️⃣ I Have a Thing for Bones
Hold my nonalcoholic beer. I never thought I’d say this, but… bone health is sexy. The architecture! The osteoclasts vs osteoblasts! The resilience! Get me a trabecula and a glass of wine (or a damn brownie!) and I’m happy.

🔟 Same Time Next Year
Will I go again? Absolutely. But next year, I’m bringing my own brownies, my own Bellinis, and maybe a microphone. Because while the sessions were fine, what women really need are the extras: alternative medicine, mental health, coaching, community.

More from the 2026 meeting in San Diego (which, if you believe Anchorman, means “whale’s vagina”).

I’ll be the one asking where the afterparty is.

Haven’t bought Quickies yet? Oh, honey…what are you waiting for?? To rave reviews and best-selling status, it’s THE best gift to give your girlfriend, partner, mom, grandma, business associates and anyone else you want to impress. Mwah (and hang on because we have a Quickies Holiday playlist coming…)

The parent who once drove you to Dairy Queen for 39¢ cones and taught you to ride your bike without training wheels now lies in bed, small and fading. Breath by breath, becoming someone you hardly recognize. The voice you once heard booming through the neighborhood when the street lamps blinked on now rasps like tissue paper.

No one prepares you for this.

Subscribe now

We prep for puberty (I mean, poorly, but bless our hearts we try). We prep for college. We prep for pregnancy and postpartum, for cholesterol checks and retirement savings. There are even courses on how to feng shui your sock drawer (I have a BOGO coupon if anyone wants it). But grief? Especially this grief—the loss of the people who raised us? That’s still whispered behind casseroles and condolence cards.

My bestie Lulu lost her mum this summer. And like a wave hitting a sandcastle, it knocked me right back to when my own dad passed.

I am the eldest daughter, shocker. The Responsible One. While everyone else fell apart, I was on the phone with the VA, collecting policy numbers, taking over navigating the endless bureaucracy of loss. I put my own grief in a little box and labeled it “later.”

And here’s the weird guilt cocktail no one talks about: when it is your turn to feel, it seems...selfish. You’re not the widow. You’re not the spouse. You’re “just the daughter.” Except—you only get one dad. And mine was certainly not replaceable.

Someone once told me: “A woman can get another husband. But you don’t get another father.” Ouch. Especially not at midlife. I nixed the idea of midlife adoption (me) when I read that Warren Buffet was leaving nothing to his kids (sorry, dark humor is my defense mech).

When you’ve lost both parents, there’s a word for that: orphan. Which feels a little absurd when you’re paying taxes and organizing school carpools and Googling “how to get through perimenopause without committing a felony.” But the truth is—it is orphaning. A severing of the final thread that made you a child.

I remember being a brand-new Navy attending at NNMC Bethesda (now called Walter Reed). We had a 24-weeker to deliver via c-section—teeny, fragile, impossibly wiggly. The chief resident and second-year were fumbling, hesitating. And I looked around and realized… oh Lord. No one else was going to fix this. I slapped on a size 6.5 Biogel glove, reached into the sterile field, and delivered the baby in one swift motion.

It hit me then.

This is my life now. There is NO ONE else to catch me.

That’s what losing a parent feels like. The imaginary safety net—the one you didn’t even realize you still believed in—is gone.

Why don’t we talk about this?

Dammit, why don’t we prepare for it?

We have registries for weddings. Doulas for birth. Meal trains for new moms. But when someone loses a parent, it’s like the world sends one lame-ass bouquet and expects them to be back at their desk on Monday.

We had a wonderful grief doula come speak at a Menopause Mixer last fall, and she blew the doors off the room. We sat in a circle and said the names of people we’d lost. Some of us whispered. Some sobbed. It was one of the most healing experiences I’ve witnessed.

Because death used to be honored.

In many cultures, it still is.

Victorians wore mourning jewelry. Jewish tradition sits shiva. Some Buddhist practices consider death as a sacred passage, not a failure of medicine. Jeez, even Vikings put your body on a really awesome raft and shot flaming arrows at you as you entered Valhalla. But here in Midlife America™ we treat death like a social faux pas. Grief has become something to “get over,” not something to move through.

I brought up the idea of Swedish Death Cleaning to my mother over Mother’s Day brunch (my Gen X timing is flawless), and she nearly choked on her croissant. Understandable. But part of me wants to talk about it. More than just where the important papers are. What should I do with her china hutch? Or her bath towels from 1976 that didn’t even fit me when I was eight? Seriously, they were harvest gold hankies.

Because I know one day, I’ll be left holding those stupid bath towels and the memories, and wondering what to do with both.

We prepare for everything else in life. Why not this?

Let’s start the conversation.

Let’s normalize it.

Let’s sit beside our sisters (and brothers) and say, “I’m here. Take your time. I’ll bring soup.”

Because whether it’s menopause, or mourning, or just getting through another Monday—what we need more than anything is each other.

p.s. And I still occasionally start to forward memes to my dad (I get my overuse/insane love of gifs from him). And every time, it guts me. Love doesn’t stop just because the body does.

Case in point: a certain leader name-dropping Tylenol® (brand name, not generic acetaminophen) as if it’s an untested, suspect chemical that harms pregnant women. Reality check: fevers do far more damage to a developing fetus than acetaminophen ever has. When a pregnant person’s heart rate spikes with a fever, so does the baby’s. That’s exactly why we don’t recommend hot tubs for pregnant women — heat + gestating fetuses don’t mix. Fevers don’t “toughen up” a fetus; they increase the risk of certain birth defects like neural tube defects, heart defects, and oral clefts, especially in the first trimester. Bajillions (yes) of pregnant women have taken it safely for decades, including yours truly.

Subscribe now

Science isn’t perfect.

Far from it. We used to dust talc powder on countless baby butts, not realizing it could raise ovarian cancer risk in some women. We handed out thalidomide like vitamins before discovering it caused limb defects. But acetaminophen? It’s been around a long time — and the autism link simply isn’t there. When something as common as autism, breast cancer, or obesity gets pinned on a single villain, it almost certainly isn’t the villain. Because if it were, everyone exposed would have it.

And part of the rise in “new” conditions? We’re just better at diagnosing and realizing these things exist. When I was a medical student nearly 30 years ago, autism was barely discussed. Oh wait, just like menopause. Or chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE). Or prediabetes.

I saw an ad for Dupuytren’s contracture — a rare hand condition that’s been around forever (first documented in 1614 by Felix Plater, a Swiss physician, but was named after French surgeon Guillaume Dupuytren in the early 19th century). It isn’t suddenly more common; it’s just suddenly on TV. It’s like an SAT question gone berserk: increased awareness ≠ increased incidence. But our brains confuse the two.

Doo doo doooooo…

And just to make this week’s science carnival even livelier: on July 17, 2025 the FDA convened an Expert Panel on Menopause and Hormone Therapy. They revisited estrogen — a hormone women already make in abundance — weighing its risks (breast, uterine, cardiovascular) against its benefits (bone, genitourinary, heart, cognitive). Since the Women’s Health Initiative scared the bejesus out of everyone two decades ago, newer data show risks and benefits vary by age, dose, formulation, and route. Now the FDA has opened a public docket to gather comments on whether labeling for these products should change. Translation: a substance our bodies produce every day might soon carry a fresh warning label.

So, it’s time to speak up, sisters.

Comments are open until September 24, 2025 at Regulations.gov (docket FDA-2025-N-2589).

Jeez, Louise.

Nothing goads me more than watching women get the raw end of the deal on their own health. (Honestly, watching anyone get the raw end of the deal makes me crazy.)

At the rate we’re going, before too long it’ll feel like there’s nothing left women are “allowed” to take. We’ll be standing around, hot-flashing and/or febrile, armed only with herbal tea (but not certain herbs) and our sharp tongues — a nation of snarky women rolling our eyes while the next press conference warns us about. . . oxygen.

Seriously…

I want to eradicate every disease we can. But let’s board the bus in an organized fashion, not a flash mob!

Yes, apparently losing weight quickly can also slim down the labia, and the internet (and a few entrepreneurial “aesthetic clinics”) have declared this a medical emergency. Enter the “labia puff” procedure—because heaven forbid any part of your body look like it belongs to a woman over 30.

Subscribe now

The Medical Part (because I am, after all, a doctor)

Here’s the truth:

• Rapid weight loss does redistribute fat—including in areas we don’t think about. I, personally, don’t think about my vulva. TMI? Have you met me before?

• Vaginal and vulvar tissues can look a little different post-weight loss (just like your face, breasts, or booty).

• But it’s not a disease. It’s anatomy doing what anatomy does.

There’s no ICD-10 code for “Ozempic Vulva.” No randomized controlled trial showing “labia puffing saves lives.” It’s not a diagnosis—it’s a marketing strategy.

The Gaslight Effect

Every time women start to feel good about themselves—shedding weight, gaining confidence, rocking their new look—the culture machine whispers: “Not so fast, sweetheart. You’ve got a new flaw to fix.”

You lost weight? Fabulous.
But now your vulva is sagging.
You’re healthier? Amazing.
But have you considered fillers for your labia?

By every tampon I’ve ever paid tax on…When will it end?

Satirical Ad Break #1

New from the makers of Ozempic Vulva!
Introducing Ozempic Elbow™ — because heaven forbid your weenus shows your actual age. For just $2,999 per injection, reclaim the supple elbow skin of your kindergarten years.

What This Really Means

This isn’t about medicine. It’s about monetizing insecurity. It’s about creating a “problem” so there can be a “solution.” It’s about telling women: you’re still not enough.

Here’s the prescription:

• Laugh (because really, Ozempic Vulva sounds like a rejected punk band name). In fact, let me get a pen and think of who might play drums to my guitar ( ? ? You ladies in. We got room for the whole lot of ya!)

• Recognize it for what it is—body gaslighting wrapped in a shiny syringe of hyaluronic acid.

• Remember: the only people making money off this are the ones convincing you your labia need a side hustle. Also, I prefer to say labia like an extra from Ab Fab: laaaayyyyyyybiahhhhhh.

Satirical Ad Break #2

Tired of your spleen looking… tired?
Try Botox for Your Spleen™ — the revolutionary injection that smooths, tightens, and revitalizes your least photogenic organ. Because no one likes a wrinkly spleen. Ew, David.

My Midlife Take

Midlife is already an age where women are told they’re “fading,” “drying up,” or “past their prime.” Now we’re supposed to worry about thinning vulvas too? Please. We’ve raised kids, built careers, survived pandemics, and held entire families together—our vulvas do not need to become a puffy taco.

Bottom line (see what I did there?):
If you want labia fillers because you want them, great. But don’t let a TikTok trend convince you that your vulva suddenly needs a marketing campaign.

Because the truth is: you were always enough—with or without a puff. A muff puff.

What do you think? Should we brace for Ozempic anuses next? Or is this finally proof that the beauty industry has officially jumped the shark?