She Refused to Disappear

Blog 23: This is a living manifesto for women who refuse to disappear.

At 50, they stopped listening to me. I was the expert training their teachers, but my suggestions got shrugged off by the man who ran the show. I knew what worked and what didn't. Didn't matter.

At 60, my voice stopped counting. Someone younger, prettier, more charming got waited on first. I got the look - the one that says you're confused, sweetie. The one that excuses you for "your age" before you've even spoken.

At 70? I'm deeply into crone territory now. I'm supposed to step off and make room. Become the quiet one who only espouses wisdom when asked.

They handed me a script: Sit down. Your turn is over.

So I wrote this instead.

That may not sound revolutionary until you understand what women are taught to do with age, with grief, with the accumulated weight of being the one who holds everyone else together.

She’s supposed to fade gracefully. Step back. Make room. Become the wise, quiet elder who doesn’t take up too much space.

She didn’t get the memo.
Or maybe she got it and decided it was bullshit.

She is not graceful. She is not elegant. She’s not aging like wine. Not getting wiser by the hour. Not “embracing her season.”

That’s the story people tell about women when they need them to be digestible.

She is not digestible.

She is joy and exhaustion. Coral lipstick and leopard print. Garden dirt under her nails and a laugh so loud it makes people turn around.

She is not trying to be beautiful in the acceptable way. She is trying to be honest.

Do you know how rare that is?

That laugh comes from a body that carried others until it forgot how to carry itself. That stood in mirrors and didn’t recognize the woman looking back. That was told to be quieter. Smaller. More appropriate.

The laugh is her answer.

When the doctor asked if she wanted last rites - 25% survival, she told him: “If I was supposed to go, I would already be gone.”

That was 19 years ago. Eight years ago, they told her she had two years to live. She said f-that to that situation too.

She’s been refusing to disappear longer than most people realize.

Arms wide in sunflower fields. Leopard print coats that society says are “inappropriate.” The way she kicks out of her leg like she’s starring in her own movie.

This is resistance. This is a woman who paid for the right to be loud with years of being told to whisper.

She is a vitally alive being. She earned the right to take up space - not be told to retreat into a corner. Her travels take her worldwide. Her voice is here to be heard, not overlooked, drowned out or ignored.

She can be loud. She earned it.

She loves with her whole heart. Walks away when she needs to. Glows from the inside out. Speaks when she wants. Creates without permission. Charms without trying.

She won’t soften just to be tolerated.

She is not here to meld herself into the role they’ve written for women her age - so she won’t let that define her. Nothing can define her. She is undefinable.

This isn't just my story. It's the story of every woman who was handed the same memo - and set it on fire instead.

I turn 70 today and I refuse to disappear.

Love,
Sherry

To those who read, share, comment, or support this work - thank you. Your presence creates a field where these words can exist. If something resonated, feel free to pass it along. Recognition travels through authentic connections.

If you want to support this space, you can do that here.

☕ Buy Me A Coffee

About the Author

Sherry writes from the other side of trying to fix herself. At 70, she's done with the endless optimization project that passes for spiritual growth these days. After decades in spiritual and healing communities, she walked away from the endless optimization project and discovered what life feels like when you're not constantly working on it.

She refused to disappear into society's expectations of what older women should be.

Instead, she writes about what actually happens - the absurdities, the beauty, the ordinary moments that don't need to mean anything profound.

Her blog, It Exists (For Now), documents life from the other side of trying to fix yourself. She lives in Pennsylvania. She grows things. She has air conditioning. Some days suck. She's done making that cosmic.

This is the voice that showed up when she stopped performing all the others.