Last week, I sat across from my therapist and she asked me a simple question: “How does that make you feel?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it.
At 69 years old, after decades of teaching, mothering, and caring for everyone around me, I couldn’t name a single emotion I was experiencing.
That moment hit me like a revelation: Somewhere between 55 and today, I’d lost touch with parts of myself I didn’t even realize were missing.
Things I’d spent decades providing for others without anyone thinking to provide them for me.
1) The luxury of unscheduled time
Remember when everyone else’s calendar came first? For thirty years, my days revolved around class schedules, grading deadlines, parent conferences.
At home, it was soccer practices, piano recitals, and family dinners that had to happen at exactly 6:30 because someone had somewhere to be at 7:15.
Now? My grandchildren drop by unannounced, and while I love seeing them, I notice how their parents still live in that constant state of scheduled chaos I remember so well.
Meanwhile, my own unscheduled time has quietly vanished because I filled every gap with volunteer committees and community projects, terrified of what might happen if I just stopped.
My mother did the same thing as she said yes to every request, volunteered for everything, and ran herself ragged until the day she died.
I swore I wouldn’t follow that pattern, yet here I am, only recently learning to protect an afternoon for absolutely nothing.
2) Someone to check in on you
I spent decades being the checker-inner.
“How was your day?” I’d ask my students.
“Everything okay?” I’d probe when my sons seemed quiet.
“Need anything?” became my automatic greeting to aging parents, struggling neighbors, overwhelmed friends.
But somewhere after 55, those check-ins started flowing in one direction only.
People assume you’re fine because you’ve always been the strong one.
You’ve always been the one asking, not answering.
And honestly? Most of us got so good at saying “I’m fine” that people stopped asking altogether.
It’s not that anyone means to forget us; they’re just used to us being the providers of care, not the receivers of it.
3) The benefit of someone else’s planning
For years, I was the vacation planner, the birthday party organizer, and the one who remembered which cousin was allergic to shellfish and which uncle couldn’t sit next to which aunt at family dinners.
I researched the restaurants, booked the tickets, and printed the directions.
Now, when my adult sons suggest getting together, they still wait for me to pick the place, set the time, make the reservations.
“Whatever works for you, Mom” sounds considerate, but sometimes what would work for me is someone else handling the details for once.
4) Physical affection without strings
This one surprised me most: Between 55 and 70, casual physical touch becomes surprisingly scarce.
The simple, everyday touches that used to fill our days: The quick hugs from teenagers who needed lunch money, the absent-minded shoulder squeezes from a spouse rushing out the door, and even the professional handshakes from colleagues.
Now, touch often comes with caretaking duties attached.
These include:
- Helping an elderly parent walk.
- Steadying a friend after surgery.
- Hugging someone at a funeral.
When did touch become something we only give in times of need rather than something we receive just because?
5) Recognition for everyday wisdom
After three decades of teaching Shakespeare and Steinbeck, of guiding thousands of young minds through essay structures and critical thinking, my expertise suddenly became invisible the day I retired.
No one asks for my opinion on education anymore.
My lifetime of accumulated knowledge sits quietly on a shelf while younger voices debate issues I spent decades navigating.
It’s about the strange erasure that happens when society decides you’ve moved from “contributing” to “contributed.”
All those years of developing expertise, and suddenly you’re just another retiree with opinions no one particularly wants to hear.
6) The freedom to be imperfect
Here’s something I only recently realized: I haven’t felt free to mess up in decades.
As the responsible daughter, the reliable teacher, the steady mother, perfection became my default setting.
Even now, when I skip a volunteer shift or forget to send a birthday card, the guilt is overwhelming.
But, who decided I had to be everyone’s safety net? When did “good enough” become impossible?
The poet Mary Oliver asked, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
Well, Mary, I spent most of it making sure everyone else could pursue their wild and precious dreams while I held down the fort.
7) Time for your own interests first
Between 55 and 70, many women realize they can’t actually name their own interests anymore.
Sure, I read books, but they’re usually book club selections, not my choices.
I cook elaborate meals, but always considering everyone else’s preferences and dietary restrictions.
When my therapist asked what I do for pure enjoyment, I started listing things, then stopped.
Everything I named was somehow tied to serving others or maintaining relationships.
The line between what I genuinely enjoyed and what I’d convinced myself I enjoyed because others needed it from me had completely blurred.
8) Deep, reciprocal friendships
The friendships that remain after 60 often feel different.
They’re pleasant, sure, but many revolve around shared complaints about health, discussions of grandchildren, or committee work.
The deep, soul-baring friendships where someone knows your fears and dreams, not just your schedule and obligations? Those quietly slipped away while we were busy being everything to everyone.
We became the friends who listen but stopped being the friends who share, and we know everything about others’ marriages, struggles, and victories, but when did we stop revealing our own?
What happens next
Recognizing these losses is about finally understanding that providing care, support, time, wisdom, planning, perfection, and emotional labor for decades doesn’t automatically mean someone will think to provide them for you.
I’m learning, slowly, to provide them for myself, to schedule nothing, to check in with myself, to plan my own adventures, to mess up without apologizing, and to pursue interests that serve no one but me.
Because if not now, when?
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