I started choosing my outfits at three. My mother says she lost all influence after that. I believe her.
I’m Swedish. I haven’t lived there in over twenty years. In that time I’ve moved eight times, had children in three countries, and spent most of my adult life shapeshifting by adapting my accent, my appetite, my opinions to fit whoever needed me to be something. Wife, mother, expat, peacekeeper, woman-who-takes-up-the-right-amount-of-space.
I was good at it. I’m done with it now.
Start with whichever pulls you: 90s Bitch, on the revival, the not-caring that wasn’t freedom, and Kate Moss slipping on her Gucci thong again. And Then Everything Cracked, on perimenopause, identity, and the specific chaos of not knowing who you are when the roles fall away. Some Thoughts on Micro Shorts, on sex being back on the catwalk, nobody actually having any, and wearing the ruffled bloomers for the vitamin D.
Midlife is not a decline. It’s a detonation.
Welcome.