The Double Standard of Caring

The DysFUnction Diaries: A personal F.U. to whatever needs it most

Today is the day I say F.U. to the exhausting, shape-shifting rules for women, especially at 50+.

F.U. to the double standards, the broken systems, the family dramas, and the unspoken expectation that I’d stay "nice" about everything.

I’m speaking out in ways that might not make sense to everyone yet (myself included). That’s fine.

But eventually, when the truths land, they land hard.

At 50, I’ve apparently aged out of giving a shit – unless I give too many, in which case I’m obviously trying to compete with 20-year-olds (said recently by some misogynistic old fart with a podcast).

Working out and wearing a bikini makes me desperate, and wearing sweats means I’ve given up. So which is it?

Look – I know what I am and I know what I’m not. I'm not perfect by any stretch. But I also know I’ll never stop working on who I could still be in every facet of life I can.

It honestly makes me sad when people say things like, “I’m too old for that now” or, “By the time I finish, I’ll be (insert age).” Well, the time’s gonna pass anyway, and you’re gonna be that age anyway. So why not do the thing (or wear the bikini)?

Ironically, my weight loss journey has taken me out of bikinis for now. I mean, yeah, I could wear them, but I already feel exposed enough with the one-pieces I’ve chosen. That's where I'm at today.

I see incredibly fit and confident women my age rocking bikinis, and I love that for them. It inspires me.

And I know I’ll get there myself soon, but until then, I'm chasing the version of me that feels powerful in her own skin.

The one that can jog three miles easily thanks to an excellent VO₂ max. The one that can haul Costco water packs upstairs without dry heaving.

The one who can zip up a black dress from the "someday" section of my closet (if you know, you know) and make my husband stare at me in that way only he can.

None of that came easily. There was a time when I avoided mirrors, wore baggy clothes, and got easily winded.

That woman didn't disappear overnight; she was slowly carved out of every sore muscle, every early alarm, every "do it anyway" when she didn't want to.

And no, she still doesn't always want to.

I'm not telling you all this to be impressive. I'm telling you because change is possible, even when life is chaotic, unfair, or you feel completely ready.

You don't need a perfect plan (I sure as hell didn't have one), just one good reason to stop staying stuck.

This is exactly what The DysFUnction Diaries is for.
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Nowadays, it’s about far more than the number on the tag. (Though yeah, some habits die hard, I’ll admit).

It's about taking care of myself the best I can, making sure that when I'm a senior citizen, I can still move.

I want to walk without pain. Take the stairs. Lift the heavy things. Maybe even go for a run (even though it’ll probably be more of a desperate lope by then).

What I’m not doing is competing with younger women.
I’ve had my time in the sun.

Clinging to that now is just…sad.
cough JLo cough

Who I am competing with is the person I was yesterday. No one else.

And believe me, I’ve done plenty in my life that makes me look back and physically cringe. Things I’ve said, people I’ve chased, behavior that would make former friends look at me now and say, “Who does she think she is?”

But you learn. You grow. You forgive yourself, and then you move the hell on.

So who do I think I am? I’m someone who wants to keep on learning and trying. And isn’t that the secret of eternal youth anyway?

And if all the shouting I do into the void helps even one person, it will all have been worth every word.

I’m someone who still cares.
I’ll never stop.

That brings me to the “We Do Not Care” movement for peri/post-menopausal women, which presents itself as so 'badass' detachment, but it's really just glorified apathy, low standards, and emotional immaturity.

"We Do Not Care" claims to be:

• Confident
• Unbothered
• Evolved

What it usually is:

• Apathetic
• Childish
• Checked-out
• Obsessed with appearing enlightened and "above it all" while doing absolutely nothing to personally elevate.

Case in point: Ashley Judd, on camera, frolicking in the Baltic Sea, declaring herself a proud member of the “We Don't Care Club” while weirdly explaining how she powders her inner thighs to prevent chafing.

“If you see a white thing there, I don’t care,” she grinned. "I'm also picking my crotch, and I don't care."

Fucking ew.

She splashed around like a child and babbled word salad about postmenopausal empowerment and whimsical dissociation.
Something-something inner child, something-something freedom from expectations.  

And that’s great – for her. And for the thousands cheering her on in solidarity.

But let’s not pretend that ‘opting out’ is the same as actually being free.  

As a postmenopausal woman myself, I can say this with full confidence: menopause is not permission to regress.

Even if I weren’t raising someone else’s kids, fighting a broken system, or watching someone I love get sabotaged at every turn,  I still wouldn’t want in.

No disrespect, I wish them joy, I really do.

But I have no interest in pretending I'm not bothered by my own aesthetic flaws while reenacting some fantasy version of playtime.

That being said, I don’t disagree with everything Judd said. The call to look inward, to stop contorting yourself around others’ needs, to reconnect with parts of yourself that were neglected—that’s powerful.

That part I’m definitely behind.

But there's a chasm of difference between whimsy and immaturity.

I love whimsy, particularly stealth whimsy.
Like naming our plants after actors (Leaf Schreiber, Scarlett Growhansson, and James Spade-r (bit of a reach, but that plant stands above the others like Reddington.)

I respect the intention, and her message has heart.
But as grown-ass adults, our job is to confront the hard truths and decide who we want to be in spite of them.

I'd rather live fully in the reality of who, what, and where I am and do something special with it.

We only get one shot at this version of ourselves. So why waste it?

Why not use it to make something meaningful - maybe even life-changing?

I also believe it’s utter bullshit to pretend that putting in zero effort into our appearance is some kind of progress. I resent the idea that aging means we stop giving a damn about how we look, how we show up, or how we live.

And if we do care, we're accused of attention-seeking.
I’m positive I’m not the only one sick of being boxed in like that.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever got was: Dress for the way you want to feel, if only for yourself, from the skin out.

I get asked all the time:
"What are you training for?"
"Who are you trying to impress?"

And the answer is me, damn it. Just like it should be for you.

That said, are there days I just don’t have it in me?
Abso-freakin-lutely.  

On those days, I shower, tug on clean sweats, and grab one of my husband's soft, oversized shirts (the one with the bleach stain on the sleeve and a hem that's starting to unravel).

It smells like his cologne and feels like a hug when he's not home. It's comforting.

But I’m not leaving the house like that.

When we dress for ourselves, we become active participants in the kind of culture we want to live in.

And I, for one, and done with seeing pajamas in public (especially in airports), athleisure and jeans at the theatre, or people ignoring dress codes at weddings and funerals.

Dressing for the occasion is not outdated; it’s respectful.
But maybe that’s too much to ask from people who don’t even respect themselves.

Side note: speaking of disrespect-
People love to throw that word around when they get pissed off.

As Inigo Montoya said, “You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

I learned that a relative recently called my writing ‘disrespectful and unnecessary”.
Translation: “You told the truth in public, and now we can't play the victim. ”

I smiled. Honestly, it kind of made my whole day.
You don't usually get that kind of confirmation so cleanly.

If you’re more upset by the words than the truth behind them, you’re not mad about what I wrote.

You’re mad it’s out there now.
And you can't dispute it, and you can't shut me up.

What I guarantee in every piece I write is authenticity.
Pure, refreshing, uncomfortable, liberating, vulnerable, inconvenient authenticity.

I’m glad to hear my work makes the right people squirm. 
Means I’m not wasting my time.

So I’ll keep going—for my body, my voice, and the truth, even when it unsettles people.
Especially then.

Wonder what she'll call the next installment.

So no, I haven’t aged out of giving a shit.
I’ve just gotten real good at knowing which shits are worth giving.

So consider this my first official entry in The DysFUnction Diaries.

And to the tired expectation that women like us are supposed to disappear, let ourselves go, or just shut the hell up:

F.U.

Respectfully.

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Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing unapologetic stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in over 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.