Middle-aged Women: Myths, Truth, and the Eye Roll You Deserve

Ten Myths Busted and No Patience Left

Welcome to middle age! You’ve magically morphed into an invisible creature ready to spontaneously combust from hot flashes and the internal rage you feel when trying to figure out your new iPhone. You hate sex, fashion, and anything fun and you’re more than a little bitter about it.

Spoiler alert: None of this is (completely) true. This might sound crazy, but middle-aged women? They’re …  just women—brilliant, sexy, accomplished women. But some myths just won’t die. So let’s put them to rest, five cats and one pair of yoga pants at a time.

They don’t understand technology.

Contrary to what every sitcom, meme, and that dude at Best Buy believes, middle-aged women can actually operate technology without summoning a 22-year-old man-child gamer from the depths of his parent’s basement.

We built the internet economy with our online shopping. We run businesses from our phones. We manage family calendars that would make a Fortune 500 CEO weep. Meanwhile, some men are still baffled by the TV remote.

Are we confused? Sure. But only by a cake made out of cauliflower and disappointment going viral on TikTok.

And yes, we know how to mute you.

They all have seven cats.

First, cats are awesome. They’re basically furry roommates who contribute nothing to rent but judge all your life choices. But the “crazy cat lady” thing? That’s just society’s way of shaming women for choosing independence.

Men collect vintage cars, sports memorabilia, or 47 different grills—they’re “hobbyists.”

Women have cats? We’re “sad spinsters.” Meanwhile, cats are perfect companions: They show up when they want attention, disappear when they don’t, and never leave the toilet seat up.

Honestly, we should be asking why more women don’t have cats.

They’re all having a midlife crisis.

Guys are Googling “how to grow a beard overnight” and panic-buying motorcycles. But we change our hair color and suddenly we’re desperately trying to “reclaim” our youth.

Newsflash: Our “crisis” isn’t angst. It’s overdue agency. We know our needs don’t have to come last anymore. Don’t like our book club? We politely leave without a four-paragraph apology email. Change our careers or hair color? We will, without justification.

Yes, middle age does bring challenges (why did I walk in here again?!?)—but it’s not a midlife meltdown. It’s midlife clarity. And if women’s midlife reckoning is a “crisis”? It’s only because everyone else is uncomfortable with us rewriting the rules.

They don’t like sex anymore.

Our libido doesn’t die. Our tolerance for bad sex does.

While guys are having the time of their lives in erectile dysfunction commercials, women are expected to fade into celibacy and lively debates about the best brand of yogurt. But middle-aged women aren’t less sexual. We’re just too tired for foreplay that sounds like a Gregorian chant, and confident enough to demand orgasms that don’t require GPS.

We know our bodies. We’ve read books. We own toys.

So, no, we don’t hate sex.

We hate being told how to feel about it.

They only talk about menopause and hormones.

It’s not that we want to talk about menopause. We have to, because no one warned us that at some point we would randomly feel like we’re going to burst into flames while reading our emails. But current events? Business? Everyday things? We talk about those too—like every other person on Earth.

And yes, we are occasionally hormonal. But so is Dave from HR. He cried when the Wi-Fi went out for 10 minutes.

Get it together, Dave.

Reducing us to walking, talking hormone machines is just another way to shrink our whole existence to one single “problem.” So when we talk about menopause? We’re not obsessed—we just refuse to not have our voice heard.

They all need wine to survive.

Here’s what’s really happening: Women discovered that after a day of managing everyone else’s needs, a glass of wine signals “I’m officially off duty.” It’s not about the alcohol—it’s about permission to stop performing.

Men disappear into their garage workshops or scroll for hours, and nobody calls it coping. We have a drink at 8 p.m. after dealing with Mike’s emotional breakdown about the printer, and suddenly we’re wine-dependent suburban stereotypes. The real question isn’t why women drink wine—it’s why we need an excuse to relax in our own homes.

They’re angry and bitter.

We’re accurately irritable. There’s a difference.

We don’t hit middle age and morph into a perpetual grouch who hates sunshine and puppies. It means we have zero tolerance for unsolicited opinions about our life choices. And we’re unapologetically done with society trying to shove us into a neat little box.

It’s not bitterness. It’s righteous frustration mixed with an endless supply of self-respect. So no, we’re not angry. But we are annoyed that Kyle in marketing mansplained our job to us and they rearranged the grocery store so now we can’t find the almonds.

But again—accurately irritable. You would be, too.

They only wear yoga pants.

People act like women turn into Cinderella at midnight the second we hit middle age. Meanwhile, men are out here emotionally bonded to cargo shorts and 20-year-old t-shirts. But somehow we’re the ones who’ve “let ourselves go”?

No, we’ve let go of the expectations. We dress for comfort, style, or both. Sometimes it’s leather and heels. And yes, sometimes it’s yoga pants—even though most have been off duty from actual yoga since 2015. They’re comfortable. They don’t judge. Which can’t be said for that pair of jeans that we bought around the same time.

And if confidence, comfort, and refusing to wear uncomfortable heels for anyone but ourselves is “giving up”?

We might just never “try” again.

They’re no longer adventurous or fun.

We’ve lived, laughed, loved, and learned that fun—much like the placement of our boobs—changes over time. While we might not stay out clubbing until 3 a.m., that doesn’t mean we don’t still love a good time. We’ve simply stopped pretending to enjoy parties we hate and people who interrupt us.

Drinks out with our partner. Vacations. Staying in to binge shows on Netflix. Meeting girlfriends for dinner to debate how many tacos is too many. (Answer: The limit does not exist.)

We have fun. We are fun.

You can’t put an age limit on that.

They’re invisible.

Everyone talks about being “invisible” after 50 like it’s the worst thing that could happen. Plot twist: Sometimes invisibility is a superpower. No more small talk with the neighbor about his bunions. Endless Costco samples without judgment. Slipping past the pushy sales associate at Sephora.

But here’s the thing—middle-aged women aren’t actually invisible. If you can’t see us, it’s likely because you’re looking for someone who still cares what you think. We’re running companies, raising hell at HOA meetings, and quietly funding our own retirements. Society calls us “invisible” because we stopped asking permission to exist. We’re not hiding—we’re selective.

We’ve been practicing our whole lives for this level of “I don’t give a damn.”

And when we want to be seen? Trust me, you’ll know.

And you won’t forget us.