One day you’re dancing in heels, the next you’re Googling “best orthopaedic slippers for women over 40.”

 

Ageing doesn’t knock — it just lets itself in, wearing your old waistline like a trophy.

At first, it’s cute. A laugh line here, a silver strand there. You tell yourself, “Ah, I’m just becoming distinguished.” Then one day, it stops being cute.

For me, it started with my skin.

The same oily face I’d fought since boarding school suddenly woke up and declared itself the Sahara. Moisturiser? Gone faster than salary on the 28th. Vanished. Serum? Absorbed like rent money. Next came the grey hair. I used to call it my “wise hair.” Cute, right?

I thought it made me look like the Nollywood aunty in a wrapper who gives life-changing advice. But these greys? They started itching. And there I was, in board meetings, scratching my head like a goat with secrets.

 

Just when I adjusted, my eyes betrayed me. Now, for context — I’ve worn glasses since I was 10. Contacts since 18. I know my eyes. We’ve been through things together. So imagine my shock when I popped in my lenses one morning and… blur. Fuzz. Like life had been shot on a 2003 Nokia camera.

I cleaned them. Nothing.

Cleaned again, this time with the seriousness of a surgeon — still nothing.

By now, I was squinting so hard I looked like someone pretending to understand a French menu in dim light.

 

That’s when it hit me: Gaddemit, I am middle-aged.

Not only did I need my contacts, but I also now needed reading glasses.

But the real curveball? The mood. No one tells you that when estrogen packs its bags, it doesn’t go quietly. It takes your emotional stability with it. One minute, you’re fine.

The next, you’re staring into space like you’re waiting for a plot twist in your own life.

Nothing happened. Nobody insulted me. Nobody stole my money.

Yet there I was — sad, restless, and on some days, angry… like my emotions were being DJ’d by someone with no playlist. Just vibes and chaos.

And the body? Oh, she joined the comedy too.

Parts of me I didn’t even know had nerve endings started aching. Why should the middle of my foot itch? Not the side. Not the heel. Dead centre. Do you know how hard it is to scratch that part of your foot in public? You end up twisting under your chair like you’re battling invisible enemies.

And then — the belly. This damn thing called “spread.” The more I doubled up on crunches, the bigger my stomach got. It’s like my abs said, “Oh, you want definition? Here’s inflation instead.”

 

I remember the days when my stomach was as flat as an ironing board.

A big brother used to call me Killer Abz.

Now? The abz is just… an a. Singular. Soft. Confused.

I used to think belly fat was a result of indulgence.

Now I know it’s a hormonal prank.

Estrogen leaves, cortisol enters, and suddenly your waistline starts behaving like it’s in a real estate boom.

Every inch expanding like it’s trying to build duplexes.

I’d lie on my yoga mat, doing bicycle crunches like a woman possessed —only to stand up and find my stomach looking like it just had puff-puff and a nap.

And don’t get me started on high-waisted jeans.

They used to be my secret weapon. Now they’re just a polite suggestion.

My belly rolls over them like it’s queuing for jollof at a party.

Meanwhile, my mind? Still in her 20s. She’s saying: “Let’s dance till 3 a.m., let’s wear those jeans from 2009.”

But my body keeps sending memos:

To: Ada 

Subject: Calm Down 

Message: We are no longer that girl. Please adjust expectations.

 

And yet — here’s what nobody tells you — growing older isn’t just about loss. It’s about attention. I moisturise now not just to look dewy, but because I love the ritual. I dye my hair not because I must, but because I decide how I show up.

I wear reading glasses now — and honestly, they make me look like I own three publishing houses and a vineyard.

 

Middle age has also taught me the sacred Igbo art of ịkwụsị nonsense — stopping foolishness before it starts.

Less friends. Less drama. Less “yes” to people who drain you.

Na only God I dey please now.

Because the truth is simple: If you don’t enjoy your life, life will enjoy you. And me? I choose joy — grey hair, itchy foot, reading glasses and all. Middle age may sneak in with its spare key, but these days, I answer the door as Joy herself — moisturised, unbothered, and gloriously grey.

 

To: Ada

Subject: Becoming 

Message: We are no longer that girl — but this version? She’s glorious.

Ada Obiajunwa
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Ada Obiajunwa writes from Lagos about the big truths tucked inside ordinary moments — friendship, self-discovery, and the quiet revolutions of everyday life. She believes in the power of presence, good banter, and decoding the unsaid. Through her fragrance studio, WhiffWonders, she also crafts scents that weave memory and emotion into experiences that feel like home.