Midlife: when the Universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers that she’s through messing around.
~Brene Brown

ICYMI
I shared this story with my inner circle list but wanted to give it a permanent home here on Midlife Joybellion.

Years ago, a woman who lived next door and I had a ritual. We’d walk the neighborhood with her dogs, and she’d tell me about her shifts as a server at a high-end restaurant.

She was in her 40s—a time when many of us start questioning why we are putting up with things that no longer serve us. The restaurant had a toxic environment. The culture protected the high-paying patrons, even when they were inappropriate, and left the staff to just “deal with it.” She was being harassed, she was exhausted, and she felt stuck.

Every time we walked, I’d ask her: “What would you do if there was nothing stopping you?”

She loved the spiritual world, but the path forward was blurry. Eventually, she whispered a possibility: Maybe a yoga teacher certification?

I offered her a “Hell yes.”

Time passed. She got the certificate. She started dreaming bigger. But she was terrified to leave the security of the restaurant money. I spent those walks acting as her “courage surrogate while she built her own.”

I shared my own stories of embracing fear as an actress and filmmaker. I talked about collaborating with the Universe and looking for signs of everyday magic. I mirrored her talents back to her when she couldn’t see them through the fog of a bad shift.

Then, one day, she rang my doorbell. “I did it. I quit.”

I’ll be honest with you—in that moment, I felt a flash of terror. As an HSP, I think I was catching her “leap of faith” adrenaline, but I also felt a heavy weight of responsibility. What if it doesn’t work out? I had encouraged her to jump. I kept that fear to myself and celebrated her courage and commitment to wanting something more in alignment with her truth.

Today? She takes women on yoga retreats all over the world. She didn’t need “fixing.” She just needed someone to hold the light while she found the door.

On February 13, 2026 Saturn moved into Aries for the next two years. The journey my neighbor went through is the type of shift you might experience when Saturn meets up with Aries.

It sets up an environment for us to face our fears, honor our personal agency, and take back our power. Like my neighbor, this transit supports us forging a new path for ourselves.

In astrology, Saturn is the planet of discipline, reality checks and opportunities for self-mastery. Aries is the sign of the pioneer, the bold start, the “I AM.” When these two collide, we’re being prepped for a long-lasting reset.

Given midlife comes with a built-in reset, hello ovarian retirement, this transit feels particularly significant for us. Menopause is about an energetic shift and transformation of identity. I am constantly amazed by midlife women and see this transit, happening until April 2028, as an opportunity to take radical responsibility for our greatness.

This can look like:

• Redefining Your “I AM”: This transit asks us to look at the identities we took on to survive in a broken patriarchal system. Like my neighbor, you might find that roles which once served a purpose—providing structure, safety, or feeding old dreams—now feel like a costume that’s grown too tight. This isn’t about deleting who we’ve been; it’s about bringing to the surface parts of us we may have hidden and shifting from “Who do they need me to be?” to a sovereign “Who do I need me to be?”

• Navigating the Pressure Cooker: Aries brings the fire and Saturn brings the container. In our bodies, this can feel like an intense internal pressure—a restlessness, a sudden “done-ness,” or even the arrival of a holy rage toward the things we used to tolerate. Instead of viewing this tension as a “mood swing” or something to be suppressed, see it as the sacred energy required to propel you forward. This transit is a call to ground yourself in your own truth.

• Building a Foundation for Your Desires: Saturn in Aries isn’t interested in “maybe” or “someday.” It demands that we put real, sturdy scaffolding around our dreams. If you notice areas of your life—the career, a relationship, or your sense of purpose—starting to fall apart, try not to panic. Like my neighbor, her “server” role fell away because it could no longer sustain the “yoga retreat leader” she was becoming. Destruction is necessary so you can build a container big enough to hold the woman you are now.

• The Joybellion Era: This transit mirrors the intense transformation of menopause. While the journey through the portal is often messy and disorienting, I see it as an invitation to stop listening to the “shoulds” of the world and start honoring the whispers of our intuition. It is the challenging, sacred work required to quiet the noise of the mind and commit to an age of enlightenment.

My headless series is meant to serve as a visual reminder of the opportunities that come with this phase of life. When we stop listening to our minds and instead listen to our hearts, anything is possible.

Chani Nicholas describes Saturn in Aries perfectly: “The planet of boundaries and commitment plunges into fiery Aries, where it fans the flames of our boldest passions and ambitions. It’s time to do the thing.”

Take a Joyride

Would you like to listen to a free private podcast I created just for us? It’s called The Joyride, and it explores the journey toward an age of enlightenment while diving deeper into the “how-to” of living this way.

LISTEN TO THE JOYRIDE

Save the Date: June 8th

My book, Joybellion: Transforming Midlife Insignificance Into Freedom, Power, and Everyday Magic, arrives on June 8th. If you feel a “ping” in your heart to support the book and this mission, I’d be so grateful if you’d help me spread the word as the launch approaches.

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach.

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond.

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes.’

• Upgrade to a paid subscription to fuel the movement and keep it free for everyone.

• Leave a one-time tip by buying me a matcha latte 🍵.

To the Joybellion. 🤸🏽‍♀️ ✊🏽

I’m obsessed with the idea of women going on strike.

To be more specific, a midlife strike—where women between 45 and 65 just… stop.

Why?

Because society has a messed-up way of devaluing us. We’re expected to provide domestic labor without getting paid. Then, the minute we can’t pop out babies, they also deem us invisible. BUT being invisible doesn’t relieve us of the labor; we’re expected to keep providing that in perpetuity.

It’s pretty audacious to be made invisible while being the ones who keep everything running smoothly.

JOIN THE JOYBELLION

I don’t want to fight for a seat at a table where no one sees or hears us. But I do love the idea of remembering how powerful we are by withdrawing our presence: the quiet strike. This is what mythic Goddesses do, by the way. They withdraw their favor and wait for the world to notice the chill.

If you’re asking what a quiet strike might look like, we have examples in art and history to draw from.

There’s Lysistrata, the classic Greek comedy where women withhold sex from their husbands until they find a peaceful resolution to the war.

I borrowed that premise and plopped it into a modern-day scenario for a short film I shot a few years back called Lysistrata 2.0. It was fun to use sex and humor to look at the potential impact the feminine mystique could have on our democracy.

NSFW Warning: Mature themes. Stay tuned for voter registration details at the end of the film.

In real life, we can turn back to October 24, 1975, when the women of Iceland staged the ultimate “Quiet Strike.” Although for legal reasons they called it “Women’s Day Off” (Kvennafrí).

Imagine 90% of the women in the country just walking out. 25,000 women—more than 10% of the entire country’s population—stood together in the square in Reykjavík.

Nurseries and schools closed. Men had to take their kids to work. Telephone service was crippled. Flights got canceled.

In my book Joybellion, I call this playing two games.

The first game is the one the status quo forces us to play—where we’re told we’re insignificant once we’ve fallen outside their narrow definitions of value. We play this game out of necessity but we also play to understand their rules so we can bend them, break them, and ultimately rewrite them in a second game.

The second game is what I call the Game of (In)significance. In this game, we make the rules. We stop looking for validation from a system that doesn’t see us and, instead, we turn that energy inward. We prioritize self-trust and our own ease and let the old system figure it out without us. It’s a goddess move.

The Icelandic women played a second game. They didn’t have to shout; they just stopped. And within five years, Iceland had the world’s first democratically elected female president.

SUBSCRIBE TO MIDLIFE JOYBELLION

Back to the present moment: perhaps a national strike is a big ask, but we could quiet strike in our own small corners of the world. Wouldn’t it be great, instead of being invisible, to consciously choose to disappear?

We could gather in parks on picnic blankets, munching on goodies, talking about frivolous things. A simple sign in the grass states our resistance: a hand held up in a firm “stop” with the words “Do Not Disturb.” We could take naps on our blankets because we feel safe surrounded by our own.

I’ve seen this kind of shift work in real life. My mom was a traditional housewife, but somewhere in her 50s or 60s, she decided she was done driving. In a suburb where you had to drive to get a gallon of milk, this was a massive shift.

If you’d told me my dad—”the breadwinner”—would take over the food gathering duties, I wouldn’t have believed you. But my mom shifted her behavior, and the world around her had to adjust.

If you’ve hung with me for any length of time, you know I believe ease is a midlife woman’s earned right.

The cultural messaging bombards us with the idea that our contributions are valueless. But when we stop, the world wobbles. It’s a classic gaslight: being told we don’t matter as we hold the roof up. The logic is illogical.

Taking a “Day Off” is about reclaiming the freedom and power everyone, including ourselves, seems to have forgotten we have. It’s about putting us back in the seat of our agency.

Plus, as a bonus, we get to rest.

If stopping is hard for you (like it is for me), try starting with C+ labor. That’s slightly above average, and in a world that expects A++ from us, C+ is an act of joybellion.

But, if we want to change the world, if we want liberation, the most potent way to do it is to change ourselves. We don’t change ourselves because there’s something wrong with us. We change to shift our behavior in the direction of the world we want to live in.

My invitation to us? Make insisting on ease our most radical act.

I’ll bring the picnic blanket. See you in the grass.

If you were going to quietly strike, what is the first thing you would stop doing? It doesn’t have to be reasonable by the way. :)

Have you checked out The Joyride? It’s a free private podcast series for women in midlife who are done living by everyone else’s rules and ready to make their own.

TAKE THE JOYRIDE

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach.

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond.

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes.’

• Upgrade to a paid subscription to fuel the movement and keep it free for everyone.

• Leave a one-time tip by buying me a matcha latte 🍵.

To the Joybellion. 🤸🏽‍♀️ ✊🏽

There are many ways to draw magic into your world.

Listening to your intuition, staying curious and being open to the unexplaiable—they all make serendipity more likely to show up.

The Universe is talking to us all the time, but modern life can make it hard to hear her. I’ve felt most in sync with the Universe while on vacation in “relax mode”. But while that’s lovely, 90% of my life takes place in crazy-busy, everyday land.

I want magic in everyday land.

My favorite way to draw magic to me is by communicating with the Great Beyond . I like to call these interactions ”Text Messages from the Universe.” They are those brief moments in daily life where you feel tapped in, guided by something greater than yourself. Catching these small pings is how we slip into our flow before the Universe has to stage an intervention.

Some messages are clear. Others make no sense in the moment, but feel like a nudge to pay attention for future reference. The “texts” range from simple to soul-shaking. All of them make life feel like more of a wondrous journey.

Today I share a couple of stories I’ve collected over the years.

I hope they inspire you to look for Text Messages from the Universe in your own life.

SUSCRIBE FOR MORE MAGIC

Aloof in the Grocery Store

“Can I ask you a question?” she said.

I was in a public place, the grocery store.

By default I put on my aloof face when around humans I don’t know.

But as this young woman approached me, I felt a familiar nudge.

Stay open.

“Would you help me get some groceries?” she asked.

She wasn’t asking for money. She already had a few things in a cart by the cash registers and took me to see.

I invited her to get in line and paid once the cashier rang her up.

She thanked me then turned to the cashier to confirm it was okay for her to leave.

As I continued shopping, I wondered: Why had she asked me?

I tend to come across as unapproachable in public. I embrace this about myself. It helps me feel safe. But as I filled my grocery cart, a whisper bypassed my defenses: You like being of service more than being aloof, the Universe reminded me. Moments of being approachable in public can be an act of service.

The Cosmic Crash

As the year came to a close I felt a rising tide of anxiety. I couldn’t put my finger on the “why,” so I did what I always do when I’m uneasy: I worked.

The Universe had other ideas.

I was mentally and emotionally drained. I told friends I was getting hints that I needed to stop for a minute. Just stop.

We all have our weaknesses. Mine is stopping.

I brushed it off. I tried to reason with the void. Okay, okay, I thought. I just need to deal with this and this. And maybe this. Then I’ll take a break.

The anxiety got louder as the New Year began.

One morning, I headed out in a rush, late for a meeting.

I made a left onto the busy street in front of my house. The next thing I knew my horn was blaring, my hazard lights were flashing and the computer in my dashboard was calling 911.

I’d smashed into the side of a car.

I was stopped. Literally.

Thankfully I walked away. My car did not fare so well. Talk about a strong love tap from the Universe.

Check Your Inbox

We each have a unique language with the Universe. Sometimes it’s shows up through mystifying encounters, other times it’s an earth-shattering event, and often it’s simply an unexplainable feeling.

I’m curious—have you checked your text messages lately?

Shake Your Booty in LaLa

If you’re looking for a sign to get out of your head and into your body, here it is. I’m hosting my first women-only daytime disco. The tunes are ready. The disco ball has been hung.

We’re dancing from 4-7 PM—plenty of time to catch the magic and still be in your pajamas, hydrated, and scrolling through the great photos of the day by 8:30 PM.

If you’re in Los Angeles and want to come get your groove on, DM me and I’ll share the details.

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach.

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond.

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes.’

• Upgrade to a paid subscription to fuel the movement and keep it free for everyone.

• Leave a one-time tip by buying me a matcha latte.

To the Joybellion. 🤸🏽‍♀️ ✊🏽

I recently came across a viral post titled “Menopause: One Man’s Guide to Not Being a Complete C*nt.” It got a lot of traction. On the surface, it looks like a man finally “getting it.” He tells men to shut up, be useful, and acknowledge that their partners are going through hell.

But as I read it, I didn’t feel seen. I felt used. This piece wasn’t about us. It was about how he looks for “dealing” with us.

It’s scary for me to write this because people loved that post. But I’ve made a commitment to listen to my gut instead of the masses, and my gut said nope.

When I asked myself why, I realized I was reacting to the subtle gaslighting that messes with us on a subconscious level. This piece implies we are still the problem to be navigated and managed.

Can we start with the title?

”Menopause: One Man’s Guide to Not Being a Complete C*nt”

A trending term about midlife women gets put together with patriarchal vocabulary to describe “bad” behavior. Do we really want men supporting us who think it’s okay to use our own bodies as a slur to benefit their edgy writing?

This is such a pet peeve of mine I mention an experience I have with a man using that word as a descriptive in my upcoming book Joybellion - Transforming Midlife Insignificance into Freedom, Power, and Everyday Magic.

As someone who is a huge fan of swearing, I don’t believe in censoring people, but when you use that word, it tells me something about you and I proceed accordingly.

The post describes menopause as a “biological coup” where your:

“...sweet, loving partner transforms into a sleepless, rage-fueled enigma who might stab you for breathing too loud.”

This is how we are trained to silence ourselves. The idea that the “sweet and loving” version of us is the goal, and the “rage-fueled” version is a glitch, is a lie.

Here’s my truth: For decades, women are biologically and socially wired to be the shock absorbers of the world. Estrogen is the great “squelcher.” It helps us play nice, keep the peace, and suppress our own needs to ensure everyone else is fed, happy, and comfortable.

When those hormones recede, the “peace-maker” leaves the building. The rage isn’t “new.” It’s a backlog. It’s decades of suppressed feelings, ignored boundaries, and invisible labor finally bubbling to the surface because we no longer have the chemical incentive to stay quiet. He calls it an apocalypse, I call it a long-overdue accounting.

The author suggests the “sacred” secret to partnership is:

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Your only job here is to not be a f@cking twat... offer snacks.”

Is that really the goal? To just be a silent bystander who “treads lightly” and “backs away slowly”? Newsflash… Conflict avoidance is not partnership.

It reminds me of an experience I had in my mid twenties. After a traumatizing experience at a pro-life center, I went home where my dad was the only one around. I was distraught and he had no idea how to handle my raw emotions. So he did the only thing he knew. He suggested I sit down and “have a hamburger” with him.

In hindsight, it warms my heart. It was his clumsy way of saying “I’m here.” But the fact was my dad couldn’t hold space for me emotionally.

Offering food is low-hanging fruit. When the original post tells men to “just hide in another room” or “offer a snack,” it gives them permission to stay emotionally stunted.

JOIN THE JOYBELLION

Women have been the primary caregivers for centuries. When a partner is sick, or a parent is aging, we don’t “go for a long walk” until the weather is warmer. We dive in. We learn what the other person needs before they even ask.

We don’t need “low-hanging fruit.” We need the same level of emotional intelligence we’ve provided for everyone else for eons.

The author does acknowledge that women have spent decades “holding things together,” but he misses the why.

We didn’t do it because we are naturally more noble or tireless. We held it together as a survival mechanism. We were taught from day one that our safety, our value, and our belonging depended on our ability to maintain the status quo. We have spent years fearing our own destruction if we dared to stop performing the role the world assigned us.

He says,

“She’s stepping into a new version of herself, one that doesn’t have time for bullshit... Respect it.”

I appreciate the nod to our power, but then he undercuts it by saying:

“She’s saving that fucking ammo for just the right moment.”

No. It’s not “ammo.” It’s memory. It’s the clarity of finally seeing the “subtle” ways we’ve been gaslit and told we were overreacting when things felt “off.” We aren’t looking for a fight; we’re looking for the exit sign in the ‘go along to get along’ room. I’ve spent time in there, and frankly, the wallpaper is hideous.

I’m not saying he shouldn’t have written the post. It’s actually an important piece of writing because it shows just how deep the roots go. Even when a man tries to acknowledge our journey, he can’t help but frame it from the perspective of the status quo.

Menopause is Mother Nature giving us the opportunity for a biological jailbreak. The estrogen dip gifts us the clarity to see exactly who we are and what we want.

We’ve paid our debt to the human race. Popped out babies, cared for others.

This is a rite of passage. It is the birth of the Crone. We are becoming the wise women who no longer have time for nonsense as we are initiated into serving the greater good.

It is the same thing that happens with Orcas; the grandmothers become the leaders who hold the memory and the map for the entire pod. We shift into a perspective that impacts the world because we are the ones who finally hold the wisdom for what best serves it.

Learning to see our anger as a messenger is an important part of our menopause transformation.

When we stop viewing our rage as a symptom to be suppressed, we can start using it as a guide. It’s the voice that finally tells us to speak up when our doctor isn’t listening to us. It’s the energy that helps us stop letting our kids—or our partner—run all over us. It means that when our rage bubbles up, we don’t immediately follow it with an apology. We recognize it as a signal that something in our life needs to change.

I’m hosting a mini-workshop called Holy Rage that celebrates your anger and helps you use it as fuel for the life you want to live. It’s going to be fun and freeing.

Join the waitlist here

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach.

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond.

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes.’

• Upgrade to a paid subscription to fuel the movement and keep it free for everyone.

• Leave a one-time tip by buying me a matcha latte.

To the Joybellion. 🤸🏽‍♀️ ✊🏽

One of the places magic often shows up for me is on my neighborhood walks. Being out in the elements, letting the sky do whatever it’s going to do is a freeing experience.

It’s my sanctuary. Until it isn’t.

JOIN THE JOYBELLION

I was taking in the California sunshine, listening to the birds get excited about spring coming, when I spotted a man by a bush.

My first thought—because I am a person who prefers to believe the best of humanity, or at least the most mundane—was: Oh, he’s peeing. A classic, if slightly uncouth, outdoor activity. But as the distance between us closed, his arm movements suggested something far more... industrious. He wasn’t emptying his bladder; he was, quite efficiently, jacking off in the mid-afternoon sun I had just moments before been enjoying.

Now, according to the Standard Manual for Being a Woman in Public, this is the part where I should have executed a crisp 180-degree turn, perhaps while using the move I learned in kung fu class that turns my middle finger knuckle into a defense weapon.

Although I did feel a pang of fear, what engulfed me was a wave of profound, soul-deep irritation. The irritation wasn’t about him. It was about navigating the decades of social conditioning rushing to the surface. I found myself in defense mode before there was even a confirmed threat.

Midlife and the estrogen dip that comes with it means the patience for having my space invaded by these old scripts is at an all-time low. I was so damn tired of my default response being to accommodate someone else’s needs over my own.

This dude by the bush was right in the path of my “freedom walk”. I had committed to walking the hill just past him. I wanted that hill. Why did his “afternoon activity” have to become my logistics problem?

I decided it didn’t. I was not going to listen to the frantic “safety protocols” in my head, I was going to listen to the truth in my gut and stay the course.

GET FREE

As I got closer to him, I didn’t see a predator. I saw a young Black man who was homeless and clearly struggling. My discomfort shifted immediately into a deep, heavy wave of compassion. Because let’s be real: in the world we live in, a Black man in a mental health crisis doing that in public is a recipe for a tragedy I didn’t want to witness.

So, I didn’t avoid, I leaned in and spoke.

“Dude, what are you doing? You can’t do that here. You’re going to get in trouble. Seriously, stop doing that.”

With zero aggression and in a voice so meek and polite it caught me completely off guard, he simply said: “Thank you.”

I started up the hill—the climb felt like a strange physical reflection of the work I had just done to hold onto my right to stay on my chosen route.

But as I reached the top, I realized I had just experienced a bit of everyday magic. Usually, magic is all sunbeams and sparkles, but sometimes it’s gritty and awkward.

By staying on my path and speaking up, I claimed my freedom and gave the young man by the bush a moment of raw, human honesty. His “thank you” was the spark—a tiny, strange bridge built between two people just trying to survive the afternoon.

It was a moment of connection that still left me sitting with the heavy part: How the hell do we actually get free when we live in a culture that does not make women’s safety a priority?

If we let the reality of that lack of safety dictate every choice we make, we lose pieces of ourselves—the right to walk where we want, dress how we want, and speak our truth. But fighting for that freedom every single day is labor. It’s heavy. It shouldn’t be this much work just to exist.

I don’t have the answer to how we dismantle a society that doesn’t prioritize our safety, but I know that choosing to live below the neck—where I can listen to my heart and follow my intuition—is how I find the courage to choose freedom over accommodation.

Speaking of freedom…

One of the ways I’m reclaiming mine is by creating spaces where we don’t have to “work” to feel safe or liberated. Places where we can just be.

I’m hosting a no cost Daytime Disco in my urban garden on Saturday, March 21st to celebrate the Spring Equinox. We’re reclaiming the high-energy magic of a night out, just… without the actual night part.

If you’re a woman in midlife and in Los Angeles or will be in town on March 21st, I’d love to see you there. DM me and I’ll send over the deets.

The Joybellion wants to hear from you: Where do you feel most free? What stories do you have about navigating the tension between safety and freedom? Leave a comment below.

New here? This is a gathering place for disobedient women in midlife. Ditch people-pleasing, reclaim your power. No self-help—just self-liberation and magic.

CHOOSE SELF-LIBERATION

I am a huge sports fan. To me, watching sports is like watching an exaggerated version of life. While the physical aspect is vital, it’s the mental side that gets deep—mimicking how the tie between our thoughts and our actions directly impacts the final outcome.

This brings me to the U.S. men’s Olympic hockey team. They’ve been getting a lot of heat for those painful videos of their gold medal celebration—specifically, a phone call with the current occupant of the White House. My heart dropped watching them engage in behavior that demeaned their female counterparts.

It was especially disappointing because we saw those same men cheering in the stands for the women’s team just days prior. There is a glaring disconnect between what many of these athletes likely feel in their hearts and how they choose to behave when “locker room” pressure is on.

Society loves to dismiss this as “locker room talk”—a trope suggesting this behavior is okay because it isn’t “real world” life. But the truth is, the locker room is a micro-example of attitudes that bleed into our daily lives. It’s a tool used to justify degrading behavior and gaslight women into thinking their discomfort isn’t valid.

But here is where I want to turn the mirror on all of us.

This behavior isn’t isolated to male locker rooms. I see it every day in subtle social interactions. When someone makes an off-putting or offensive comment or says something we disagree with, our natural default is to want to fit in.

To avoid conflict, we often:

• Stay silent to “go with the flow”.

• Offer a fake chuckle or a brief “yeah, yeah” to indicate we are “with them,” even if our hearts are elsewhere.

• Wait for someone else to lead before we find the courage to speak our own truth.

While we can rightfully call out those hockey players for not standing up to a powerful figure—and hold a special kind of fire for the ones who see nothing wrong with shitting on women—we have to ask: Are we willing to be brave and speak up in our own daily interactions?

To be clear, I am not suggesting that a polite chuckle at a dinner party is the same as the toxic, systemic disparaging of women found in a locker room.

However, those smaller social moments are the fertile ground where harmful behavior takes root. If we want to dismantle the culture that makes the locker room possible, we have to stop watering the weeds in our own daily lives.

Join the Joybellion

I think midlife women are one of the best equipped to be brave and say “Yes!” when asked to speak up in our daily lives.

As our estrogen dips and we enter our “zero f*cks” era, we have a unique opportunity:

• To speak freely without the paralyzing fear of what others think.

• To be the example for younger women who are still in stages of life where speaking up may feel dangerous.

Not to mention we are a “badass cohort” carrying decades of wisdom and the scars of navigating a patriarchal society.

When we choose “locker room behavior,” we are living in survival mode—trapped in our heads, overthinking social consequences, and strategizing how to fit in. But when we act from our values and who we truly are, we move out of the head and into the heart and our intuition.

This is why I’ve made the headless woman the midlife woman’s mascot.

To reclaim our power, we have to stop listening to the logical “politeness” of the brain and start trusting the wild honesty of the gut. I call it The Sacred Art of Self-Decapitation, a joybellious act to stay sane in a world that insists we are untrustworthy.

A Joybellion is Here

This isn’t about “teaching” others; it’s about making our own lives more authentic. By choosing honesty over comfort, we become the spark—the example just by being. This is how we shift culture on the down-low at a grassroots level—through small, daily moments of honesty.

This is at the heart of my upcoming book, Joybellion: Transforming Midlife Insignificance into Freedom, Power, and Everyday Magic.

When the outside world tries to define our worth, we respond with joy and rebellion. A joybellion happens when intuitive courage meets quiet disobedience. We trust our intuition—however we experience it—and have the courage to follow her lead. That’s joy. Giving the status quo a low-key middle finger? That’s rebellion.

The men in that locker room chose the path of least resistance. We don’t have to. We have the experience, the resilience, and—frankly—the lack of patience to finally call out the “locker room talk” wherever we hear it.

Get Midlife Joybellion in your Inbox

Are You Pissed?

There are so many “locker room” situations we have to navigate as women it can leave us simmering with rage.

Rarely, if I get into a deep conversation with a fellow midlife woman, do I not encounter her anger.

It pains me and I love it.

It pains me knowing when women swallow their anger it contributes to our dis-ease.

I love it because anger coming to the surface means we can use it as fuel to address what the anger is telling us.

If having a safe space to express what pisses you off so you can turn it into liberation and authentic action speaks to you, join the waitlist for my upcoming Holy Rage workshop. It’s going to be fun and emotionally freeing.

I WANT TO TURN MY RAGE INTO FUEL

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach.

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond.

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes.’

• Upgrade to a paid subscription to fuel the movement and keep it free for everyone.

• Leave a one-time tip by buying me a matcha latte.

To the Joybellion. 🤸🏽‍♀️✊🏽

I’m not a fan of over-hyping things, but seriously, this could change your life.

I shot a video a few years ago telling the story of how this 15-second ritual came to be. I’m bringing the video back today because it is perfect for us—with our busy lives, we need simple. The only thing it requires is being consistent and staying open-minded.

I remember feeling so stuck until I stumbled onto this idea of “conspiring with the universe.” At first, I thought there was no way it could work on a regular basis, but I’ve since made “everyday magic” my new norm.

Since making the video, I’ve used this for so many things. Case in point: my old commercial agent decided it would be a good idea to start embezzling the residual money he was collecting for his clients.

I was out thousands of dollars. Instead of spiraling, I tapped into my intuition to figure out the best way to ask for the money I was owed. Once the request was out there, I sat back and said a version of the prayer I share in the video over, and over, and over again. Out of the blue, the agent called me up and told me he had a cashier’s check waiting for me.

Here’s the mantra I used:

Let me release my karma with my agent by forgiving him and myself.
Free me from any anger and resentment.
You alone are my source for support and abundance.
All my finances are fully wrapped in divine order.

Do you know I was one of very few who actually got their money!

It’s hard to trust things we can’t fully explain, but I’ve found life is so much more magical when you let the “unexplained” play a part.

Watch the video to see how this works. (feel free to watch at double-speed if you’re short on time).

If you decide to try it, share the prayer you create in the comments so we can all say it for you and tap into the power of the collective.

Join the Collective

P.S. This practice was inspired by the incredible work of Tosha Silver. If you want to dive deeper into this way of “conspiring with the universe,” I highly recommend her books Outrageous Openness: Letting the Divine Take the Lead and Change Me Prayers. They are the perfect foundation for anyone looking to bring more of this magic into their daily life.

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach.

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond.

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes.’

• Upgrade to a paid subscription to fuel the movement and keep it free for everyone.

• Leave a one-time tip by buying me a matcha latte.

The “Quiet Revolution” starts here:

Dominique and I sat down to talk about the things women are usually told to keep quiet—our desires, our exhaustion, and that “never-ending” anger we’re supposed to pretend isn’t there. We’re ditching the scripts, giving the finger to the status quo, and figuring out how to turn our rage into the fuel we need to actually be free.

Here’s the breakdown of what we covered:

• Tossing Out the Scripts: We laughed about how we’ve been conditioned to accept tropes—like the “physically imposing man”—that center the male experience while leaving our own pleasure and desires in the dust.

• The Bedroom vs. The Boardroom: Dominique explained her “behind closed doors” theory: that the power dynamics we deal with in our most intimate spaces are actually linked to the same power struggles we face in the outside world.

• Rage Woven into DNA: We talked about a powerful story where a woman realized her rage wasn’t just a mood—it was woven into her DNA. We’ve been trained to be “nice,” but holding that fire in is literally making us sick.

• Holy Rage as Soul Food: I shared why I created my Holy Rage workshop—it’s a safe space to stop apologizing for our anger and start metabolizing it into fuel for our own liberation.

• Dominique’s Impolite Society: Dominique introduced us to Impolite Society her “Romance and Revolutionary Practice Learning Guild.” It’s a space where highly sensitive warriors use romance novels as a gateway to have “impolite” conversations about gender, power, and shifting the culture.

• The Quiet Revolution: We agreed that for women who are already exhausted by life’s labor, the best way to rebel is often through a “quiet revolution”—starting with our own minds and the communities we build together.

Kai’s mini workshop: Holy Rage

Subscribe to Midlife Joybellion

Dominique’s Impolite Society

Subscribe to The Fictive Kin Equity Chronicles

Let’s chat in the comments:

1. That “DNA” comment really hit home for us. Does your rage ever feel like it’s part of your cellular makeup? How does that show up for you?

2. Where in your life are you currently “giving the finger” to the status quo—or where are you itching to start?

3. We talked about “quiet revolutions.” What is one small, “impolite” thing you’ve done lately that made you feel more like yourself?

When you were a kid, did your mother ever threaten to wash your mouth out with soap if she caught you swearing?

I’d like to suggest we bring that back—metaphorically, of course. To be clear, I’m not talking about four-letter words; I love those. I’m talking about the language we use to describe human behavior. Specifically, the language we use as a weapon against ourselves.

The status quo is a sneaky little thing. It lives in our metaphors. It’s so entrenched that even the people we admire most—the ones literally fighting the power—still use the power’s dictionary.

I am a total fangirl of congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. She is brilliant, fierce, and a beacon of hope. So, when I saw a clip of her being asked about the public falling out between Donald Trump and Elon Musk where she responded with a smirk and the phrase, “Oh man, the girls are fighting,” I had to take a minute.

I was hurt. I was insulted. And then I was fascinated.

Think about the mechanics of that insult: to demean two of the most powerful egomaniacs on the planet, we reach for a trope that equates “girlhood” with “pettiness.” It shows you just how deep the patriarchal rot goes when even our heroes use women as a shorthand for “weak” or “ridiculous.”

This isn’t about “bad people,” it’s about a bad operating system that we’ve all downloaded. We’ve been conditioned to think that when men act like entitled, temperamental toddlers, the best way to insult them is to call them “girls.” I mean, really?! Nothing could be more of an insult to girls than comparing them to those two.

Once we start seeing the status quo for what it is—a system that does not have our best interests at heart—we can give it the middle finger. Then we can nurture our relationship with our fear, our courage, and our intuition to create a better operating system.

These relationships are the keys to living our truth and are at the core of what I call a Joybellion. As I write in my upcoming book, Joybellion: Transforming Midlife Insignificance into Freedom, Power, and Everyday Magic:

“When the outside world tries to define our worth, we respond with joy and rebellion. A joybellion happens when intuitive courage meets quiet disobedience. We trust our intuition—however we experience it—and have the courage to follow her lead. That’s joy. Giving the status quo a low-key middle finger? That’s rebellion.”

We’ve been living upside down. We’ve been conditioned to fear our own power, and our language reflects that. The other day it hit me that I’ve been referring to genitalia an awful lot in my writing. The realization freaked me out until I sat with it. My intuition was guiding me to these words as a direct response to a system that throws these symbols in our faces as shorthands for strength and weakness.

Let’s look at the biology, shall we? Pussies are stronger than balls, people. One is designed to bring life into the world through an incredible feat of endurance and expansion; the other shrinks if it gets hit by a cool breeze. Yet, we use “pussy” as a synonym for weak and “having balls” as a synonym for courage. It’s a linguistic scam! When we use language this way, we devalue women so that those in control can stay in power.

It’s time to reach for the soap.

Questioning language is a form of protest. How are we supposed to strive for a world of mutual respect when we use our own gender as a punching bag?

You might think, “It’s just a phrase, what’s the big deal?” But language is the architecture of our reality. It’s pervasive. It’s powerful. The day after I heard AOC use that phrase, I was on a workshop call with a woman I consider a spiritual, progressive feminist. She repeated AOC’s comment. The virus had spread.

So, let’s kill the virus:

The Mess: Go about your day and notice what’s messy—where language is used to minimize or degrade others. Spot it in the media; commercials provide endless opportunities to see men portrayed as bumbling idiots and women as nagging caretakers. Look for these tropes in your casual conversations.

The Soap: When you hear comments like “the girls are fighting” or “don’t be a pussy,” mentally (or out loud, if you’re feeling spicy) reject it. Wash that phrase out and replace it with the truth.

I personally like replacing “grow some balls” with “grow a pussy.”

Shaping culture toward the light is as simple—and as difficult—as being aware of the words we choose. It’s how we detach from the status quo’s verbal conditioning and strengthen our relationship with self. Let’s stop demeaning the very strength we need to save the world.

I’m curious: What’s a phrase you’re ready to wash out with soap? Or better yet—what’s your favorite ‘Joybellious’ replacement for a status quo trope?

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach.

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond.

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes.’

• Upgrade to a paid subscription to fuel the movement and keep it free for everyone.

• Leave a one-time tip by buying me a coffee.

It is a reclamation of our lives.

Last week, I talked about the mascot for midlife women: the headless woman. This week, the patriarchy’s mascot takes center stage.

This rant was sparked by an episode of Dying for Sex. During a sexual encounter, a man drops his pants to reveal he is very well-endowed. I was instantly irritated. Whenever a man’s anatomy is highlighted, it’s always the same: larger-than-life, practically glowing, and presented as if all the pleasure hinges on his dimensions.

I mentioned this to Dominique, creator of The Fictive Kin Chronicles and Impolite Society: A Romance & Revolutionary Practice Learning Guild. In the countless romance novels she’s read, a visualized man is almost always a “big” man.

As one commenter of this reel put it: “Damn, I want romance, not death.”

Funny? Yes. But the metaphor goes deeper than a poorly written romance novel. The big penis is a disturbingly accurate metaphor for the societal “shoulds” we’re expected to smile through. They tend to be:

• Loud and over-celebrated.

• Centered in the story, even when they aren’t actually helpful or the main character.

• Assumed to be impressive just by existing.

When we prioritize these “big” cultural prizes over our own needs, something has to give. Usually, it’s us. We trade our vitality for their validation, watching parts of our own identity die to make room for norms we never even asked for.

If you’re also winning prizes you didn’t want, subscribe to Midlife Joybellion.

Join MIdlife Joybellion

Let’s be honest: the “big penis” trope is less about biology and more about psychological warfare. If men are freaking out over whether they’re “enough” and women are managing fragile egos (and pelvic floors), no one has the energy to ask for things like respect, emotional safety, or here’s a wild idea, actual pleasure. It keeps everyone massaging the wrong prize.

It’s one of many cultural stories we swallow without question. The ones that insist:

• You’re not successful without a mortgage.

• You’re not fulfilled without motherhood.

• You’re not attractive unless you’re thin, young, and filtered.

• You’re past your prime at 40, 50, or 60—so be grateful for any crumbs of attention.

Same energy, different script.

By midlife, living by these rules becomes untenable. We’ve been performing the emotional, domestic, and sexual labor of “keeping the peace” for decades. That scene in Dying for Sex was the opening to a larger conversation about the status quo “standards” placed upon us. At some point, “that’s just how it is” became a collective lullaby, putting us to sleep at the wheel of our own lives while the best parts of us slowly wither in the backseat.

What if we scrutinized each cultural norm the way we would an unsolicited dick pic:

• Did I ask for this?

• Is this actually for my benefit?

• Do I want to keep seeing it, or is it time to hit delete?

Big penises are not the be-all, end-all. Neither is the house, the baby, the body, the job title, or whatever else culture is currently waving in our faces as proof of worth. We’re wildly overqualified to challenge these scripts and ask if they actually work for us because we’ve lived long enough to see how often they fail us.

Midlife isn’t the epilogue—it’s the rewrite. We’re not here to politely clap for someone else’s fantasy of our lives. We’re here to author our own, one joyful act of rebellion at a time. I call it a Joybellion.

Wanna be a part of the Joybellion? This isn't just a rant; it's a practice. If you’re ready to channel your rebellion into something transformative, come to Holy Rage—a mini-workshop designed to prioritize our liberation over "keeping the peace."

FUEL MY LIBERATION

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach.

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond.

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes.’

• Upgrade to a paid subscription to fuel the movement and keep it free for everyone.

• Leave a one-time tip by buying me a coffee.

A few years ago, a friend and I stumbled upon an art exhibit that stopped us cold.The entire collection was headless women. No faces, no eyes—just silenced bodies. We didn’t even have to look at each other to know the answer: Absolutely not.

I could feel a familiar, heavy mix of weariness and rage bubbling up.

When women see images like this we don’t need to discuss it we know what it represents. A patriarchal society that loves to turn women into parts to be consumed, bodies devoid of humanity.

The only thing my girlfriend and I said to each other was “nope,” and we moved on.

But the image stayed with me. I often get intuitive hits just as I’m waking up in the morning. The next day a wild visual dropped in.

A headless woman, smiling, holding her own head like a purse. My heart skipped a beat in equal parts fear and curiosity.

My first thought was, “WTF?”

My second thought was, “Nope.”

My third thought was, “Damn it.”

I know when I get hits from my intuition it is at my own peril if I don’t listen to them.

That download led to the headless women making an appearance in my upcoming book Joybellion: Transforming Midlife Insignificance Into Freedom, Power, and Everyday Magic. She is the mascot my intuition chose for women in midlife.

You may be reacting like I did when I saw that artist’s collection of headless women, but hear me out.

The patriarchal version of the headless woman is an object. She’s fragmented, dehumanized, chopped into pieces for someone else’s pleasure. A vibe we’ve had to navigate for decades.

Our version of the headless woman is the opposite. She is a symbol of defiance, wildness, and wholeness. She has found her head and holds it close like a favorite purse.

She chooses to live below the neck so her heart and body lead the way.

Her detached head is the mind and ego in their rightful place—important, but no longer in charge.

And honestly, in the times we’re living in, this feels less like an edgy metaphor and more like a survival strategy.

We’re swimming in a culture that is actively trying to scramble our brains:

endless information, hot takes, outrage cycles, polarizing headlines, fear, drama. It’s like the entire system is designed to keep us spinning above the neck, disconnected from our bodies where creative solutions wait to guide us through this mess.

Because here’s the thing: your body always knows.

Your mind can be convinced that shit is gold if the story sounds good and is repeated often enough.

Your body can’t be swindled.

Why the head has to come off (kind of)

When I say “headless,” I don’t mean lobotomized. I’m not anti-mind. I love my mind. She is clever, organized, a total egomaniac who believes she runs the show and would like a gold star for surviving decades of patriarchy.

But the mind is also where most of our conditioning lives:

all the “shoulds,” all the ways we contort ourselves to be liked, palatable, non-threatening.

The mind is a brilliant defense attorney for the status quo.

The body, on the other hand, doesn’t do debate. The mind is an egomaniac; the heart is a truthmaniac.

It does sensations. Tight chest. Nausea. A lump in the throat. A full-body yes. A dead-weight no.

So I started playing with the idea of self-decapitation as a sacred, midlife move.

Not someone else taking our head (that’s violence).

Us choosing to set it to the side for a moment. On purpose.

I see the headless woman holding her own head like a purse. At first it’s a full-sized purse—because we still rely heavily on our minds. As we learn to live more rooted in our bodies, the purse gets smaller, like a clutch. We keep it because we need it, but it doesn’t run us anymore.

Look, I know how this sounds and looks. I am essentially pitching self-decapitation as a wellness strategy. It’s weird, it’s a little dark, and it’s definitely "out there." But that’s the magic of it: my visual turned a painful, rage-inducing symbol into a private joke and a quiet revolution.

Are you pissed?

We’re living in an era where:

• Women’s rights are being rolled back.

• The older a woman gets the more disposable she becomes unless she makes herself useful or ornamental.

• The systems around us insist we be logical, reasonable, calm, and endlessly forgiving in the face of deep harm or be shamed.

And then there’s us: midlife women whose hormones have stopped smoothing out the edges of our feelings.

These days I rarely chat with a woman in midlife who, at some point during our conversation, doesn’t express some level of anger.

We’re tired of being dismissed and we’re tired of being “good sports” about it.

From the neck up, we can talk ourselves into staying small:

“It’s not that bad.”

“I should be grateful.”

“I don’t want to rock the boat.”

From the neck down, our bodies are screaming, “I have no more fucks to give.”

The world does not need more women trapped in their heads running cost–benefit analyses on whether it’s safe to tell the truth.

The world needs more women rooted in their bodies, in their holy rage, in their love, in their refusal to pretend that harm is harmony.

Living below the neck

Another girlfriend and I often chuckle about our type A personalities that default to thinking instead of being.

We constantly remind each other to live below the neck.

That’s the motto for the headless woman:

Live below the neck. Act from below the neck. Speak from below the neck.

Practically, that looks like:

• Before I respond, I pause and ask: what is my body saying about this? Tightening or opening?

• When I feel anger rise, instead of shutting it down, I get curious: what truth is this anger bringing to the surface?

• When I have a big decision, I imagine letting my chest, gut, and intuition weigh in first. Then I look into my head purse and let my mind help with the logistics—not the verdict.

I can’t stop seeing this as a whole little era we’re in:

We’re not striving to be good girls in midlife. We’re entering our Headless Woman era. It’s also an exhilarating reclamation.

The World Needs Your Holy Rage

I keep hearing midlife women say, “They have no more fucks to give.” And underneath that, I sense a river of anger trying to find a healthy outlet.

I’m launching, Holy Rage, a mini-workshop specifically for the midlife woman who is done being “reasonable.”

We’re going to learn the art of living below the neck, even when things get heated.

If that sparks something in you—if your body just did a little dance or your inner voice whispered “ooooh yes”—sign up to be the first to know when I launch.

I'm Choosing Holy Rage Over Reasonable

We’re not losing it. We’re finally tapping into our truth.

What if the only thing standing between you and freedom was doubt?

We’ve been trained to live in fear instead of trust. How unfortunate, given Mother Nature’s default is to trust.

Women, especially, have been conditioned not to trust themselves. It’s how the patriarchy keeps us disconnected from our power, and capitalism thrives. If we trusted ourselves, we’d never do what those in power want, and society would change so fast—in a good way—it would give you whiplash.

I want us to get back in alignment with Mother Nature. To trust that all is unfolding as it should. And most importantly, to trust ourselves over all others.

Trust Was Waiting for Me in Bali

With everything coming at us, living in trust may seem impossible. But I know differently, thanks to a solo trip I took to Bali.

It was one of those “I need to re-find myself” trips. I wrote in my journal, “I feel the need to be still. To get out of my head and into my body.”

On the plane, I got confirmation from the Universe I was on the right track. Of the hundreds of movies I could have chosen, I picked the one where the female lead is told just that—to get out of her head.

A few days into my trip, I went to see a Balinese healer and shaman named Tjokorda Gde Rai. He was the grandson of the last King of Ubud and had been communing with deities and spirits for over forty years.

Tjokorda was thin as a rail but full of youthful vibrancy. As I entered the compound, a few people sat cross-legged watching him work on a young Australian woman.

He saw people on a first-come, first-serve basis. I joined the others on the ground, waiting my turn.

He told the young woman she had issues with her blood, hormones, and something with her back. Running off briefly, he returned with an herb he instructed her to take.

Her mother went next. She was told her problem was passion—it had died long ago and needed reawakening. He whispered something in her daughter’s ear, clearly not wanting us to hear it.

Then it was my turn. Tjokorda sat on a chair and had me sit on the ground in front of him.

He asked, “What can I do for you?” Though I’d come feeling lost and in need of guidance, I couldn’t put words together. I settled on a physical ailment I’d struggled with since my early 20s—pain in my lower back.

“No, this is not your problem,” he said immediately.

Then he began diagnosing—moving fast—using his hands. He touched my head in different places, stuck his fingers in my ears, tilted my head back, splayed his hands along my neck as if his fingers were listening for things. It felt strange but fascinated me. When he finished, he declared I was in good health.

“What can I do for you?” he asked again.

I was at a loss. Something felt off, but I couldn’t say what.

He had me lie back and started pressing points on my left toes with what looked like a wooden chopstick—each point he pressed represented a function, body part, or quality.

“Does that hurt?” he asked after the first poke.

No.

“Does this hurt?” again, no.

The ritual repeated as he worked his way along my left toes. Just as I began to relax, a sharp pain shot up my leg.

I yelped and pulled back. He chuckled, eyes sparkling.

He pressed the same point again. “This hurts?”

“Oww! Yes!” I said, pulling away again.

He poked the point one more time. “Can you stop that?” I asked as I tried to take back my foot.

He continued to chuckle, wide and cheeky.

“What is that?” I asked.

He looked at me and said, “It’s doubt.”

I immediately started to cry. His diagnosis dug deep into my core. He’d named what I couldn’t put into words—the block to my true self.

“You must trust. The past is in the past,” he said.

Then he placed his feet on top of mine. I lay there looking up at him as he spoke what sounded like a prayer and pressed points all over my body. It couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two.

He pressed the same painful toe point again.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” I said, surprised. The pain was completely gone.

He grinned. “No more doubt, you must trust. You’ve come to Bali to become a new person. No more doubt.” He mentioned my back pain was residue from the doubt and, with that, sent me on my way.

Subscribe now

The driver had waited for me, and as he drove me back, I told him my diagnosis. He looked puzzled. It was clear in his culture, doubt wasn’t a thing.

Returning home from my trip, I felt different. I was in a period of no work which usually brought on anxiety and doubt. Welp, thanks to Tjokorda, there was only trust. It felt strange to trust so deeply. I was used to being on high alert anticipating worst-case scenarios.

At one point, I tried to go down worry rabbit holes—What if I don’t book a gig? What if my career fizzles? What if I have to take a job I hate?

Nope. My doubtful self was nowhere to be found. That deep trust lasted six months strong, and even years later, I rarely sink back into old levels of doubt.

Tjokorda Gde Rai passed away in 2021, but I’ll always be grateful for the gift he gave me—a radical trust that became a catalyst for one of my major life rebirths.

It’s no wonder women have trust issues given the consistent message from our culture: “We don’t trust you.” This treatment conditions us to distrust ourselves. To reclaim that trust and become our own gurus—we must disconnect from the systems that tell us otherwise.

My experience with Tjokorda Gde Rai proves we can banish this doubt brought on by societal conditioning. He may not be here to help us but I’m certain we can band together as a collective and accomplish the same thing.

Reclaiming Trust Is an Act of Rebellion

In my book, Joybellion: Transforming Midlife Insignificance Into Freedom, Power, and Everyday Magic, I guide readers to rework three crucial relationships that impact our trust of self: our relationships with the status quo, with fear, and with intuition.

Radical trust in yourself is an act of rebellion. A return to nature’s wisdom.

Just as Mother Nature trusts her constant evolution, so can we trust our own transformation.

The journey is worth it because on the other side of trust is freedom.

Share

I’m curious: When has doubt held you back? Or when has trust catapulted you forward? Share your story in the comments—I’d love to hear from you.

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes’

• All my content is free to access, but a paid subscription fuels the movement and keeps it free for everyone

• Or leave a one-time tip by buying me a tea

  To the Joybellion.

Arianna Huffington is going to talk about her book On Becoming Fearless.

I scan the room. Ninety-five percent women. We’ve all come to learn how to be more fearless in our own lives.

Arianna finishes her talk. Invites questions.

What happens next floors me.

First question: man.

Second question: man.

Third question: man.

Despite being outnumbered 10 to 1, every. single. question. comes from the men.

I look around, wondering if anyone else notices a handful of men holding court while an entire room of women learning about fearlessness—stays silent.

Including me.

I want to raise my hand: “Does anyone else see what’s happening here?” But I don’t. Because even though I'm there to learn about fearlessness, I too was operating from the same societal conditioning that made speaking up feel unsafe.

Subscribe now

The Invisible Force Field

I share this story to shine a light on something I've witnessed countless times since: when men are present, women often subconsciously defer.

It's never discussed. Never decided. It just is—conditioning so deep it's invisible.

The energy shifts. Focus turns toward him. His opinions become the center of gravity, even when he's vastly outnumbered.

This isn't about blame. We've been conditioned for centuries to default to this dynamic, and when behavior is this ingrained and automatic, we need intentional spaces to practice new ways of being.

Creating Space for Disobedient Behavior

I've made Midlife Joybellion a space for women to practice disobedient behaviors surrounded only by female energy. We bond by encouraging each other to go against the grain of what we're expected to do, in favor of what we truly want.

This practice is hard enough on its own. Adding male opinions or energy while we embark on this journey? That's an obstacle that I'm not interested in tackling here.

Quite frankly I don't want to use up energy considering opinions from people whose reality is completely different from ours, especially as we age.

The Rules of This Space

Men can subscribe and observe. No likes. No comments. Think of it as practice in listening without needing to be heard.

Men who are brave enough are always welcome to recommend Midlife Joybellion to the women in their lives.

Share Midlife Joybellion

The Point of All This

I still have moments of struggle with this stance. A small voice questions my right to exclude men. Good. That voice is exactly why this space needs to exist.

You can't call something Midlife Joybellion without walking the rebellious walk yourself.

In my forthcoming book Joybellion (2026), I dive deeper into the societal language that keeps us contained—including how we misuse the words 'balls' and 'pussies'. But for now, we practice here—in this space where women's voices take up all the room.

Before you go: What's a moment when you stayed silent and later wished you'd spoken up? Share it below. Let's practice taking up space together.

Leave a comment

Onwards…

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes’

• All my content is free to access, but a paid subscription fuels the movement and keeps it free for everyone

• Or leave a one-time tip by buying me a tea

  To the Joybellion.

I’m so happy you’re here.

What are you up to right now? Maybe you're relaxing with your morning tea, or catching your breath at the end of a day that was probably both too much and never enough.

Either way, I hope you feel me beaming across time and space to connect.

How are you—really? How is midlife treating you these days?

Is it waking you up, like it is me, at wild hours with racing thoughts and soaked sheets?

Is it surprising you how little you tolerate nonsense now?

Why does life keep piling on more to-dos than any sane woman can hold—the emails, the errands—not to mention work, my health (hello, menopause), and navigating the role reversal between me and my parents? When did I start parenting my own parents?

Do you ever want to run off and join the circus? At least then the chaos would make sense.

(But let's be real: a quiet Airbnb would be better.)

I bet you wish, just once, someone would take care of you.

Me too. Most days, honestly.

Maybe we could hang out here and take care of each other for a change. :)

Wouldn't it be great to chat over a nourishing drink about OUR dreams—and see if they still fit?

So much is changing—my hair (I let it go gray, by the way, and I love it), my body, my whole way of thinking about life and my place in it.

As my hormones dip, I feel a veil lifting and everything looks different. I feel more connected to who I really am but more disconnected from the world around me.

I'm pissed a lot by what I see with this new set of eyes. (lol) Are you?

I think we should tap into the rage simmering just below the surface in so many women our age.

It's no wonder we're pissed after navigating the patriarchy for decades.

I WANT US TO BE OKAY BEING ANGRY.

I think it would be good for us to nurture a healthy relationship with our rage. I think it would be good for the world.

Did you know by the time we reach our 40s, we’ve lived over a billion seconds on the planet?

How lucky are we to have made it this far?

But also—damn, for all we've managed to do in sometimes hostile cultural conditions.

I came up with a name for all the pain-in-the-ass crap we have to deal with: I call the whole caboodle "the problematics"—people, systems and beliefs that diminish and discard us as we age in female bodies.

I've thought a lot about this—about how just when a wiser, more realized version of us is ready to emerge, the world decides to ignore us.

That being said, I'm excited for us.

Midlife is a bitch—but it's also a portal to our power.

It's weird but I can feel us vibrating. I sense we, the midlife women collective, know big shifts are coming and we will be the best prepared to handle it.

Speaking of which…

I’m starting this thing and I’d love for you to be part of it.

It’s called Midlife Joybellion.

The idea is to find joy in being quietly disobedient. No more “shoulds.” No more people pleasing. No more tolerating nonsense.

I want this to be somewhere we learn to love and use our courage as an answer to fear—the number one dream killer. I want us to create everyday magic by tapping into our intuition. Let’s flip the script on how we see the world and our place in it.

It’s not about fixing or improving or cheering each other on with empty positivity.

I see it as a space for all our wild, awkward, beautiful longing that society has no idea how to hold.

It’s an open invitation to a kind of modern-day salon.

Have you heard about the salons that took place during the French Revolution, where women gathered in candlelit living rooms to hatch new ways of thinking about the world, or the wild creative gatherings during the Harlem Renaissance? Everyone brought their most soulful, wildly honest stories, just to see what might spark.

That's what I'm picturing for Midlife Joybellioin—a place to swap ideas (and secrets), challenge old beliefs about what midlife and aging should look like, and untether ourselves from society’s tired scripts so we can tap into our magic.

I'm so over the rah rah midlife women are amazing.

Don't get me wrong—I think we're fucking fantastic.

But the rah rah still feels like an attempt to get the outside world to see and validate us.

I'm done looking for outside validation.

I'm done fake-smiling.

I'm done shrinking.

I'm done being polite for politeness' sake.

Here, I want us to show up as we are—and be celebrated for it.

If you need to rage or cry, we hold space for you.

If you want to crack up at how unpredictable this crazy adventure called life is—well, same.

If all you have is a sigh or a “fuck it” at the end of a long day, there’s room for that too.

I want us to work together to shape the world on our terms—not theirs—using our courage and woo.

Sadly—or maybe not so sadly—midlife is when society stops checking for us.

Part of me is relieved—because now we get to write our own rules and create our own magic without interference from silly people and beliefs.

The world is messy and getting messier. We've been caught in a game rigged by the problematics.

The rules of their game were never made for us to win. We've been told to shrink, to please, to stay quiet and serve.

I say fuck it to all of that.

Their opinions.

Their “shoulds.”

Their shaming.

Their expectations.

It’s time to enter our zero fcks era.

This letter is my personal invitation to you.

Let's celebrate how deep and grounded and beautifully imperfect and scarred we are.

We're entering a time of life where we're meant to be real and honest and wise in an unexplainably sexy way.

We are the wisdom whispers, the culture-shapers, the time billionaires who have earned the right to live life on our terms.

We stop caring about who’s watching?

We liberate ourselves from worrying about who’s uncomfortable—and instead let our joy and irritation and wildness show?

I see us being sometimes scrappy, always honest, frequently mystical, and most importantly collectively joybellious.

Which reminds me—I've written a book!

Can you believe it?

It was hard. It took me almost two years, but I love it and I can't wait for you to read it when it comes out June 8th 2026.

It's called Joybellion: Transforming Midlife Insignificance Into Freedom, Power, and Everyday Magic.

I'll tell you more about it soon—or join Midlife Joybellion and get the inside scoop.

Subscribe now

It's a relief not to have to pretend. I want us to feel comfortable and safe with each other so we can be honest about everything—because that's where the magic lives.

Truthfully, I really don’t know exactly how this gathering place will unfold. But I love the idea of trusting our courage and intuition to show us the way.

Isn't that how we're doing midlife anyway? Stepping into the unknown: nervecited—nervous but excited.

What I do know is that it's time to show up for ourselves.

To use the over one billion seconds of lived experience we've logged to thrive in our next era.

If you're craving a space that celebrates the messy and the miraculous, Midlife Joybellion is for you.

I'd be thrilled to have you join me.

And if you feel like it, write back. I’d love to hear how life is and how you're really doing.

Leave a comment

With mad love, wild joy and a healthy dose of rebellion,
Kai

Thank you for being a part of the magic and mischief here—I’m grateful for your presence. If you want to keep the Joybellion thriving, here’s how you can support:

• ‘Heart’ this post to spread the good vibes and boost its reach

• Drop a comment—I love hearing from you and do my best to respond

• Share this post by email or on social media, including Substack’s ‘Notes’

• All my content is free to access, but a paid subscription fuels the movement and keeps it free for everyone

• Or leave a one-time tip by buying me a tea

  To the Joybellion.