Mom Pov Rhonda 50 Year Old With -

Last Tuesday, I walked into a Sephora—a place I previously avoided like the dentist—with no makeup, gray roots showing, and sweatpants. At 35, I would have felt the need to apologize for my existence. At 50, I asked a 22-year-old sales associate for "that serum that fixes the crepey skin under the eyes." She didn't flinch. We spoke woman-to-woman, not influencer-to-follower.

I burst into tears. Not sad tears. Relief tears.

I have mourned this. Some days, I feel a loneliness so vast I could fall into it. My "village" has scattered. The other soccer moms moved to Florida or got divorced and moved to the city. I text them sporadically. It's not the same.

I am not done. That is the point of this POV.

Hot flash at the PTA meeting? I excuse myself, walk to the bathroom, and press my wrists against the cold marble sink. I do not apologize. I am Rhonda, 50 years old, with a fan permanently stationed in my purse.