PHASE.
THREE.
T 02 -
MARISOL - 47: For two decades, I was the family's unofficial FEMA, Red Cross, therapist, ATM, Uber, and emotional support. If there was even a rumor of a crisis, my phone lit up like a Christmas tree.
Need money? “Mari, can you spot me?”
Need childcare? “Mari, just for a few hours…”
Need advice on a situationship that CLEARLY needs Jesus and licensed therapy? “Mari, girl, tell me what to do.”
Meanwhile, I was running on iced coffee, stress, and vibes. One Tuesday morning, after my cousin called me crying because her boyfriend didn’t like her Instagram reel, I felt something inside me snap. Or… maybe it was just my last nerve waving goodbye.
So I did something radical. Reckless. Borderline criminal for my family lineage.
I said NO. And guess what?
Nobody died.
Nobody fainted.
The earth did not tilt off its axis.
My mother did clutch her chest, but that’s just dramatic genetics.
Suddenly I realized: I had spent years being the emotional janitor for people who didn’t even wipe their own metaphorical feet. So I resigned. Effective immediately.
Now, if the group chat starts heating up with drama, I simply mute it, sip my tea, and whisper, “I'm an Aries, don't they understand I already cut them off 30 min ago.”
My new motto? If you didn’t come out of my womb or pay one of my bills, your crisis is going to have to wait until I'm ready. And you know what?
I am lighter.
Happier.
And my blood pressure said thank you.
That’s my Phase Three era: Not self-care. Self-preservation.
T 01 - MIRROR - MIRROR
ASHA - 52: We first met Asha when we reachout out to our community to share their short stories about looking in the mirror as a middle aged women. We possed the question - do you like what you see? I turned 50 and suddenly every mirror in my house became an enemy. My mother warned me it would happen "in phase three”, that moment when your body decides it has nothing left to prove but everything left to feel. I fought it at first.
The softening jawline.
The silver that refused to stay dyed.
The tiny constellation of sunspots on my cheek.
Then one morning I caught myself laughing at something ridiculous on TV, and I saw it, the woman I used to pray I would become.
Warm.
Unshaken.
Beautiful because she no longer needed permission.
So I made a decision:
I stopped dyeing my hair.
I changed nothing about my skincare except adding a nightly face massage and a saffron serum my grandmother used.
And every morning I greet my reflection with the same words she said to me as a child:
“You are rising.”
Funny thing…
Once I stopped fighting my face, it softened in all the right places.
Maybe the trick is that aging doesn’t steal beauty — it returns it.