Sometimes you meet someone who is so magnetic and inspiring you just have to share them. In this case, it’s my immense pleasure to introduce you to my glamorous friend Carla-rae Prober.

I met Carla-rae in the garden at Tutto il Giorno in Sag Harbor. I was attending a skincare launch event (staying dewy is no accident over 50) with one of my closest friends who said, “You have to meet Carla-rae. You are going to love her.” And I did.

This 72-year-old silver-haired fox has presence for days. She is dynamic. She is wise, warm, fun and funny and devastatingly chic. I love being around her, witnessing how she moves through the world. Carla-Rae has the Cliff Notes for life. She’s lived many chapters, accumulating wisdom along the way. She’s on a mission to help women be kinder to each other, to live with joy and to expect good things.

I called her up last winter to collect some of her wisdom for you (before I took a little hiatus from Substack to focus on the publication of my book, The Big Unlock). Listen in, learn and enjoy…

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LLR: So where am I reaching you?

CRP: I’m at my apartment in Miami. But I’m coming back to New York on Monday for a week.

LLR: Okay, what brings you back to New York?

CRP: Donna’s getting an award from Hillary Clinton, so I’m flying in. [Donna is Donna Karan, Carla-rae’s bestie, naturally.]

LLR: As you do.

CRP: And then I have a big meeting next week about a new project I’m working on. I’ve always wanted to do something to help women, and I said it had to happen organically. And it began at your journaling event. That’s where it started.

What I want to do for myself is embrace aging and help women go through tough times. I want to spare them the tough times I went through, because I didn’t have anyone telling me how great life could be. I feel I should pay it forward.

LLR: Tell me a little bit more about what you mean when you say you want to spare women.

CRP: I went through a horrible time when I got divorced. Everyone dropped me. I was completely alone—financially, emotionally, everything. I had to pick up my boots and start from scratch at 53.

I was in the fashion and design business, but I lost everything. I thought, “Oh my God, I’m 53, what am I going to do?” I was living in Palm Beach with no friends, and I just started flipping apartments. I ended up building a very big business, but I was still solo. I had no life. I just worked and worked.

One day my son flew down and said, “Mom, what are you doing here? Your spirit’s gone.” That hit me. He said, “You can do this anywhere.” So I sold everything the next week and moved back to New York. I ended up in Sag Harbor, bought a house, and built it for myself. Everything that could go wrong went wrong, but it changed my whole life. I got my confidence back. I’m happy. I’m grateful.

If I had someone when I was younger telling me what I know now, I would’ve saved myself 20 years. That’s why I want to help other women, especially younger ones.

Women need to be nicer to women. I don’t understand why they aren’t. And what’s surprised me most is that it’s the younger women—20s and 30s—who are reaching out. They’re struggling so much. This is what I was born to do. Truly.

LLR: And when you say “this,” you mean helping other women?

CRP: Yes. Helping them with self-love, perspective, confidence. It’s hard at every age.

LLR: I want to go back to something you mentioned—those moments where you just leap, even when it doesn’t make sense. Have you experienced that too?

CRP: Absolutely. Especially in the last few years. When I let go and trusted the universe, everything started coming to me. I’ve reinvented myself four times. Every time was scary, but every time I was blessed.

LLR: Do you feel like those reinventions are chapters in your life?

CRP: Yes. Some I chose, some I had to do to survive. But four years ago, I fulfilled a dream I’d had since I was 16—designing cashmere sweaters in Italy. I did it. It sold. I learned so much. I also wanted to be a backup singer in a band, and my friends made it happen. I sang at the Apollo Theater last year. It was terrifying and incredible. One of the greatest moments of my life.

LLR: I love that you’re still having your greatest moments.

CRP: Are you kidding? The last six years have been the best years of my life. I’m 72, and every year gets better. I’m so full. I’m giving, I’m receiving—it keeps going.

LLR: Do you think those two things are connected?

CRP: Absolutely. It was very interesting. I was at an event last week with a friend of mine, and we couldn’t get an Uber. Three times the Uber canceled on us.

And she said, “This is crazy.” So I said, “I’m going to ask someone to take us to Miami Design District.” She said, “Someone we don’t know?” I said, “Someone we don’t know.”

So I went over to the valet, and this cute little girl walked out. There were a lot of influencers there—social media influencers for this event. She looked very unhappy at the valet, and I went over and said, “Are you okay?” She said they wouldn’t take Apple Pay for her car.

So I said, “I’ll pay for your car.” She said, “You’re not going to.” and I said, “I’ll pay for your car. You’re standing here so upset. I’ll pay for your car.”

She said she thought she had cash in the car. So she went to the car and was fiddling around. I said, “I’ve got the money right here.” She said no, found her money, paid, and then said, “I cannot believe how nice this was of you to offer to pay for my car.”

And I said to her, “You know what? Life is good. I’m happy. I’m blessed. You were upset because you couldn’t get your car. It’s just a nice thing to do. It costs nothing to be nice. It’s $15. It’s fine.”

She said, “Well, I would give you a lift, but I’m late for my law class. I’m graduating in May, and I just got a job with the prosecutor. I do influencing on the side to make money.”

So I said to her, “Your mother must be so proud of you.” She kind of brushed it off, and I said, “Well, I’m proud of you. And I don’t even know you. I’m proud of you for going to school and making money on the side to pay for it. That is stellar.”

She had such a smile on her face. And to me, that is the giving—the giving, the getting, the giving, the getting.

LLR: This idea of self-worth and self-love, I think it’s incredibly elusive for many. And you seem awash in confidence. It’s gentle, but it precedes you. It’s your presence. Where do you think that comes from? How do you nurture that? If a woman wanted more of that for herself, what would you tell her to do?

CRP: I would sit and have a long talk with her—one time, two times, as many times as she needed. I’d help her get her act together. It doesn’t happen overnight. You have to want to do it.

I think a lot of it is how you feel about yourself. I love to look nice, and I always have. When you like how you look, it radiates in your essence. I also think how you dress matters. I get dressed to go to bed, and the only person who sees me is me. I’ve been like that since I was very young. I lied when I was 16 to get a job in clothing stores because I love clothes.

We all have bad days. If I can help women in that respect—help them with how they dress, their homes—that’s easy for me. But living with self-confidence takes work. It doesn’t fall from the sky.

LLR: It sounds like the recipe is to address self-worth it from the outside-in and the inside-out. The dignity of getting dressed for yourself, making your space beautiful, even when no one else is there.

CRP: Exactly. And believe me, I was suppressed for 26 years. I lost myself. I wasn’t magically born like this. I was outgoing and happy as a kid and as a teenager, but I lost myself completely.

No one would have believed I wasn’t happy because I hid it so well. Inside, I was damaged. Big-time damage. It took a long time to get over it. I worked on it, figured out what I did wrong and why.

The biggest change for me was moving to Sag Harbor. Building that house by myself, not knowing a single person, was the biggest boost.

LLR: Because you took a risk toward something that spoke to you?

CRP: Completely. It was a horrible build. I cried in the streets because of contractors. I was utterly alone. I didn’t know one person. It was a real pick-yourself-up-by-your-boots moment. And it brought me back to who I was when I was younger.

LLR: Sink or swim. You relied on yourself.

CRP: Exactly. And now I have the best friends I’ve ever had in my life. This is the best chapter—friendships, everything. I don’t care what people think anymore.

I didn’t have the friends that I have now, who are my support system, and that’s part of what’s made me so strong.

LLR: And now you have a rich community of friends.

CRP: An amazing group of friends. The best friends I’ve ever had in my whole life are now. And they say women can’t have better friends when they get older. Absolutely not true. This is the best chapter of my life right now. The best. Communicating, saying how I feel, expressing myself without caring what people think. I don’t care.

LLR: I want to go back to that self-worth piece, because I think it’s so elusive for a lot of people—women in general, young women specifically.

I started this Substack because I felt like there was a vacuum. There wasn’t any representation for who I was. I was 48, 49. I was unmarried. I’d never had children. But I wasn’t a crone, I wasn’t the wacky aunt. At the time, I was single and meeting wonderful people. I was being flown to Hotel du Cap to lead journaling workshops. I was living in Malibu, surfing. I wasn’t fading away. Yet there was no cultural representation for who or what I was. So I started writing into the void.

I was really writing to myself, but I was also writing to my peers, saying, “Where are you? Come out. I want to hear your stories. What are you wearing? What are you eating? Where are you going? What do you look like? What are you reading?” That’s where “Since You Asked” came from.

What I didn’t expect was the younger women who reach out to me saying, “We are watching everything you are doing.” I didn’t realize I was also writing for them. Not because they’ll have a life that looks like mine (not having children, etc.). I’m certainly not suggesting that’s the way forward. But I am living the exact scenario on paper that I was most terrified of in my 20’s, and it’s fucking gorgeous.

So these young women are looking in my direction and asking, “Is it going to be okay?” Yes, it’s going to be okay.

CRP: It’s going to be more than okay. If you had ever told me that at 72 I’d be single, I would never have believed you. I would have said, not in a conceited way, “You’re fucking fabulous, Carla-rae. Why are you alone?” But I’m alone now because I choose to be alone. I’m so fussy. I need someone who’s going to enhance my life.

My bar is high. I’ve got great friends. I’m loving every part of it. I never believed I’d be single at 72. And now I can’t picture myself with anyone, because I’m so used to doing my own things and having things my way.

I’ve had two long-term relationships since my divorce, and they both wanted to move in together. I said that would be the ruination for me. I love my alone time. I like my space. Everyone has to do what feels right. More women are alone now, and it’s much more acceptable than many years ago.

Laura Rubin: Right. And now women openly love being solo. They’re out there doing things, making things happen. They’re not afraid. They’re not waiting to be partnered for their lives to take shape.

CRP: I’m not a lady-who-lunches type. I’m more of a worker bee. There are people I know whose lives revolve around their husbands, children, and grandchildren—and that’s their life. So be it. It’s just not my life.

I’m not the typical grandmother. I’ve apologized to my kids for that. I said, “I’m not your typical grandmother.” I asked my grandchildren what they think of me. And they said, “You’re the fun Grammy. You’re the dancing Grammy. You take us places.” That’s my thing with them. I’m the fun Grammy.

I said to them, “And what’s going to happen when Grammy goes up there [to heaven]?” And they said, “We’re going to play Earth, Wind & Fire ‘September,’ and we’re going to have a party.” I said, “That’s correct.”

CRP: I really hope, honestly, that I can make a difference. At this stage of my life, I really want to make a difference. My passion in this last chapter of my life is to help women. Honestly, women have to become nicer to other women.

I was at physical therapy this morning, and there was a gorgeous woman there. I said to her, “You are so beautiful.” She was completely taken aback. She didn’t know how to respond. She was maybe 35 years old. Beautiful. Even the physical therapist looked at me, because nobody says things like that. I don’t know why we can’t be nicer to each other.

LLR: Why are we stingy with each other? I think it’s partially the illusion of a zero-sum game—that if someone has something, it somehow takes away from what’s available to me. But that’s categorically untrue.

CRP: I don’t like it, and I’m hoping I can make a difference. When women come together, we are so powerful. We have no idea how much power we hold. We can do anything. We are the stronger species. We can multitask. We can do anything. Women are superior, I believe. And as we get older, if we have the mindset and the confidence, we thrive.

Men get a bit funny as they get older. They become withholding because they’re scared of aging. Women with strong self-worth thrive. You see older women dancing, traveling all over Europe. You don’t see that with men. We’re amazing. We really are. You just have to spread the love. That’s all I want to do. I wish I could bottle what I have.

LLR: So do I! That would be one delicious, spicy cocktail.

What good thing are you expecting? Carla-Rae reminds us that there is always more life to live, more joy to find, and more chapters to write. Share in the comments what you’re making room for.

If you’re ready to get inspired, hope you will join me for digital guided journaling session, Rest & Refuge, on September 2nd or an upcoming IRL journaling workshop at the beautiful Baker House in East Hampton on August 25th, hosted by Biography.

Hello, friends. I am currently taking a little hiatus from the book tour for The Big Unlock (fifty-seven days so far, still standing!) and am delighted to be back in Substack-land. As you can imagine, I am pretty over myself at this point. It’s been a lot of Laura. So instead of more about me-me-me, I’m sharing wisdom from some other women. To begin, the estimable fashion designer—and fellow demi-elder—Jamie Haller.

One of the highlights of my California book tour swing was my dialogue in the Montecito afternoon sunshine with Jamie Haller. Amidst 20+ book events, it was refreshing to turn the tables and interview her rather than be in the hot seat. And Jamie didn’t disappoint. She offered up disarmed, thoughtful responses to my nosy questions about her creative process. Whether you’re a working creative, an aspiring entrepreneur, or a curious demi-elder, there are takeaways that I think you’ll find to be inspiring, reassuring and useful.

Here are some of the implementable gems that she shared, paraphrased from memory (thanks, creatine!):

1. Writing things down, dreaming on the page, is immensely powerful. During COVID, Jamie used putting pen to paper as a tool to support her own creativity. What emerged was the idea for the business she has today.

2. Take risks and trust your own taste. Though a fashion industry veteran, Haller had never designed shoes when she launched her eponymous shoe collection, including her breakout hit loafers. She trusted her own vision and created what she felt was missing in the marketplace. That vision has now extended to clothing, handbags, jewelry, and doesn’t show signs of slowing.

   

3. Being creative requires unprogrammed time and space to roam mentally. You might not look productive externally, but that meandering is part of what’s needed in order to let concepts and directions germinate.

4. Ideas can come from anywhere. For Haller, that could be from her butter-yellow kitchen cabinets or the film Grease (apparently a film she frequently references, as evidenced by her kicky “Kenickie” denim style). It’s all on equal footing as fodder for design inspiration. However, Haller doesn’t focus on fashion industry trends; instead, she trusts what feels interesting to her.

5. Commit to quality. Once Haller was designing for her own business rather than working for another brand, she had the freedom to explore using higher-end materials. That, in turn, informed her designs. Additionally, she’d learned that using herself (a size 8) as a fit model when designing clothes ensured integrity of fit and drape across sizes, rather than sampling for a size 2 model and trying to size the collection up from there. That’s part of why her pants are so flattering and beloved (speaking from personal experience here).

6. An idea, even one that reveals itself to be a good one, might not sound like it makes much sense initially. Give it some space and time. And surround yourself with people who will get on board with your process rather than with naysayers.

7. Parts of your career that don’t feel like “home runs” while they’re happening are still immensely useful and important. Because you’re learning, witnessing, acquiring knowledge, even if that’s an awareness of what you don’t want, how you don’t want your business to run or feel. Accumulated experience has merit.

8. You can pivot at any point. Haller seems like a breakout success, but she’d been working in the fashion industry for nearly two decades when she launched her own collection. All of the wisdom she acquired along the way helped her arrive here.

Big thanks to Jamie Haller for inviting me into her Montecito community, for tolerating my Barbara Walters-style inquiries, and to the wonderful, local indie bookseller Godmother’s for being our partner for the event.

Did any of these tips hit home? Any related pieces of wisdom to share? This space is intended to be a dialogue, so feel free to comment below, weighing in with your own input. Either way, thank you for reading. Your time and attention are greatly appreciated.

I’m by no means meek, but as an extroverted introvert, I’ve learned I need to recover from big outputs. I love my day job. It’s engrossing and rewarding. Facilitating large-scale mindful writing experiences for diverse groups requires my complete focus. There is no “phoning it in,” and there is certainly no after-party. To reset after public-facing gigs, I usually spend some quiet, unprogrammed time either at home or in nature— ideally with my dog Charlie, who is not very chatty. Less interaction means my nervous system comes into balance and I land back in my body.

My upcoming book tour schedule poses some challenges to that process. The list of dates and cities looks a little like I’m masquerading as Willie Nelson, headed out on the road, multiple stops in different towns and new audiences. Fun! A blessing! Exciting! And also, a very real challenge.

I was recently talking with Carly Valancy on a Substack live, and we got into the topic of book promo and ensuing tour. Here’s some of what I shared:

“There’s this prevailing perception that we’re supposed to grind ourselves into the ground in order to promote something. What if that’s not true? What if there’s another way?

Instead, what if we get to enjoy the process? What if, at the end of my book tour, I’m in better health, in better shape, and have more vitality than when I started? Now, I’m not saying that’s necessarily going to happen, but I’m making space for the possibility.”

It’s antithetical to the concept of our productivity-at-all-costs culture, but I am factoring in how I want to feel during this high-output time because I value my own quality of life as a hallmark of success, not a casualty of it. After all, I’ve unpacked and disrupted tropes in pretty much every other part of my life — I might as well do it here, too.

I’ve written a book that provides the tools to be in dialogue with our highest knowing, our embodied wisdom and innate creativity, so it’s particularly important for me to walk that talk. Instead of the “cram for tests then fall apart afterwards” collegiate model, I’ve been looking around for other touchpoints.

So far, I’ve found only one example, but it’s a goodie.

Eddie Vedder planned a Pearl Jam tour around surf break locations, factoring in time to surf along the way. He prioritized time in and near the ocean as part of his daily life while on tour. Not on a vacation. Not when he retired. While he was performing for large audiences on a regular basis, expected to deliver. Well, hot damn. If it’s good enough for Eddie, it’s good enough for me.

Whether that’s literal inspiration or just directional, remains to be seen. (Can I “touch water” each day of my tour, even if that means a bath or a swim? Am I packing a wetsuit for my West Coast dates?) The demi-elder call-out here is that, as we arrive at this part of our lives, we better understand that nobody is going to tell us how to do any of this. The Wizard of Oz Reveal: Everyone is making up. All the supposed-to’s or have-to’s, they’re manufactured and fairly arbitrary. So you might as well make your life into something cool and rewarding that doesn’t leave you feeling like a dried-out husk of your true self.

Granted, this wasn’t Pearl Jam’s first tour. Demi-elders have already done a thing or three.

In this case, the band had proven their bankable and artistic worth, so Vedder was able to dictate the circumstances of his creative output. In contrast, this is my first book tour. But to the extent that I can question my own internalized slavishness to productivity and come up with ways to enjoy this ride, I am going to try.

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Not everyone gets everything. Okay, so I didn’t get to have children. No white wedding in my 20’s or 30’s or 40’s, for that matter. (Though by my 40’s I’d have been more likely to wear a different color. Yellow? We’ll never know.) But I love where I am at 52, and while the kiddo thing still tugs at me from time to time, generally I am agog at how bountiful and beautiful my life is. The experience of writing this Substack has helped me shift my gaze to all the places where I am awash in good fortune. And at the top of that list are my friendships. So thank you for being part of that process.

I have a bumper crop of friends, the kind that are loyal, joyful, thoughtful, fun and clever. I have old friends, new friends, girlfriends, guy friends. Friends that are older than I am who lead the way with their wisdom, and plenty that are younger, those sweet young things I adore. Collectively, this tribe anchors and supports me. They might just be the greatest windfall of my life, and I try to actively tend the garden of these relationships. Check-ins. Catch-ups. “Little thank you’s”. Real talk. Soul talk. And showing up not just to celebrate but also (and especially) when things go sideways.

I want them to know I am the person they can call from jail, from the doctor’s office waiting room, if they’re stranded in Siberia and have to find a way to get the hell out. When they’re on the floor levelled by grief and the sky is falling. I want them to know I am their “Oh, shit” call, their safe place to say the unsayable, and the first person to hug them when they get off stage after accepting their award. I mean this all figuratively, but also literally.

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In many ways, my heart belongs to my friends. And lemme tell you, they love me back fiercely and fully. But the single best piece of friendship advice I have ever received, the one that has helped protect and nurture these relationships over multi-decade stretches, came from my mother. I was a young woman about to start chemotherapy for aggressive breast cancer, and my mother said. “Not everyone will show up for you in the same way.” And she was right.

One of my best friends came to every single chemo appointment with me. She took the train in from Connecticut, leaving her family to sleep on my green velvet sofa and make that trip to midtown with me every other week to have medical poison poured into my body. She made sure I knew that even though this was going to be hard, I didn’t have to do it alone. Jennifer and I met on the first day of kindergarten. I was tentative. She was a confident little firecracker. Still is. She started taking care of me that day and has never stopped. I am not sure I deserve her love, but it’s one of the greatest gifts this life has given me, and I am not saving the receipt. She is a keeper.

But Jen’s heroics aren’t a realistic model for everyone. And they shouldn’t be. My mother’s advice was intended to protect me from heartbreak on top of the physical and mental challenges she knew I was about to undergo. She’d seen childhood and adolescent versions of myself navigate the rupture of friendship disappointments and was proactively shielding me from my own high expectations.

The chemo suite wasn’t the only time or place to be my friend. Withstanding the intensity of that environment requires a certain kind of personality. If someone can’t do it, that doesn’t make them a bad friend. Don’t reject the love they can and want to give.

When I was too weak to go shopping for myself, I had one friend show up at my East Village apartment on her scooter with Whole Foods groceries, including a bounty of organic oranges. A very personal delivery. [Thank you, Circe.]

Another friend was there for me on my “off” weeks when I was able to put on a wig and go out for brunch. We joked that this was the only time in my life I drank California Chardonnay (because the soft tissue of my tongue was so degraded by chemotherapy I couldn’t taste anything more subtle). In truth, I sipped maybe a third of a glass. I can still remember sitting at that round table at Aquagrill, the restaurant’s reassuring social buzz. It helped me feel normal, that the proportions of my life hadn’t shrunk down to the square footage of my bedroom. [Thank you for this and so much more, Stacy.]

In the middle of the night, when the steroids kept me from sleeping despite my legitimate exhaustion, I called a guy friend in London. I was bald, scared and tired. I don’t remember what we talked about, just that he answered my call on a hectic trading floor in London, and handled the extreme realness of it all with tremendous care. [Thank you, Ivan.]

I could write a book recounting the volume of big gestures and small instances of love and support I received during that time. (And maybe I will someday? But I have another book baby to focus on at the moment.) As my mother taught me, some friends can celebrate with you. Others can bring oranges, write notes, or take that 3 am call. It all helps. It all counts. Give your friends grace to show up where and how they can. In doing so, you’re giving yourself a big dose, as well.

To be sure, I make plenty of mistakes in this arena, too. I certainly don’t get it right all the time. I forget birthdays. I go MIA when I am deep in a creative project. And occasionally, we get into it when bruised feelings are tender. But the real prize is loving each other through difficult conversations. I’ve learned (and been taught) the delicate art of friendship repair. If someone is worth it, you grow together, stronger. Granted, not all friendships make that leap; some float away into the slipstream of the past. It doesn’t render the resources you invested in them a waste. Not everyone is meant to continue the next leg of the journey with you, and that’s alright.

I shared in my last Substack that I have my very first book launch on the horizon. March 31st, to be exact. Exciting? Yes. Daunting? OMFG, yes. It’s certainly not chemo, but all I knew is that I didn’t know what I didn’t know about launching a book. So I sailed into extremely awkward waters and started asking pretty much everyone who loves me for help. My mother’s advice kicked in, and I am letting my incredible friends do what they can when and how they can. And you know what? I am humbled by the 16 (and counting) book tour stops ahead of me. Good golly. More on that soon.

In the meantime, I hope you’ll take my momma’s advice to let people love you, imperfectly.

I am book-pregnant. I’ve been gestating for over a year and am currently in my fourth trimester. It’s nearly time to share this baby with the world (pub date: March 31st. Eeep!) in what is the most exciting and wildly vulnerable creative act of my life.

I’m child-free, by happenstance rather than design, so writing a book might just be the closest I get to making a living, breathing thing. Similarly, once it’s alive, you’re its initial steward, but it will ultimately live its own life. Where my book-baby goes when it grows up, who it meets (and the meaning created in the process) will not be up to me, nor is it of me. This thing I made will eventually have its own existence, its own storyline.

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Would I have had this opportunity, let alone the generative energy and sheer quantity of necessary time, had I been raising kiddos? I’ll never know. Some mothers do write books, afterall. But I cannot quite imagine how it would have come to pass had I not been child-free. I channeled all those juicy, fruitful impulses into writing sentences and paragraphs, which became pages and chapters.

So here I am, in the midst of planning my very first multi-city book tour. (More on that soon.) I’ll have book launch events instead of baby showers, and that’s okay by me.

What is The Big Unlock about? Since I don’t usually share much about my extraordinary “day job” here, this deserves some context. As a lifelong journaler, I have firsthand experience with the immense benefits of the practice. But about twelve years ago, it was apparent that journaling had a serious PR problem, more closely associated with cringe poetry and teen angst than being a legitimate modality for mental and physiological well-being. So, I set about shifting that narrative.

I initially launched a series of design-forward, gender neutral notebooks and decks of prompts, but in sharing them, the market taught me something I hadn’t imagined. People had a lot of hang-ups about journaling. They were afraid of doing it wrong, or their handwriting was too messy, or they were concerned about someone reading what they wrote, or that it was a selfish way to spend time, or they weren’t a good enough writer. The list of potential blocks is long.

That inspired me to put together a curriculum to help bring people to the page and package it in aesthetically inspiring workshops to create positive associations with the practice of putting pen to paper. All of this was never meant to be more than a passion project. But it took off, and I was game enough to get out of the way. The positive response (and impact to people’s lives) were beyond my wildest dreams—and I am prone to some pretty wild dreaming.

I’ve now led hundreds of IRL and digital mindful journaling workshops for a diverse range of groups. From formerly incarcerated young adults to Netflix executives, Miu Miu VIP’s to venture capital firms, wounded special forces veterans, pro athletes, Google data analysts, 800+ ladies for Goop, and so many more. In each instance, I got their pens moving, helped them come home to their own voice and wisdom, and awakened their connection to their innate creativity. It has not been boring, though I’m still not quite sure what my job title should be (Journaling sherpa? Suggestions welcome.)..

Over the past decade-plus, people have been kind enough to ask, “When’s the book coming out, Rubin?” But I waited. I wanted to gather a critical mass of experience in order to share road-tested, peer-reviewed wisdom in this book, not just good intentions. And that’s what being a demi-elder is all about. You’ve learned things on the miles of road behind you, and it’s provided illumination. That’s stuff well worth sharing.

This isn’t intended to be my memoir. The Big Unlock is categorically non-fiction, featuring over seventy-five original journaling prompts and the science behind why a mindful writing practice is so hugely beneficial. But, after finishing an advanced reader copy of the book, my mother pointed out, “Laura, people will know you after reading this.” I weave personal storytelling throughout the chapters, and we will no longer be strangers by the time you reach the back cover. I’ve lived long enough to have some damn good stories, and I’m sharing them with you.

This baby arrives on March 31st. Pre-orders are open now, and they come with a free writing workbook I’m particularly proud of – a bonus for anyone who wants to get a head start.

Happy holidays in January, my friends — because that’s kind of the schedule I’m on these days. Less rushing whenever possible.

There are certain films I watch when I’m sick. They aren’t the best movies, but they’re soothing. One of them is “Under the Tuscan Sun.” It goes like this: An independent writer moves to Italy, buys a villa and has a crisis. Wonders aloud to her handsome but unavailable realtor why she’s bought a house for a life and family she doesn’t have. At the end of the film, she’s hosting a wedding for a young couple and her lesbian bestie is raising her newborn on the property. Full house. The same Italian realtor points out that she has created the family she wanted, what she was hoping for has materialized, just not in the form she expected.

Well, that’s kind of how my holidays went.

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I looked around my table and realized my home was full. Multiple generations of family (if not my own), kids, friends and a lot of love. The biggest gift was having my 88-year-old momma bear to stay. She’s why I moved back to the East Coast, and this year her own grief at losing my stepdad had finally loosened its grip enough to be able to celebrate the holidays again.

My peak moment was putting her on the couch with my dog (Miss Charlie Watts) on Christmas Eve to watch holiday movies (she’s highbrow, had never seen Love Actually or Charlie Brown’s Christmas before) while I wrapped presents and listened to her laugh. Heart explosion.

Back to Christmas Day. Yes, I thought I’d have kids. But my home and life are full in other ways that include children. Just not my own. I have a wonderful partner, a fur daughter, and friends who are family. The kind who stay until the last dish is done. It doesn’t look like what I expected, but I am no less fortunate. Heck, it’s working out pretty well so far.

So if you’re afraid that if you don’t capitulate to certain cultural norms you won’t get the good stuff, I’m here to report from the frontlines of inadvertently doing it another way, that’s a load of humbug. You don’t disappear, you just make it up as you go.

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My factory setting is “homebody,” but a gal also needs to get out into the world and have a look around, see some art, taste new tastes, have some discoveries. Yet…travel ain’t always easy, folks. Delays, lines, and cancellations are all on the rise. All that can be hard on a demi-elder. Or, well, anyone.

I recently took a nine-day trip to Madrid over Thanksgiving to stay with friends and their Great Dane supermodel puppy, Lola (pictured throughout). It was good fun. A museum a day, prowling bookstores, taking in flamenco, enjoying atypically rich food, a bit of shopping, vermouth at lunch, and, of course, late dinners on Spanish time. But despite all that, I returned feeling creatively and aesthetically inspired, and not haggard. This is a triumph. I chalk it up to the incremental choices I made before and after landing. Here are some of the ways I game the system while on the road, just in time for holiday travel.

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Prep:

As I pack, I map out my outfits and snap photos of them. This weeds out any superfluous items from the mix (leaving room for treasures you pick up along the way) and I don’t waste time on what to put on my body while traveling. I used to think “Oh, I’ll remember” but turns out I don’t always. So the photos really help. This process makes getting dressed each day much easier and faster, and out the door you go feeling pulled together.

Did you know you can request a gluten-free meal from your airline when you book your ticket? Most have pretty good options, and they’re usually dairy-free, as well. So you’re not eating as much junk as the person next to you, plus they tend to deliver GF meals to passengers before the rest of meal service begins. Whether or not you travel in first class, you get fed first.

My standard, travel outfit usually is some kind of monochromatic top and bottom with a starring-role coat thrown over the top, with my bulkiest kicks on. Comfort, yes. Slob, no. I also carry on a purse within a purse. Tucked into my roomier handbag, I use a smaller bag or clutch – ideally with a cross-body option – to hold loose items, which means I have two bag options at my destination without sacrificing any packing space. I like options.

On the way:

I am that person who wipes down their whole area on the plane. Hand rests, seatbelt buckle, tray, etc. I used to be self-conscious about it but then I realized people were looking at me because they wished they’d been clever enough to bring along wipes, too. (These smell nice.) So now I offer them to my row. 8/10 times they accept. Because nobody wants to ruin their trip with a cold.

I always have a book, a good pen and a journal in my carry-on. (Here’s one of the write / draw journals I made, but any will do.) You never know if entertainment / wifi is going to function and analog diversions mean I’m tranquil instead of bored or stressed if I find myself in a dreaded twenty-plane queue for takeoff. I also bring along cuticle oil, hand cream, lip balm and a mini face spritz and use repeatedly throughout so I’m not dry as the Sahara upon arrival.

At your destination:

My supplement game is strong. Very strong. Traveling during cold and flu season means I am taking liposomal C, Zinc, D on the daily, and this powerful echinacea at the first sign of any virus lurking in the wings. Plus vacation imbibing means more glutathione and electrolytes, morning and night. Before it’s silk eye mask on and lights out, I take magnesium citrate and l-theanine to help me settle down and stay asleep. BTW, I wish more peri/menopausal women knew about the de-fanging, delightfully calming amino l-theanine. I would hug it if I could.

A mask a day keeps dehydrated skin away. I pack a spritz, a mask in a tube, a few sheet masks and under-eye patches. And a silk robe and velvet slippers (which are also durable enough to wear outside, if the mood strikes). Basically I create a spa moment for myself each morning. Indulgent? Maybe. But it’s really civilized and I’m not a child anymore.

I am a matcha person, not a coffee drinker. Coffee can turn me into a jittery, anxious mess. Not how I want to be ever, let alone on the road. And a black tea just doesn’t get me there, energy-wise. I request a kettle and a blender (or use this in a pinch) to make my own matcha latte first thing in the morning. I bring along sachets of the stuff and dump in a bonus dose of collagen.

I then crack open a journal, sip my frothy, creamy matcha and luxuriate in my mask, enjoying my demi-elder travel glamour. We are adults and get to enjoy it.

This is my top tip for not feeling icky when you get home, and it’s not something you need to pack: exercise. Granted, I don’t want to spend a ton of time at the gym when there’s so much to do and see. A quick mat workout does the trick. No mat? I use a spare towel. No room to put down a towel? I do a standing workout. Short on time? MWH has 15ish-minute options (and costs less than ten bucks a month). So I’m pretty much out of excuses. I don’t work out every day of a trip, but I do try to be consistent. Add in the 13k steps I might be taking on the daily and things don’t go off the rails, despite indulgences.

Bonus tip: Love or loathe Gwynnie, Goop’s travel guides are a pretty great resource. I’ve ended up in some small, wonderful museums and out-of-the-way local shops in multiple countries, thanks to cross-referencing my agenda with their location-based guides. The only caveat here is they tend to recommend luxe (read: very pricey) hotels. I tap Goop travel guides’ other categories instead, such as culture, bars and restaurants.

Is anything here earth-shatteringly revolutionary? No. Take my advice above literally, if it serves you. But what I’m offering up is bigger. It is the permission to consider how you want to feel while you’re on the road, to proactively take beautiful care of yourself. And that, my friends, is demi-elder living. Travel safe and have fun out there!

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About 15 years ago, a girl I knew (but not very well) got pregnant. She was younger than I was, in love with a famous man who was married – but not to her. She was having the child on her own, she said. Her family wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about this plan. But her mind was made up. She’d “figure it out.”

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This girl needed support. And a crib. And a stroller. And a lot of things. Gobsmacked at the enormity of her decision, I did what I knew to do. I offered to throw her a party.

“Can I host a baby shower for you?” The answer was yes.

So I threw a baby shower brunch at a restaurant in the East Village. Her family came around and eventually participated, but I planned the event and picked up the tab. It was a little awkward because I wasn’t her best friend, her sister or mother. I didn’t even know anyone else at the shower other than the mom-to-be. I was essentially a close acquaintance with good intentions and follow-through. So be it.

This brave woman went through pregnancy and childbirth unpartnered. Plot twist: an unconventionally happy ending. Eventually, the baby daddy eventually left his unhappy marriage for her, his true love. They got married and had more children. They are still a family unit to this day, living abroad and doing life together.

Over a decade later, I randomly heard from her, via DM…

“Last Saturday night, I organized a 50th birthday dinner for a friend. Not a best friend but a good friend who told me about 6 weeks ago that she wasn’t going to do anything for her big birthday. I’ll never forget when you did that for me when I was pregnant. It meant so much to me. Nobody else was going to do that, and had you not, I wouldn’t have had one of the best afternoons of my life. Truly. If you hadn’t set that example for me, I never would’ve paid it forward and organized my friend’s dinner. And I know it meant the world to her to have all those people gathered to celebrate her (and to meet each other!), which is what you did for me. I’ll never forget it. ❤️❤️❤️”

Naturally, I bawled my eyes out. You just never know how and where a bit of kindness is going to travel, finding its way into other lives, other portals.

Sort of like the story about traveling pants, the tale continues.

About a month after receiving that lovely message, a “good friend but not a best friend” offered to host a going-away cocktail party for me. I was moving back to the East Coast after a decade in L.A. She opened her home in Bel-Air to a bunch of strangers so I could see all my girlfriends at once before heading off. It was beautifully executed. Warm, welcoming, chic and generous. Like my host. There was even a surprise seated dinner. It was the loveliest night, the perfect end-cap to my West Coast chapter.

That summer, I joined the fifty-and-over demographic, and my brother and sister-in-law asked if they could throw me a birthday party to celebrate. I said yes. Turning fifty, single and child-free in a new town on a different coast, was somewhat disorienting. Far from signifying spinsterdom, this soiree was backyard elegance personified. There was a champagne coupe tower and an oyster bar. We knocked back mushroom gummies and kicked off Manolo Blahniks. We danced on the porch. My best friends were there. My college roommate showed up. Even my prom date came. It was surreal and fun and made fifty a lot less daunting. I called it “my wedding to myself.”

Another thoughtful friend, whom I knew (but not very well), offered to host an early Fall dinner at her home so I could meet her crew of year-round gals in the Hamptons. That was the third party organized in my honor in under six months. I’m not Lady Di; this isn’t business as usual. At that dinner, I sat next to an amazing older woman who has become a dear friend and mentor, someone I look up to and hope to age as well as she has, in all respects. I also bonded immediately with a great gal who is now like a sister to me. What I call a “bail money, no questions” kind of friend.

What I learned is this: You will never regret hosting a party in someone’s honor if they are kind and deserve it. And you just might end up with a bumper crop of karmic hospitality pointed in your direction as a result. That’s certainly not why I helped out my pregnant pal. I was just being a supportive human being, lending a hand in the ways I could. But it ended up being the reason she organized festivities for someone else when they needed it.

And the lovefest continues. Most recently, I hosted an “adios” cocktail party at my home for one of my dearest friends and her wife, two days before they moved to Madrid. The week before, I hosted a Sunday get-together in Litchfield County for my vibrant, nearly 88-year-old momma and her friends. In both cases, I didn’t do it because I felt I needed to. I wanted to give my people the opportunity to acknowledge some of life’s big moments, be surrounded by community and remind them how loved they are.

Hosting a cocktail party to celebrate someone else – without a strategic objective or “CTA” – is too rare these days. Let’s bring back this love language. Practice random acts of hospitality, minus handles or hashtags, because we can. Warm the house. Sunday supper. Movie night. Whatever kinds of gatherings hit the right hospitality notes for you. Let’s fête like we mean it.

Here are some of my party season picks…

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Sharing spreads the good word and helps me to keep writing stories that I hope surprise, delight and support you.

Note to reader: Hey ya’ll. Some of my Substacks are about light-ish fare. This isn’t one of them. No pilates or collagen here. It’s real talk about a subject that I hear too little about. Since I hope that will change, I’m stepping into the void and offering up a perspective-in-the-making.

In the almost three years since I started this column, I’ve seen the cultural conversation around what it means to age as a woman shift significantly. Menopause (and its little sister, perimenopause) came out of the closet and went mainstream. We’re seeing a lot more positive representation of what I call “empowered aging.” And thanks to women like Tracee Ellis Ross, what it can look like to be child-free and unpartnered while we do it: chic, celebrated, fit and sexy. So long, spinster. Hello, hot stuff. But there’s a topic I have yet to see addressed in this mix, and it’s a big one.

I recently co-hosted a cocktail party for my nearly 88-year-old momma bear. She’s remarkably vibrant, curious, engaged and charming – for any age. The occasion was to gather her friends and raise a glass as my Mother transitions to a new chapter of her life. She’s moving out of her picturesque New England town to an extremely civilized retirement community on the North Fork (where she already has buddies), one that offers more infrastructure than her current life and is closer to both my brother and me. This new environment will mean more consistent exercise, nutrition, socialization, and her children and grandchildren will be able to spend more time with her. There were hugs, toasts and Sancerre at the party. A poignant but mostly joyful occasion.

But throughout, like a news ticker, a line of questioning quietly ran through my head. It’s not a new voice, but it’s gotten a little noisier lately.

Watching my capable mother age into her 80s, after saying goodbye to her beloved soulmate husband, my brother and I have stepped in with emotional and logistical support. He and I are a good team. My left-brain brother heroically helps with doctor’s appointments, contracts, bills. I’m here for the waves of grief, to discuss concerns and hopes, to have the conversations she can’t have elsewhere. I hold her hand (literally and metaphorically), help my mother envision what her new life will look like – and gather her people around her along the way.

It’s an honor to help my mother through this transition. And I’m excited about spending more time with her when she’s just around the corner. However, it’s all served to illustrate how complicated and overwhelming things can get when you’re navigating life on your own into elderdom. The reality got really real, so to speak.

As an unmarried woman without kids, it’s inevitable for me to ask myself, if I’m fortunate enough to age, who will help me make these transitions with some ease and grace? The big, unspoken fear of child-free aging is this: Who is going to take care of me when I stop being able to take care of myself?

Having kids certainly doesn’t ensure a security net of support to help you along the path of older age, but it’s a darn good start. So is a double-income household.* Without a nuclear family of our own, women like myself are operating at a bit of a deficit in this department. And from my demi-elder perch, the looming, not-quite-as-distant-as-it-used-to-be future can be a pretty dubious thing to consider.

What’s the answer? As usual, it’s easier to see in others what I cannot see clearly in and for myself.

A single male friend of mine in his early 50s shared with me that he was considering partnering with a younger woman, in part to have kids. He didn’t want to be a lonely oldster and thought that maybe this would solve the equation. Since he asked for my opinion, I gave it. Parking the insanity of making such a massive choice for self-serving reasons, that’s a lousy equation. It’s bad math. Children are their own people. Even with all the love and care you can give, you don’t know who they will become. There’s no guarantee that they’re going to show up for you when you want or even need them to. Having kids in no way protects you from being a miserable old coot.

What does? Well, I don’t have the gift of hindsight here. I can’t tell you I’m writing this with been-there-done-that surety, but I’ve also learned a thing or two in my 52 years. So, here are the best answers I’ve got (so far).

1. First of all, let’s acknowledge that aging isn’t inevitable. As a breast cancer survivor – 19 years cured and counting – I’m fiercely aware of this. Worrying yourself sick about a future that may or may not even occur robs you of the joy you can have in the present. So let’s not obsess, shall we? Rather than being fatalistic about recognizing that life can turn on a dime, it’s immensely freeing. We have today, so let’s make that day a damn good one.

2. Investing in your relationships (as well as your 401k) yields good dividends. That’s not just a romantic partner. I’m also talking about your friends, neighbors, colleagues and family members – chosen or otherwise. I know plenty of people with families that are iffy, and rock-solid friends. We never know when and where the support we need will come from. A network of people that you choose and who have chosen you is a powerful web of love. Do for them and your community will very likely do for you in ways you can’t quite imagine, because you’re not supposed to. It’s not quid pro quo; it’s better.

3. The future, your future, might just be more beautiful than you can currently imagine. Make some space for that. Just because we cannot picture it yet doesn’t mean it isn’t waiting for us. Love, abundance, meaning, purpose, joy in forms that we can scarcely conceive of, all of it might be just around the next bend in the road. I’m not talking about being blindly optimistic, but some faith sure beats bitterness.

Essentially: presence, community and a bit of faith.

I’m also going to do weight-bearing exercises and take my vitamins. And we can have other Substack conversations about all of that. In my opinion, this one’s more important. There’s nothing to buy, no cream to slather or supplement to pop. This is about the energy we bring to the uncertainty of the longer-term aging process. When the fear-based ticker tape starts ticking, the combination of presence, community and a healthy dash of curious optimism shifts me out of victim-ish territory (“Why not me?”). Instead, I’m in much more empowered territory, with room for beautiful unknowns.

*I understand this concern isn’t relegated to all the single ladies. Even happily married women like my momma bear routinely outlive their male spouses. But widowed women generally benefit from two incomes that contributed to savings during their marriage, or one that was likely 20% more financially bountiful if they were partnered with a man1. And those funds contribute to better quality of life, more paid support and better healthcare options.

Last year, I got a Substack surprise. I was on an AllSwell biz-dev Zoom with some lovely and smart 20-something women who work at an architecture firm. They’d contacted me about commissioning a journaling workshop for their team, but it turned out they also happened to read my Substack (this one right here) about demi-elderdom. At the time, I thought most of what I was writing about would only be interesting to women my own age or thereabouts. But they, and subsequent women in their 20s and early 30s, told me that reading “Since You Asked” has been helpful / inspiring / a relief. It’s shown them an alternative to the limiting binaries they thought were available: married or spinster; young or withering; becoming a mother or being lonely, etc. It’s made an unknown future a little less frightening or intimidating. This was great news and made me very happy. It also got me thinking about the kinds of information I wish I could specifically share with young women.

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I realized the numero uno, blazingly important topic I want to broach for bright young things might not be trending, but it is extremely important: take control of your finances early, because money = freedom. I’m not just talking about the flexibility to buy yourself nice things. That’s small potatoes. What I’m referring to is the freedom to avoid or remove yourself from compromising life / work situations; to choose qualified medical providers that listen to your needs; to take care of yourself with dignity; to choose who you love, not for what they can do for you, but for who they are to you.

I know it can be tough to live within your means when it looks like everyone else is jetting off to Europe and wearing the latest looks from Khaite. Don’t trust social media to provide a real depiction of what’s going on under anyone’s financial hood. It doesn’t show what their “debt X-ray” looks like, or who is actually footing the bill.

So this is for you, my young readers. A few pieces of financial advice I wish I could share with all young women. Though, heck, they apply to women of pretty much any age.

1. Compound interest is your friend. Get to know it. When you save money in an investment vehicle (such as an index fund) early in life — and you don’t pilfer it for a handbag from The Row — the rewards will be exponential. Flexibility and independence are a very good look.

2. There’s good debt and bad debt. Low-interest debt such as student loans isn’t as damaging to your financial health as credit card debt, which is insidious. Avoid store credit cards, in particular. The fees and interest rates are outrageous and rack up quickly; that outfit you’re craving might end up costing you 2x as much over time.

3. Free money is earned money. By that I mean maxing out your employer’s 401(k) program, if you’re lucky enough to have one. It’s worth making your matcha at home and streaming your Pilates classes. Stash away what you can when you can, up to the full amount your employer will match your contributions. I’m not suggesting you cut your own bangs (step away from the scissors!). Just dial it back and get creative.

4. Bank miles for smiles. Spend as much of your necessary output via a card that gives you rewards (and be sure to pay it off in full at the end of the month). In the last year alone, I have taken trips to Spain, France and Santa Fe via miles from my Amex card.

5. Reduce first, then save. If you do have credit card debt, start by aggressively paying it down. Saving in a low-risk vehicle when you have high interest rate debt isn’t good math.

I was fortunate to have a father who openly discussed money with me from a young age. It wasn’t a taboo topic in his household. He would open up the New York Times on Sunday and show me how to read the stock pages. My dad wanted his daughter to understand the fundamentals of investing. And early in my professional career, I contributed to a book about financial planning for women — just about the age when it seemed like half my friends were inexplicably wearing designer sunglasses, acquiring tans on winter vacations, and drinking expensive saketinis despite our similarly meager paychecks. (Ah, the ’90s in New York.)

Collectively, I acquired a solid knowledge base from which to make sound fiscal decisions. Sometimes I ignored all that good sense and ordered a round of French martinis at Pravda and took a cab home. But I could also rein it in, hail a subway and grab a beer at a dive bar instead. Some of my good choices then — and the trial and error I tested out and learned from early — make it possible for me to have more freedom now.

This isn’t some cautionary tale about how Prince Charming (or a sugar momma) isn’t showing up. I hope we’re all a bit smarter than that by now. Even if you meet the most incredible partner, having your own resources and knowing how to manage them will serve you very well. Pretty Woman is a movie, not a lifestyle. So please, don’t be intimidated by unknown vocabulary. Find reputable sources of information and ask alllllll the questions. If you don’t know where to start, here’s a round up of some user-friendly resources for you to explore.

• Financial Feminist

• How to be a Rich Old Lady

• The Best Financial Advice You’ll Ever Hear

• You Are a Bad Ass at Making Money

Thank you to Atlantic Wealth Advisors and Jennifer Hirsch of Soulful Wealth for vetting the above. Because there’s too much well-intentioned bad advice out there. A fact-check is a beautiful thing.

I recently wrote an AllSwell newsletter about my newfound appreciation for rest, and the admission that I’m not very good at it. One demi-elder-specific note I want to add is that while we can do loads of stuff to enhance our appearance as we age, there is no Botox for mitochondria. Yes, I do all the things to preserve my all-important telomeres (CoQ10, glutathione, etc.). But despite my biohacking-babe efforts, I am experiencing a discrepancy in the energy I have today versus a decade ago. It’s not so much that it’s less (though TBH, that, too). The bigger revelation is that it has a different quality to it.

52 isn’t 32 or even 42. I still feel great, but I’ve started to recognize shifts. I am more respectful of my own energy because I now see that it isn’t unlimited, which turns out to be kind of great. My tolerance for chaos is diminished. I steer clear of drama. And I prioritize my well-being over productivity in ways that were unthinkable as a hard-charging 30-something.

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Instead of fighting, ignoring or resenting these changes, I’ve begun to welcome them as earned wisdom. As demi-elders know, when you don’t “suffer fools,” you have a lot more time to apply to the people and activities that bring you joy and fulfillment. Far from withering away, I’m becoming more discerning – and cultivating some delicious equanimity in the process.

During this exploration, I realized that pretty much my entire teen-to-adult life, I’ve been waiting for some imaginary third party to give me permission to take an occasional breather. Whether it’s due to a generationally ingrained work ethic or some other more insidious programming, I believed on a subconscious level that you don’t get to be a good leader / productive member of society / star pupil if you pause. I’m not an expert on any other woman’s hormones, but I know my own internal tidal system means that at some points of the month, I am more generative than others. Ignoring this isn’t a sign of stamina; it’s evidence of being utterly disconnected from your own body. When asking “Who’s in charge here?” as it relates to my body? That would be me. And I get to take my bod to the beach for a lie-down-and-breathe session.

Take a beat. Get a facial. Rest your eyes for five minutes. Count 30 breaths. Don’t work straight through lunch. Catch a sunset (and don’t document it). Run a bath. Whatever. I’d say “practice makes perfect,” but perfection is quite literally the opposite of the point here. We aren’t robots, and reclaiming rest helps us recognize our own beautifully imperfect humanity. That’s true regardless of age.

As Gabriel Garcia Marquez reminds us, “It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.” So don’t you worry; I’m not packing it in. My dreams are both bigger and of better quality these days. The goals and interests I focus on now bring me more joy and satisfaction because (1) my judgment is better and (2) I’m not burning quite as many resources wondering how they’ll look. I simply give fewer fucks, and am finally learning how and why to rest.

Some ways to look / feel well rested in a flash:

What are the ways you rest? What activities, products and habits do you use to recharge? Spill the beans, please.

In general, I think weddings are a bit of a racket. Sorry to sound like an unromantic grouch, but I’ve seen too many smart women get wrapped around the axle by an industry (and culture) that tells them this is the pinnacle of their life, and unless everything is perfect, you are a failure as a feminine being and your relationship is doomed. No pressure, though! Here’s the bill, including a 30% markup just for being a bride. Enjoy!

I am, however, a big BIG fan of love. And I was a guest last weekend at a wedding that restored my beliefs, not just because it was an incredibly cool, generous and thoughtful expression of the couple. But also because it was the first time I’ve attended a demi-elder wedding.

In our 20s, watching people get married often means they’re just innocently going for it and building a life together. In our 30s to early 40s, nuptials get a little dicier. There’s so much more pressure to procreate with a partner that sometimes the match-ups can seem a little dubious. On more than one occasion, I found myself thinking, “I really hope this works out.”

But here was a smoking hot first-time bride in her 50s. This couple wasn’t getting married because they felt pressure to capitulate to norms. They were choosing each other in front of their friends and family simply because they wanted to.

Meanwhile, a young friend in her early 30s was dog-sitting for me while I was traveling to the wedding. Over the past couple of years, she’s repeatedly confided her frustration that she hasn’t met her guy yet. I’ve listened to her share of disappointing dates. This is what I texted her:

“I’m headed to a friend’s wedding in Santa Fe. Andrea Shapiro is 57 and getting married for the first time. She’s rad. A painter, DJ, interior designer, surfer, and has incredible taste. A tomboy but still a girl’s girl. The kind of gal that can throw a spiral football, then compare manicure colors.

Around 50, Dre blossomed creatively and professionally, and that’s when Pete came into her life. They’re beautifully matched, and watching their lives intertwine has been medicine for everyone around them to witness.

I’m not suggesting you’ll have to wait that long! It’s just a happy thing to share, and we all need alternatives to the tired old fairytales we were fed when we were young. This one’s the real deal, true love, the kind you sometimes have to wait for because the universe is saving something really good for you.”

So call me a romantic and hand me a hankie, I’m a demi-elder wedding convert. I’m sharing this in case you or someone you know would like to hear a story about love later in life.

Demi-elder love hits different. These are two people who know who they are, have seen some things and have already lived lives. They have the tools to really appreciate each other and aren’t looking for some other person to “complete them” (Romantic Myth #264). Demi-elders are already whole beings, which means together they’re exponential.

Giddyup, buttercup.

Before the big event, the bride sent around some visual inspiration for the Western-leaning dress code. Here are some of my recent scores in scanning for wedding weekend outfit elements.

Bring on the heatwaves, put away the pants. Here comes a parade of dresses, skirts and fluttery shorts. I have zero interest in rules about acting (or dressing) my age, but as a demi-elder, I seek out ways to interpret my sartorial summer self that are right for me, as I am now. I want to feel confident, effortlessly chic, womanly, not girlish. Which, for me, means stashing the slacks. 

Cautionary tale: Last summer, I almost wore a silk Araks slip dress in Ceruluan blue (shout out to Miranda Priestly, IYKYK) to my twenty-seven-year-old nephew’s annual BBQ on Shelter Island. While getting dressed, I had a wardrobe misfire when the delicate fabric met my body oil, and had to change at the last minute. Annoying, but this was life happening for me, not to me. Because a few hours later, a twenty-three year old goddess (with blond, curly hair, no less) floated into the party wearing the same exact dress. I breathed a sigh of relief and was grateful not to feel like a speed-aged “after” photo. 

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What I've learned is that at 50+, I can still wear some of the fun and beautiful things that a twenty-three-year-old version of me might have put on, but I want to do it differently. I personalize things, make it a little weird. Sometimes it’s because I’m wearing a piece in a surprising environment (i.e. a sheer black lace skirt as a swimwear coverup versus at da club), or assembled an unlikely mashup (such as menswear meets silky loungewear), or added an unusual statement accessory to anchor a look (jade-embellished graphic sandals citify a simple dress, dodging suburban Mom vibes).

To illustrate, here are some of my most “favorited” recent demi-elder ensembles. Not a single pair of pants in the mix. 

What I wore to host a cocktail party at the beach to celebrate my boyfriend’s birthday (with a mismatched bikini top and bottom, one of my beachy hacks. Read here to learn why.). Tossed an oversize denim shirt on top as a coverup, perfect for when the sun started going down and a spontaneous dance party broke out. The lace skirt is also great over a long sleeve bodysuit for cheeky date-night ballet vibes. 

I’m always on the lookout for alternatives to the farm-girl vibe sundresses I used to wear with a tan and Vans. Wildly cringey now, but I love the ease of a cotton poplin dress. Here’s one that is budget-friendly and washes on the gentle cycle like a dream. I just hang it up to dry, no iron needed. I think this may be a knock-off of Bottega, but I can live with that. I’m wearing an XXS here, so I’m not drowning in fabric. Packs well, too. (BTW: It happens to be 50% on sale at the moment. I just bought a second one to stash.) Threw on a color-blocked “shacket” and my jeweled, toe ring sandals (on sale, too). Plus: pockets. 

I’m not quite sure why, but this outfit absolutely flooded my DM’s with inquiries. Demi-elder dressing is about the mix, sometimes revisiting existing items from my wardrobe and assembling them in new ways. I’ve had these lace-trimmed charmeuse shorts for over a decade, but I hunted around to find you something similar. Great with an oversize, slinky T-shirt, and I recently started pairing them with men's shirts to balance out the femme. Got this one at a clearance sale at Henry Lehr last winter for twenty bucks, but in general I like Officine Générale for menswear-inspired shirting. Here with my errand basket “bag” that I scored at a health food store in L.A. years ago. 

California taught me that I don’t need to stash my boots when winter fades. They’re a great tool for transitional dressing, in this case grounding a summery polka dot skirt for a coolish, rainy-ish night. Swapped in a barely-there sandal when the temps rose (I like a nude sandal because it lengthens the leg). The jacket is vintage loot from a friend’s recent clothing swap. Score! 

I thought I couldn’t do delicate spaghetti straps, but legendary stylist Anne Caruso introduced me to this strapless bra, and it has expanded my sartorial range. Black silk doesn’t inherently sound beachy, but that’s why this feminine dress is a star standout. The unexpected fabric elevates it to demi-elder status, otherwise it might read as too cute. Plus it’s a great summer-in-the-city piece. To make it more daytime / less bare up top, I slipped on a heather grey T underneath and swapped in ballet flats (sale alert, again!) to accommodate a walking-heavy day spent visiting museums and galleries in Paris. 

Want to join the no-pants party? Please share some of the ways you beat the heat while still feeling like a feminine, slightly edgy grown-up. Or, who do you think really nails it? We’re collectively blazing new territory here, defining what a demi-elder looks like. Please share your tips, opinions and finds so we can be inspired by one another. 

P.S. If you’re also craving a little mid-year reset—one that doesn’t involve shapewear or packing cubes—I'm hosting a one-time digital journaling workshop called Summer Is Calling. It’s designed to help you slow down, tune in, and get more intentional about how you move through this season (with or without pants). Two dates: July 22 or July 30. I hope to see you there. 

I’m generally pretty mellow—until I’m not. When my triggers get tripped, when something is unjust, if I feel taken advantage of, or someone I love is being maligned or attacked, hoo boy…lookout. Carrie has entered the building with gasoline and matches, and she’s not afraid to use them. 

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I’ve learned that righteous indignation is me at my very worst. In that heightened state, I can’t accurately evaluate a situation, and I waste valuable time and attention going ‘round and ‘round on the victim-perpetrator-hero carousel. Frustration, judgment, impatience, and criticism aren’t just a bad look, they’re also intensely draining. 

We don’t always have agency over the big and small events of our lives, let alone the world at large, but we can influence how we respond. Because I’m old enough to see patterns in the decades behind me, it’s become easier to make better choices. (Yet again, something I appreciate about aging.) I’m certainly not aiming for perfection, but my motto is “let’s make new mistakes”— instead of the same old, boring ones.  

In Ayurvedic medicine, the counter-balance to an excess of fiery “pitta” energy is earthy groundedness, which is what I try to remember when I’d otherwise start reaching for the gas can. 

For instance, being on hold for forty-seven minutes with American Express because they’d screwed up big time. Me against “The Man” in the form of a faceless, corporate behemoth—a classic set up for epic proportions of Laura’s frustrated indignation. As I was being bounced around an offshore call center, asked the same questions, and put back on hold repeatedly, I could feel myself inching into the red zone. 

Instead of spiraling into a deep well of irritation, around the twenty-five-minute mark, I decided to pull my truck over and look at something lovely. This wasn’t going to ruin my afternoon, dammit. I wandered into a local nursery and, toward the back of the property, I found a greenhouse packed full of germaniums in bloom. 

The intensity and profusion of color were astonishing. The air was warm and damp, which magnified the usually delicate scent of geraniums. Distracted by beauty, I was still on the-hold-with-no-end, but I’d regained some equanimity. I was back in my body, aware of my senses. More grounded, less gas can. 

And that’s the choice we get to make — amidst cancelled flights when you just want to get home, rain the night of the long-awaited outdoor concert, the moth hole that appears in your favorite sweater. Or far worse. 

Take a beat and choose. 

I certainly don’t get this right all the time. But I’m a lot less reactive today than I was a year ago, which is demi-elder™ wisdom at work. It turns out maturity is pretty great. We keep learning as we get older, and if we’re really lucky, we keep making new mistakes. 

Thank you for reading. Did this resonate with you? Have any questions or suggestions? Drop a comment below. And if you know someone that might appreciate this message, kindly forward it along. We’re all in this together.

I was out at dinner with some incredible women a couple of months ago. Accomplished, thoughtful people whom I admire. The conversation meandered from politics to confessional aesthetics. It turns out, I was the only person at the table who hadn’t had a facelift. And I wasn’t the youngest person there. I was a bit wide-eyed at this revelation (and not because I’d had lid work). It caught me off guard. After all, we weren’t lunching in Beverly Hills. This was off-season in a low-key beach town. 

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A “snatched” jawline is the new, uber-quiet luxury accessory. If you’re looking at public figures and wondering how they’re aging so flawlessly, it’s not the $185 neck cream or collagen creamer. Sure, healthy choices, quality skincare, and supplements do help. But lifestyle isn’t enough to transcend a certain aesthetic threshold. (Read: It Takes More Than SPF.) They likely look so radically “great for their age” because of medical interventions such as a discreet scalpel and a laser or three. 

In the context of my dining companions, they were comfortable with their choice. And little wonder. They looked gorgeous, healthy, and fresh. The tone of the discussion was in no way apologetic, but it did have a whiff of proselytizing zeal. One of the odd things about plastic surgery is that once someone has it, they seem to want you to do it, too. As if it were a club, they’re eager for you to join. $120k for a facelift? “Best investment I ever made. You should absolutely book a consult with my doctor.” I appreciate they want to share what’s made them feel great, but that’s one big tab. 

The Beauty Arms race is fueled by how much money, time, and access you can afford. There’s an invisible velvet rope outside the offices of certain in-demand plastic surgeons. Partials. Neck lifts. Full facelifts. Blepharoplasty. Lasers. Fillers. Threads. No shortage of options if you want to gild the lily. Botox seems downright basic these days. But you must have the cash (and time) to opt in. Otherwise, you’re left behind, aging like a civilian. It reminded me of Madonna’s foreshadowing comment in the 2018 documentary, Truth or Dare: “Earrings don’t make people look beautiful. Money makes people look beautiful.” 

I vacillate between giving very few fucks—a woman’s body is her sovereign territory; she can do with it what she wants so don’t you dare hurl judgement—and being deeply concerned. Not only do I feel like I’m slipping behind my own age group’s aesthetic baseline because I have neither the disposable funds nor the downtime available to keep pace, but I’m also somewhat horrified at my own interest in participating in the dynamic. At what point do we say this relentless tweaking is a form of oppression-fueled self-mutilation? 

As a former teen actor who has aged in the public eye, Justine Bateman shares her unusual vantage point in her book, Face: One Square Foot of Skin. A rallying cry against widespread use of injectables and plastic surgery, Bateman challenges the fundamental premise of facial upkeep. I think she drives the point way too far, shaming women who tap these resources, but there are some thought-provoking nuggets on how our ramped-up obsession with anti-aging distracts capable women in our prime, including… 

“For me it felt like a ploy to somehow shut me down, to get me to hide, to be quiet, to erase myself, all at the exact moment in my life when I had gained the most intelligence, the most wisdom, and the most confidence. What an easy way to try and make sure that I stopped accomplishing anything further.” 

But absolutism might be too simple for such fraught cultural terrain. It’s possible that multiple perspectives are simultaneously true here. All these interventions are holding us back, and in the right instances, maybe they’re actually freeing us from worrying about our appearance. Could a bit of a nip-and-tuck help reclaim the focus and energy we burn on something cosmetic that really bugs us, to the point where it becomes the title of a book, for instance?

Case in point, last fall I revisited “I Feel Bad About My Neck,” the compilation of essays by the late, incomparable Nora Ephron. (I think of Nora as the Upper West Side’s Jewish answer to Mark Twain.) I hadn’t picked it up since entering the part of my life in which the phrase “skin laxity” entered my lexicon. Instead of the book being a wry and insightful take on feminine aging, it made me sad. If Ephron was that negatively obsessive about her neck, I found myself wishing she’d done something about it and moved her beautiful brain on to other creative endeavors. 

Long before Instagram filters or Facetune, Susan Sontag wrote in her essay A Woman's Beauty--A Put Down or Power Source:

“Women are taught to see their bodies in parts, and to evaluate each part separately. Breasts, feet, hips, waistline, neck, eyes, nose, complexion, hair, and so on—each in turn is submitted to an anxious, fretful, often despairing scrutiny. Even if some pass muster, some will always be found wanting. Nothing less than perfection will do.”

While this intense perfectionism tends to be projected on and internalized by women, to be fair, age discrimination isn’t just for the ladies. Politicians, CEO’s, Hollywood actors, etc.—men in all kinds of visible positions are getting “work done” so they can continue to work. A friend in the know told me that when a male actor gets a facelift, he’s unlikely to touch up his eyes in order to maintain the illusion of masculine aging. So really, we’re all pretty much screwed when it comes to looking for a realistic baseline among our public figures. 

For me, the cautionary tale emerges when the cosmetic intervention tipping point is long gone, and it becomes open season on your appearance. One adjustment snowballs into multiple subsequent surgeries, each addressing some perceived shortcoming. Instead of more freedom, it becomes an ongoing diversion. But please, let’s remember, plastic surgery is not a hobby. There are far more interesting uses of our time and energy. That said, I might book a consult at some point. You know, just to be aware of my options...  

Thank you for reading. Did this resonate with you? Like it? Loathe it? Input and responses welcome. Please feel free to drop a comment below. Your perspective is welcome.

Though I started writing “Since You Asked” for myself and the demi-elder™ demo, it’s been a delight to hear that younger women read it as a way to look ahead, see what might be around the bend. I’m honored to have you here, my young friends. 

One of SYA’s 20-something readers sent me a direct request. She’d recently been laid off, felt listless and lost, and asked for my take on career setbacks. As promised, you smart and capable human, here is some well-earned professional advice from your pseudo-big sister. 

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For those of us who count our career as something that gives us not just stability but meaning, being laid off, passed over for a promotion, not hired for a gig you really want—or just straight up getting fired—is a kind of heartbreak. Especially if you’re supporting yourself, this flavor of rejection can feel worse than dating disappointments. Bag lady anxiety notwithstanding, “pink slips” of any kind can call into question such big pieces of our identity and worth, our present and future. 

First, let’s tackle the external perception piece. I want to remind you that you are not your job. You are not your career. It is one piece of who you are, sure. But it’s not you in your entirety. What other people think of you is none of your business, so please don’t waste too much energy there. It’s a losing proposition even if you’re thriving professionally. 

Fostering resilience is part of adulting, and that occurs only if you don't get everything you want when you want it. True character, the stuff that makes us capable of operating at a high level amidst difficulty, is born when sh*t goes terribly wrong. The world just delivered an opportunity to dig in and connect with your inner supply of grit (it’s in there). Who are you when things go sideways? Here’s a chance to find out. Build back better and—more grown up.  

I’ve had big titles and dream clients. I’ve also been fired (albeit just once, but it was potent) and passed over by clients for flashier firms or people with bigger followings. Each time that occurred, it was either a bellwether moment for me to embrace change, or it provided good information about how I could switch things up professionally. It’s okay to suck your thumb for a beat. But then, I invite you to repeat this as a mantra: “Don’t panic; ideate.” 

The one time I was let go, it sent me into a complete tailspin. It didn’t matter that I loathed my job and knew in my soul that it wasn’t a fit. I’d accepted the role under pressure. (After which I closed my office door, put my head down on my desk and cried into my Calvin Klein suit sleeve.) I should have been relieved when the axe finally fell, but instead it knocked the wind out of me. 

Dejected, I called one of my mentors and he said, “Take a beat, consider what you want to do next, and then plan towards it.” Did I take that excellent advice? Of course not. At least not right away. Instead, I overreacted and interviewed, which was a waste of energy and focus. 

Amidst that disorienting time, I organically found my way to becoming an entrepreneur. I don’t think I would have had the temerity to jump ship from the perceived safety of a corporate gig otherwise. But once released, I could go off-piste. I’ve been consistently self-employed ever since, nearly twenty years later. In that time, I’ve found my calling not once but twice (callings can change, BTW). I’ve built brands and businesses and had plenty of adventures. Even when it’s been really tough, I’ve loved it all. 

And that iconic billionaire I used to work for, the one who let me loose? I recently realized he’d founded the company I’d been ousted from because he’d been fired from a huge job, too. One door closes, and another business opens, so to speak. Whether or not you have an entrepreneurial bent, the point remains the same. Reclaim your narrative. This setback is only one part of your story, so let it inform rather than define it. 

And please, regardless of whether you score the most fascinating gig in the world, your demi-elder™ Auntie is counseling you to have something else to say, do, and be beyond your job title. Have interests. Be interesting. That will serve you well, professionally and beyond. 

Speaking of finding your calling, I’m leading an AllSwell Creative mindful journaling weekend retreat at the chic Valley Rock Inn (just an hour outside of Manhattan, accessible via train), May 16-18. If it piques your interest, I’d be delighted to have you join me at the writing table. 

The request lines are open! If there's a topic you’d like me to weigh in on in a future Substack, please let me know. Your demi-elder Auntie is at your disposal. 

My middle name is Livingston. I was named after my gay, closeted great-uncle A. L. Brody (the L. is for Livingston), who everyone called “Al.” 

We never met. In the Jewish tradition, you don’t confer the name of an elder until they’ve passed away, otherwise it’s considered to be like wishing them dead. I learned about A.L. from stories and the occasional photo. It was through comments quietly dropped into conversation among the older generations that the puzzle pieces started to assemble into a kind of portrait. 

A.L. was reportedly quite charming, stylish, cultured, unafraid to wear a dashiki to a dinner party—and an accomplished flirt. He was married to my great-aunt Bobby. She was a bitterly unhappy woman, which made little sense to me as a child. But I eventually came to understand that she’d spent most of her adult life married to a man who preferred the intimate company of other men. 

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A.L. had dalliances when they traveled abroad. He was mostly discreet at home in Chicago, but he’d occasionally flirt shamelessly with an attractive man in front of his rather plain wife. The whole dynamic makes me wince with discomfort. But I do not judge their choices. They lived in different times. I regard them both with tremendous sympathy. 

They didn’t have any children of their own. Despite my being named after her late husband, my great-aunt Bobby showed me very little warmth as a kiddo. Little wonder. This small namesake may have been an unwelcome reminder of great unhappiness. 

Laura Livingston. What has my name taught me? 

Not telling the truth leads to injury, for yourself and others. Being authentic is sometimes scary (unsafe, even) but ultimately who and what you must be. The alternative is a sad legacy. 

I have very little emotional connection to the name “Laura.” I’ve never felt it suited me. Laura is an ethereal name, the syllables are full of air. It sounds like a woman who might need rescuing. Not my style. My closest friends call me “Ruby” and that aligns better with my character. It’s punchy and feels more joyful. Laura is a watercolor. Ruby is gouache. 

But it’s my middle name that tells a story. As a demi-elder, it’s one I’ve come to value.

Thank you for reading. What stories does your name tell? Please feel free to share below (or just give it a think). And if you know someone that might appreciate this message, kindly forward it along. We’re all in this together.

If you’re ready for a bit of a refresh, here’s a quickie round-up of some of the things that are helping me Spring forward. Clean up, eat up, glow up, giddyup. 

I could’ve called this column “bad lighting & unflattering images” because that's pretty much the through-line here. But the stuff is good. And after all, life is for living, not creating picture-perfect “content.”  Demi-elders are smart enough to focus on contentment over content. 

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Transitional jacket: barnstorming

It felt so good to park my parka and throw this on instead. It’s just warm enough for early Spring days. I sized up for a little more slouch, and I’m wearing this suede barn jacket everywhere lately. Dog park, yoga, library writing sessions, coffee meet-ups…

Try this: soup recipe

It’s not salad season yet but I’m ready to downshift from Winter fare to something lighter and more veg-forward. This recipe is so much more flavorful and delicious than it seems like it should be given the simplicity of the ingredients. But it’s yum. 

I top with a swirl of xtra virgin OO, some pumpkin seeds and a pinch of flaky sea salt. (Maldon makes everything better. You could sprinkle it on my grave.) 

Take it all off: face wash

My all-time fave face wash. Full disclosure, I attended the product launch event many moons ago and it was originally gifted to me. But I replenish, replenish, replenish because it’s just so good. Rinses the day off completely but somehow doesn’t dry my skin out. I even put on my lashes. 

I have one pump by my sink, and another in the shower (because I got tired of moving it back and forth), which feels slightly luxurious. Pictured here with their body oil, which is also aces. The nice people at Biography are providing a 20% discount (use code demielder20) on whatever your heart desires from their line. 

Spring splurge: lace top

This top is a compliment magnet. I wanted something that felt fresh for a cocktail reception and seated dinner in NYC. Topped my go-to tuxedo pants with this slightly cheeky, sheer-yet-structured lace blouse under a white blazer. Too early to go strappy, I grounded things with suede Alaïa booties (which are ten years old and counting).

What made it work particularly well was the underpinning, which seemed to entirely disappear under the lace—but also had just enough coverage. No nips!

Stepping out, I felt very “lady 007.” That evening I received compliments on my look from straight women, gay men, straight men, and some other TBD folks. I felt good and it showed, which is success in the demi-elder world. 

Getting cheeky: highlighter stick

Generally, I don’t get excited about makeup. It’s just not my thing. But this is perfection, just right for brightening up winter pallor. 

Westman’s “petal” blush stick is my go-to, and she just released it as a gorgeous, sheer and glossy highlighter, too. Swipe it on cheekbones for a rosy, pretty flush that lives up to its name. It looks like I just went for a walk in the fresh air—even if I’ve been parked at my laptop writing.

Thank you for reading. Did this resonate with you? Have any questions or suggestions? Drop a comment below. And if you know someone that might appreciate this message, kindly forward it along. We’re all in this together.

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