In her late 40s, Amanda Wood finds the quiet grind of life has changed her – and now makes her perpetually tired. She tries to untangle mid-life.
Life moves in seasons. There was a season of play and discovery. A season of rebellion and independence. A season of babies and baby blues. A season of marriage, and later, the season of divorce – when everything I thought I knew fell apart.
Then came rebuilding. Learning to stand on my own two feet. And eventually, peace. New love. Things settled. I could breathe again.
Now I find myself in another season. The one no one really talks about. I don’t yet have a name for it, but I know it is a season. In hindsight, I have been here for at least 18 months.
Like every season before it, I believe it will pass. But I am someone who likes to understand things. I tend to poke and prod and analyse until I find something solid to hold on to. So I am writing, simply to see it more clearly.
Tonight, on my commute home, something shifted. I realised how much I have changed – not because of one person or one event, but because of the quiet grind of this life stage. I am in my late 40s now.
Most mornings, I am awake before the sun. Not for peaceful walks or sunrise yoga. Some women manage that – and still pack lunches. Some seasons, I have managed that too. But not this one. While the jug boils, I run through the morning checklist in my head: lunchboxes, socks, wake-up calls, back to the kitchen. I begin hopeful – “Today will be smooth!” – but before long I am barking orders, muttering under my breath, already feeling behind.
The children are sorted – including the last-minute Snapper card top-up – but I have left my coffee on the kitchen bench. I am wearing mismatched earrings. There is peanut butter on my shirt that is not mine.
Mascara is smudged. BB cream is only half blended. My hair has decided to rebel. I dress for comfort now – practical trousers, a loose shirt that hides a changing middle, sneakers that let me walk fast because I am always late.
Once, I was a little fitter, a little trendier. People used to compliment my boots. Now I just hope my top is not inside out, that I remembered deodorant, and – most importantly – that I put on a bra (a mistake I nearly made last week).
At work, I do what I can. I compress eight hours into seven, depending on physiotherapy appointments, football pickups, or whatever the day requires.
I used to volunteer for everything, now I quietly celebrate simply showing up, doing my job, and leaving when I need to.
I am surrounded by bright, high-energy people filled with ideas and ambition. I love that for them. But sometimes I fold inward. I feel faded, less visible.
I love my children. They are clever, funny, insightful, and brave. We talk, we laugh, we challenge each other. These days we feel more like friends than only parent and child – and I love that. But I am still the parent. Still responsible. Still working. Still carrying the weight of our lives.
And sometimes, my retirement savings remind me of the stakes.
Some days I feel like a machine. A snack dispenser. A taxi driver. An emotional support system with a debit card. A body that nurtures, fetches, organises, and remembers.
And sometimes I feel like I am drowning. Yet I am not unhappy. I am simply tired. All the time.
As my children grow brighter and more independent, I feel myself fading a little. Becoming translucent, less certain of who I am. I do not know if this is biological, psychological, or something in between. Perhaps it is all of it.
There is irony in this season. I feel invisible, yet I remain central to everything.
I have been present for every bloodied nose, every broken limb, every disappointment and heartbreak. I am the constant. So why does the ground feel shaky? Perhaps it is because as my children’s world expands, mine feels smaller. Perhaps it is because this middle season – the caregiving, midlife, often-invisible season – is rarely celebrated. It is not shiny. It is not new. It is hard. And it is holy.
There are other shifts too. My mind does not hold complexity as easily as it once did. I cope – until one small thing tips the balance. Anxiety bubbles up with the slightest pressure. Sometimes, even in familiar company, I feel as if I am watching myself from a distance. My words feel slightly off, my gestures awkward. I remind myself to stay calm. Sometimes I forget to breathe.
My body is changing too. My neck softens. My jawline, never particularly sharp, is fading. My thighs carry marks from HRT patches. My hair is thinning, the grey strands are wiry and dull. I leak when I laugh, cough, or sneeze.
There may be only three to five years left before the house grows quiet. A few more holidays. A handful of dinner table conversations. Then my children will leave, becoming who they are meant to be. And I will be here. Adjusting. Cheering. Relearning how to take up space in my own life.
This anxiety is something I can name. I understand it – even though it scares me. It reminds me to hold tightly to the mess and the magic of right now. I may be tired, sometimes overwhelmed, but I am also resilient – shaped by every season I have lived through.
So perhaps this season cannot be named yet. Maybe seasons are only named when you have passed through them.
For now, I am still here. And I know I am not the only one. If you are in this season too – the quiet, midlife season where the winds seem to howl and the sun sometimes hides, where your work is mostly invisible – I see you. We are still here.
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