A Cowboy Hat is a Pretty Dress
The world seems to like us women small. It likes us polished, quiet, and—above all—preserved.
Like a piece of fruit under plastic wrap, we’re told our only value is in how well we can mimic the girls we were at twenty-two.
Well, I’ve got news for the boardrooms, the baños and the boys who still think they run the show: **Fuck that shit.**
The Death of the "Good Girl"
I spent my 20s and 30s as a hot mess; not knowing who the FUCK I was, wearing masks I didn’t choose, to "fit in", competing for the gaze of men who didn’t see me, and trying to win a game that was rigged from the start. I was/am exhausted from the performance of "pretty." Barf P.S…
But 48?
Forty-eight is where the magic happens.
This is the age where the mask doesn’t just slip—it gets thrown into the dumpster fire and set ablaze.
**We are dropping the people-pleasing.
**We are resigning from the competition.
**We are finally realizing that the patriarchal fear of a midlife woman is rooted in one simple truth:
You cannot control a woman who no longer cares if you find her "agreeable."
Grit, Grace, and Sun Spots
They try to sell us serums to erase the evidence of our existence.
They want us to be ashamed of the silver in our hair and the lines around our eyes.
They call it "anti-aging." I call it a goddamn erasure of my history and the wisdom that comes with a wild & adventurous life..
* Those lines?
Those are the maps of every time I laughed until I couldn't breathe and almost peed my pants; aka LIVING.
* Those sun spots?
Those are the receipts from exotic beaches and the glare of the sun off mountaintops as I carved through powder on my skis or bombed down singletrack on my mountainbike; aka LIVING.
* The gray?
That’s the ash from the bridges I’ve burned & hearts I’ve broke to stay true to myself; aka LIVING.
I don’t want to look like I’ve been sitting in a dark room preserving myself so I don't "age" waiting for life to happen. Another barf PS…
I want the dirt under my fingernails. I want the story of a life lived hard, worked hard, and loved even harder.
The New Standard of "Pretty"
We’re told a "pretty dress" is how you signal your femininity. It’s supposed to be soft, delicate, and submissive.
I say a “cowboy hat” is a “pretty dress.” Because a cowboy hat doesn’t ask for a seat at the table; it claims the whole damn range.
It’s a statement of sovereignty. Standing next to a wild mustang—untamed, powerful, and utterly indifferent to your opinion—that is the "feminine" I am reclaiming.
It’s grounded. It’s embodied. It’s the wildness that they’ve tried to domesticate out of us for centuries.
To the Women in the Wild
To my amigas in their 40s, 50s, and beyond:
Stop wasting your gold on the lie that you are "less than" because you are no longer "new."
You are a masterpiece of scars, wisdom & sacred sensuality;
The white-knuckle grip of the patriarchy is slipping because we aren't buying the bull-shit they're selling anymore.
We’re too busy riding horses, skiing, biking, traveling, creating art, dancing, fucking, and LIVING OUTLOUD.
We are the wild mustangs they’re terrified of.
So, keep your "age-defying" creams.
I’ll keep my wide-open spaces, my grit, and my cowboy hat.
I’m finally 48 years young, and I’ve never been more in my power and authentic beauty; that emanates from the inside out.
The rest fades ya'll; and PS it will happen to you too. Remember who the fuck you are and don't forget your cowboy hat.
Yours truly; Amy- XXX
