How to Romanticise Your Forties

How to Romanticise Your Forties

Nobody Warned Me It Would Be This Good

Somewhere in my twenties, a magazine told me forty was the cliff. The end of attractive. The end of options. The end of being interesting to anyone other than your accountant. I absorbed that nonsense the way a sponge absorbs questionable bathwater, and then I dragged it into every birthday after thirty five like a wet, miserable handbag.

Then I actually got here. And, babe, the magazine lied. My forties have been the loudest, funniest, most opinionated era of my life. I care less about being palatable. I care more about being comfortable. I’ve finally accepted that I don’t, in fact, owe anyone a softer version of myself just because they find the full volume confronting.

The thing is, your forties don’t romanticise themselves. You’ve got to do the work. You’ve got to decide that this decade isn’t a slow fade into beige cardigans and early dinners. It’s a full sensory rebrand, designed by you, narrated by you, and absolutely not up for committee review. So here’s how I’m doing it, in case you want notes.

Stop Dressing Like You’re Apologising

There’s a specific outfit women in their forties are encouraged to wear. It’s muted. It’s forgiving. It’s described in catalogues with the word flattering, which is code for won’t frighten anyone at the school pickup. I wore that outfit for about ten minutes in my late thirties and felt like I’d been gently smothered by a linen pillow.

I threw it out. Metaphorically and, in some cases, literally. Now I wear what makes me feel like the version of myself I actually live inside. Animal print when the mood demands it. A red lip on a Tuesday for no reason at all. The earrings that swing like little chandeliers and announce me before I’ve entered the room. If the look raises someone’s eyebrow, that’s their forehead workout, not my problem.

Romanticising your forties starts with refusing to dress like a woman in witness protection. You’re not in hiding. You’re not auditioning for the role of unobtrusive aunt. Wear the thing. Buy the thing. Tailor the thing so it fits the body you’ve got, not the body a magazine told you to mourn. Style isn’t a young person’s sport, and the women who think it is are the ones standing at the back in beige, watching the rest of us have a really lovely time.

Build a Life That Smells, Sounds and Tastes Like You

Romanticising a decade isn’t just visual. It’s sensory. It’s the music playing while you cook dinner. It’s the perfume you spray even when you’re home alone with Lulu, who is, as ever, plotting my downfall and biting my toes for sport. It’s the linen on the bed. It’s the matcha you walk fifteen minutes to buy because the place near work makes it properly and you refuse to settle.

In my twenties I drank whatever was free. In my thirties I drank whatever was trendy. In my forties I drink what I actually like. Green tea by the litre. Matcha as a small daily event. Cold Savvy B from a giant wine glass I’ll absolutely break within the hour because I’m clumsy. There’s something deeply forty about knowing your preferences so specifically that you’ll politely turn down the wrong cup rather than choke down something you didn’t ask for.

The point is curation. You’ve been on this planet long enough to know what brings you back into your body and what drains the colour out of your day. So lean in. Light up the incandescent lamps instead of the LED big light. Play the album that makes you feel like the protagonist. Put the good sheets on a Wednesday because Wednesday’s also a day you’re alive. Your senses aren’t waiting for a special occasion, honey. You’re the special occasion.

Get Ruthless About Who Gets a Seat at the Table

The most romantic thing I’ve done in my forties is shrink my guest list. Not out of bitterness. Out of clarity. I simply don’t have the energy to perform for people who don’t know me, and I don’t have the time to translate myself for people who refuse to learn the language. Your forties are too short for that, and your nervous system has filed a formal complaint.

I used to keep people in my life out of obligation. Long history. Shared postcodes. The vague sense that cutting someone loose was dramatic. Then I realised dramatic is staying friends with someone who makes you feel smaller every time you see them. Quietly drifting isn’t drama. It’s admin. It’s housekeeping for your inner life. I can’t recommend it enough.

What replaces those people is the good stuff. The friend who texts you a voice note at 11pm because she’s got thoughts about a podcast episode. The colleague who clocks when you’re spiralling and quietly steers the conversation somewhere softer without making it a thing. The handful of humans who’ve seen you wobble and stayed in the chair. Romanticising your forties means treating those people like the rare resource they are. Show up. Send the flowers. Answer the call. Build the table around the ones who actually pull their chair in.

Let Your Forties Be Loud, Strange and Entirely Yours

There’s a quiet expectation that women calm down in their forties. Soften. Settle. Stop having opinions about things at dinner parties. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop laughing at your own jokes in public. I’ve read the brief and I’m declining. My forties aren’t a wind down. They’re a warm up for the most unapologetic decades of my entire life.

I’m neurospicy. I run a podcast where I overshare for sport. I live with a small black demon who believes my toes are a snack and my dignity is a chew toy. My life isn’t tidy and I’m not interested in making it look tidy for anyone scrolling past. The relief of not performing wellness, calm, or ladylike restraint is, frankly, better than any anti ageing serum on the market. And I’ve tried a lot of serums.

So here’s the brief, if you want one. Wear the thing. Drink the matcha. Play the music. Keep the friends who get it and gently release the ones who never did. Make your home smell like a memory you actually want. Laugh louder than the room expects. Romanticising your forties isn’t about pretending you’re still twenty five. It’s about finally being so completely yourself that twenty five looks like a rough draft. The final version, babe, is right here. And she’s having the best time.

You Are Not Entitled to an Answer – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In this episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why you are not entitled to an answer. Specifically, we're talking about the strange little corner of modern dating where a few days of app chat somehow becomes an emotional contract, and suddenly a man you've never met believes your silence requires a formal explanation, a debrief, and possibly a follow-up meeting with management.I have two stories for you. One man who talked almost exclusively about himself, ignored the fact that I was sick, and then followed up a week later asking whether I'd reconsidered his "request for clarification". And another who became offended because I didn't respond to his selfie within two hours while I was lying in a dark room with a migraine. Sir. Please be serious.Because here's the thing. Before you've met someone, you do not owe them unlimited access to your time, attention, reassurance, or emotional labour. You don't have to justify why the vibes changed. You don't need a reason they'll consider reasonable. You are allowed to disengage because something felt off, because you changed your mind, because you met someone else, or because you're in your luteal phase and frankly the entire world can wait.Today we're talking about the difference between ghosting and simply disengaging, why demanding closure can become a boundary violation, the exhausting expectation that women should manage men's feelings for them, and why you do not need to JADE, justify, argue, defend, or explain, when you've already decided you're done. Let's get into it.Key Takeaways:A few days of chatting does not create a debt. Matching on an app, exchanging messages, or talking on the phone does not give someone a claim on your attention. Until you've actually built a connection, you are allowed to walk away without submitting supporting documentation.Closure is not something another person can demand from you. Asking once is one thing. Continuing to push after someone has clearly disengaged is not persistence or emotional maturity. It's refusing to accept the answer you've already been given.You do not need to JADE. You don't have to justify, argue, defend, or explain why you're no longer interested. The reason doesn't have to be good enough for him. It just has to be yours.Pre-date silence and post-date silence are not the same thing. If you've never met, disengaging is part of app dating. Once you've shared an actual date or developed a genuine connection, a simple goodbye becomes basic courtesy. Nobody needs a dissertation, but acknowledging another human being matters.Sometimes they don't miss you. They miss the audience. Someone can seem interested while actually being interested in having your attention. Real connection requires curiosity about you. If the only time they become deeply engaged is when you're leaving, pay attention to that.For more visit  ⁠BryJaimea.com⁠ or follow over on IG  ⁠@BryJaimea

1. You Are Not Entitled to an Answer 14:41
2. We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency 11:56
3. The Wine Aunt Manifesto 16:21
4. Who Said Anything About a Crisis? 13:07

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