I Dreaded Going Gray, Now That It’s Happening IDGAF

Our writer had always been scared of dying, until she realized there are a lot of things harder in life than death–and gray hair is not one of them.

When I got my first gray hair this year at age 40, I didn’t post about it on social media. In fact, it’s in the bylaws of womanhood that if you bemoan getting a gray hair on the internet, and you are in your 40s, every single woman who started going gray in their 20s must reply to your post to let you know. And honestly, I just don’t have the bandwidth for that kind of notification management these days. I mean, I have a lot of TikToks to watch. And yes, I guess “children to raise.”

When I was in my 20s, I shared every single thought and feeling I had on the internet. I did it on Facebook and Instagram, and I did it in personal essays published on places like xoJane and Cosmo. If we want to be melodramatic about it (and I’m a Cancer, so I do), I sold my life off in $50 chunks; I let the world read about my sex life, my lack of sex life, my relationships, my lack of relationships. It put food on my table, and if I want to be a little kind to myself, it gave me perspective and community during a time when I was still figuring out who I was, who I wanted to be, and how to bridge that distance. 

When I stopped measuring out my life in digital teaspoons for pay, I didn’t miss it. I didn’t have time to—I was working a full-time content mill job at a news website. But I did miss the community. Some people bump into exes or old friends on the street and make small talk; I’d do that from time to time with friendly internet readers who might appear in the comments of my latest, lamest TikToks. But it wasn’t the same as it used to be: They didn’t know my life anymore, because I wasn’t sharing it. 

So there’s the gray hair. One at first, then suddenly eight. And all I can do is laugh in the mirror and think: I need to talk about this. I need to make a joke about how it isn’t remarkable at all, but it’s totally remarkable to me because I’ve been dreading this moment my whole life. I want to say that to the women who were 20 when I was 20 and who are 40 now. I want to wave to them, pull up a chair, crack them open an IPA with a brutally high APV, and revel in how nothing in life turns out the way that you think it’s going to. 

I guess that’s what I’m doing right now. 

As a person who perpetually felt like she was waiting for life to happen to her, gray hair meant old, and old meant you missed your shot at having a life. It meant closer to death, and dying was the scariest thing I could imagine. 

My entire life, I’ve been terrified of dying. In a clinical way. During my pregnancy, the intrusive thoughts I had about death were so intense that I was hospitalized with a perinatal mood and anxiety disorder. I wonder now if the gray hair was there then, but I was wearing emotional blinders. Did it hide, waiting for a time I was ready to see it and greet it with open arms?

To me now, with the gray hairs finally making their appearance, they have nothing to do with death. This isn’t a preface to being chucked into a hole in the ground, it’s a marker of the life I have lived so far. It’s about the next chapter. It’s a prelude to the power of entering your crone era, and how I ache to be a crone! 

I think I have been terrified of death because it’s something I can’t control—but being pregnant, having kids, is the most out of control a person can ever be, and you know what? The world didn’t end. I made it through. Bring me my cauldron! Let my gray mane grow wild! I shall make balms and salves and minor curses! 

My dear friends who were 20 when I was 20 and who are 40 now, here’s something we all learn: There are much scarier things than dying. Things like being placed in a mental hospital when you’re six months pregnant. Things like the way a kid can look at you as though you are Atlas and the continued presence of the Earth in space is entirely down to you. Things like admitting just how broken you are. Things like turning the page, repairing what you can, and moving forward.

For me, that meant embracing what I can’t control. It meant accepting that I needed more assistance with my mental health than I thought I did. It meant going to the emergency room sobbing and holding my pregnant belly begging for help. It meant learning to be more open and honest with the people in my life. That is—if you’ll forgive me—terrifying. 

I thought about this while I stared at the silver streaks (that’s romanticizing, but as we’ve established, I’m a Cancer) snaking their way into my temples. I gave away so many of my feelings and experiences for a pittance as a young woman writer before they were baked. I tossed them into the wind, the void, or the server that the company finally stopped paying for. 

I don’t miss that, but I missed you.

So I’m telling you about it now. How the gray hair came in, and I laughed. This was the thing I was so scared of for so long? This is easy. This is me. Nothing is pretty and solved and perfect. I still have panic attacks. I’m getting older every day, and sure, I still fear death, like I’m sure some of you do too. But today the gray in my hair shines like a star on a clear night, an unexpected and beautiful discovery, and I am laughing, and tomorrow there will be something else to worry about and maybe we can talk about that too.

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