Middle age snuck up on me—then handed me a mic and a flamethrower. Suddenly, I’m louder, sharper, softer where I want to be, and completely uninterested in being palatable. Is it healing? Perimenopause? A slow-burning revolution? Hard to say. But whatever it is, I’m into it.
Here’s to the women growing teeth, growing louder, and growing into themselves. Long live the battleaxes. Welcome to our prime!
Ferality
We were raised to be small—
kind, quiet,
made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
Taught to giggle, to bat our lashes—
but not in a slutty way.
In a demure way.
But not too demure,
lest we be overlooked.
Just enough to be appealing.
Not enough to be a problem.
Madonna, never whore.
Caretaker, never burden.
Backbone, never voice.
We were shaped into mousey women
who could disappear in a room full of men.
Women who gave our bodies,
our peace,
our everything
to whoever asked.
And then—middle age.
That riotous time
when our fucks disappear faster than our estrogen.
We grow teeth.
We bite back.
No longer small,
no longer sweet.
We stop apologizing.
We let our hair go untamed,
riotous curls shaking loose along with our dreams.
We wear what feels right,
not what flatters.
We speak boldly,
with oomph and zero justification.
We are feral.
We are inferno.
We know the world wants us to bow out—
gracefully, quietly.
We do not.
We scream our battle cries.
We rise into the role of hag,
of crone,
of battleaxe.
And we love it.
Because we are no longer here
to please, to shrink, to soften.
We breathe fire.
The world is finally ours—
because we no longer give a single damn
what you think.
Come for us.
We dare you.
© 2025 Autumn Giberson. All rights reserved.
Even as someone still on the way to middle age, I needed this reminder. I spent so much of my life trying to be palatable, but now I know I don’t have to shrink to be accepted. Here’s to the women who choose feral over quiet. May we join them <3