Articles

As you enter your mid to late 30s, you embark on a new chapter of preventative healthcare.

Twenty-three women set out to get a raise. They were outperforming their male colleagues — had been for years — despite unequal working conditions, lackluster promotional efforts, and performance bonuses nothing short of pathetic.

In one of my local Facebook groups, I often see women asking anonymously if they should leave a rocky marriage.

In the months leading up to my 45th birthday, I had been feeling confident about my professional prospects for the future.

Something was wrong with Mom’s brain. Last summer, she began taking a muscle relaxant for crippling arthritis pain and started acting bizarre.

A few years ago, my boyfriend left for work during a pounding rainstorm for his half-hour commute. I texted him an hour later to make sure he’d arrived okay.

On Saturday, my younger child will graduate from high school, just like so many thousands and thousands of kids have over the last few weeks.

The networking event sounded so good on paper. International young professionals getting to know each other in a bar setting? Sign me up!

As Black women age, sometimes it really feels like we’re getting jumped by racism. Don’t get me wrong, I love being Black and I’m embracing aging. But we experience the worst of so many health issues, and fibroids are up there as the biggest attacker.

Over the holidays, I found one of my old journals from 2012/2013. I turned to a page that had “My Fears” written across the top. Beneath it, I scribbled, “I'm so afraid of being alone for the rest of my life.

Last year, when she was 48, Los Angeles-based clinical psychologist Noosha Niv married her longtime partner in a cave near Playa del Carmen.

“I’m feeling so unearthed,” a friend says to me over the phone. “I just found out I have to be out of my apartment in four days.”