The gradual changes to your appearance that come with age should always be embraced. They can also mean that your makeup and skin care routines require some shifting.

According to veteran makeup artist and makeup department head Lindsay Garrison, what worked for you in your 20s and 30s might not be serving you in the same way during your 40s and 50s.

″[You should] learn new techniques and don’t be afraid to try new products. Our faces are changing, and so should the products we use on them,” Garrison said.

Whether you’re feeling insecure about the appearance of a new wrinkle or volume loss in your cheeks, Natalie Setareh, a cosmetics instructor with a belief that makeup can be for everyone, said that makeup can also be a tool to help you feel more confident.

“I’m near 40 and I’m already using makeup to give me a more youthful appearance. It’s natural to want to do this,” she said.

Setareh said makeup is often just a play on light, and her techniques involve bringing focus to your favorite features using highlighting, while helping to downplay anything that makes you feel self-conscious.

Keep reading to learn just how Satareh, Garrison and other makeup artists achieve this, along with a description of their favorite products and tricks of the trade for achieving a youthful glow.

Falling in love again at 47 and marrying for the second time at 52 was a miracle. And a bit frightening.

But, then again, falling in love is always phenomenal and terrifying.

We took care of each other ― little inconsequential things: me, placing a water glass on his bedside table; him, refilling my coffee as I wrote in the morning.

We touched each other often, like shorthand: I’m here. I’m here.

I never doubted we’d spend our later years holding hands, having better sex than ever, kissing our way around the world, then… eventually… in the distant future… the way distant future… face dying together.

But then, at 60, my husband announced he wanted to have a child with a younger woman.

Immediately my hips widened, my breasts sagged and my wrinkles deepened. Every internalized belief and vision of what it meant to be an old, unwanted, irrelevant woman became me.

A few years earlier, I’d started talking about death. I’m not obsessed ― I’m practical. Although I didn’t have a specific illness, I was aware that my life was limited — not in the sense that I could get hit by a bus tomorrow (really, how likely is that?) but in the awareness I had more past than future. I wanted to complete our wills, fill out medical proxy forms and learn his funeral preference — burial or cremation, sweetie? Did he want all lifesaving measures or not to be resuscitated? I needed to take care of these details. So if, God forbid, I did get hit by that bus tomorrow, I wouldn’t spend my last moments alive thinking, shit, I never got around to filling out those forms.

My husband didn’t want to talk about getting old and dying. He did not want to choose between burial or cremation. He did not want to even think about it. Although everyone who has ever lived on this earth has died, it felt like a personal affront to him. I got that. I even felt that. We were both doing this damn aging thing for the first time ― like learning a new sport ― and we both felt clumsy, scared and inadequate. I simply wished to take care of the paperwork and return to believing we would blissfully live the rest of our lives together.

There is no correct way to age. Some of us are overwhelmed with the grief of lost youth. Others try to exercise their way to eternal life. Some take risks, jumping out of airplanes or switching to jobs that once frightened them. Many fill their schedules with endless doctor’s appointments. Some are despondent with regrets.

I’d bought moisturizers, magic anti-wrinkle creams and exercise programs promising to reduce flab and fight gravity. I’d read articles suggesting clothes and hairstyles that camouflaged tell-tale signs of aging. I did brain exercises like sudoku to try to stave off forgetfulness.

My husband chose to have his first baby.

I didn’t see that coming.

Sixty was the age of leaving the house and returning for the car keys, the age of have you seen my glasses? The age of sudden, unwanted diagnoses. Who left a marriage at this point?

Turns out a lot of people.

The divorce rate for people in the U.S. 50 and older is almost double what it was in the 1990s. There is even a name for this group: silver splitters.

When I was younger, I’d agonized about how I’d age. My fears ran the gamut: growing stupid, not knowing my children’s names, having strangers clean my body, being immobilized by bad hips or knees, or never staying awake for the end of the story.

I questioned my friends: ”What is your plan?” Age in place? Community living? ”What is the protocol?” I heard my voice rise with an edge of panic. I did not believe I’d react well when asked to give up my car keys.

But all this planning turned out to be futile. I didn’t get to choose from my fantasy menu of aging options. Remember the old Yiddish saying: Man plans and God laughs? God was laughing, and I was suddenly trying to figure out what the rest of my life looked like without my husband.

This new phase of life required a different mindset. Now that everything had blown up and I was on a new path ― whether I wanted to be or not ― I wondered, what if I treated aging as an adventure, like traveling to a new land? Who knew which way I’d go or what I’d discover? Imagine how glittery I’d be if I filled in my cracks like the Japanese tradition of kintsugi, patching broken pottery with gold and silver. Imagine if instead of averting my eyes, I looked at my future ― however different it was now going to be ― with awe.

And with this altered perception, whole worlds opened up.

When my youngest son, from my first marriage, got engaged, he asked, “So, Mom, do you still believe in love and marriage?”

I wanted to take my time here ― he’d witnessed both my divorces. Each person we love takes a little piece of us, and then they can be careless, forget to look both ways, drink too much, climb mountain cliffs or are otherwise negligent.

People die. They fall out of love. They leave.

We grieve.

The only way to avoid this pain is to avoid love. But that is too hard a way to live.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.” I paused and said, “But love alone isn’t enough ― you need to be fearless.”

Because a funny thing happened while I was grieving my husband’s departure. I discovered I really liked living alone. I found my way back to myself. Of course, it was difficult to describe being alone and happy without sounding like I was trying to convince myself that low-fat yogurt tastes as delicious as ice cream. But there could be a gratifying ending with being in alliance with myself, my desires and the people I cherish.

People around me are beginning to ask, “Are you seeing anyone?” I understood their motivation. It was some version of getting back on the horse.

A happy ending for this saga of lost love could involve me meeting another love. It wasn’t a terrible notion. I am a sucker for love. I am still the woman who watches romantic comedies. I am still a believer.

Friends and family members would relax if I fell in love again. They would stop imagining long, bleak, lonely evenings for me. Probably the only people who wouldn’t care if I am in a relationship or not are my grandchildren. I love them for it.

My ex-husband and I have chosen very different paths to age.

Maybe I couldn’t jump as high. Conversations from last week sometimes drew blanks. But I valued sitting and listening to a meandering story of my granddaughter’s nightmare.

I sat on the floor yesterday playing with cars and dinosaurs with my 2-year-old grandson. I said, half in jest, “I’m not sure how to get up.”

“Like this, Nonna.” He demonstrated putting his two hands on the floor and his bottom in the air and pushing.

I laughed so hard I fell over.

My body didn’t work as it once did, but I was committed to not letting embarrassment or shame get in my way. I was determined to still get on the floor and play with cars. Even if it meant I must put my ass in the air to get up.

I am strengthening my skills for this new land. I am learning to ask for help and be more gracious in accepting it. I am learning to disclose what I don’t know or when I’m unsure. I attempt to admit when I’m wrong and to apologize. (Of course, I should have tried that one earlier, but better late than never.) I’ve committed to taking care of myself: resting when tired, being outside more and not creating daily to-do lists that actually require three days to complete.

I’m working on accepting that I cannot create happiness for anyone else. I can share joy and wonder, crack jokes and join in the laughter, but I cannot develop a sense of serenity in another person. Despite my many years as a therapist and a parent, I know I cannot prevent suffering. I can sit with my children, grandchildren, friends and patients. I can hold their hands and offer a shoulder to cry on, encourage and cheer them on ― I can soothe hurt and troubled feelings. I can advocate for them and help them find resources. But finding a sense of well-being is their own work to do. That is an inside job.

And, of course, that also applies to me.

I have let go of the idea that I will make a big splash and solve the world’s problems. I recycle, protest and donate, but I really have no idea how to protect endangered species or get the world to pay attention to climate change. Or end poverty. Or child abuse. Or war. Or racism. And still, I want to learn. I want to do what I can, even in my own little way.

I savor small pleasures. Daffodils. Growing beans we can eat. I pull my novel out of the drawer and dust it off. At work, I asked for a raise and got it. I focus on the birdsong in the pre-dawn light.

Despite the visible reminders of old age, strangers say hi and smile at me. I believe, Ha! They are admiring an energetic, engaged old woman.

I still carry a self-image of a graceful, pretty woman, so I’m shocked when I see a lumbering gray-haired me in a photo. I tell myself that I’ve always photographed poorly.

I choose to live with these two delusions: I photograph terribly, and strangers admire me. There are worse ones. I could choose to believe I control the world ― or should ― and always be upset when things don’t go the way I’d planned. I could choose to live with the delusion that by 70, the world owes me something and be pissed when it doesn’t come my way. I could choose to live with the delusion that aging and dying are not in my cards and be horrified at the process. I could choose to live with all sorts of delusions that would cause me to be resentful and scared.

Instead, I choose to feel graceful and love ― in whatever ways I can ― and believe that strangers on the street are wishing me well.

Virginia DeLuca lives in Boston, Massachusetts, and works as a psychotherapist. She’s the author of the novel, “As If Women Mattered” and her essays have appeared in the Iowa Review, The Writer, and others. She is the graduate of the GrubStreet Memoir Incubator program and has completed her memoir, “If You Must Go, I Wish You Triplets.”

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch.

Paget Brewster intends to stay “inquisitive and sexy” as she looks ahead to her future in Hollywood.

The 53-year-old actor, best known for her portrayal of Emily Prentiss on the drama series “Criminal Minds,” acknowledged the new year Sunday by sharing her thoughts about aging and the decision not to go under the knife.

“Hi guys. I’m excited about 2023!” she tweeted, alongside a photo showing off her gray hair. “It’s hard getting older and not doing injections or surgery but I choose that. I’m older. I’m still hard working, inquisitive and sexy. Very sexy.”

By mid-Tuesday, Brewster’s tweet had received nearly 130,000 likes and a plethora of supportive comments. Many followers shared selfies in which they, too, displayed their gray tresses.

“I just wish that aging honestly ― and proudly ― were the norm,” journalist Amy Biancolli wrote. “The older we get, the more kickass we get. That’s the lesson and arc of life.”

Added “Portlandia” producer Evan Shapiro: “Grey is the new black. You look amazing – better than ever.”

Brewster joins a number of women in the entertainment industry, including Jamie Lee Curtis and Andie MacDowell, who are choosing to embrace their age, even if that means speaking out against cosmetic procedures.

In July, the actor shared another photo in which she rocked gray hair, noting that she’d chosen not to color it.

“I have felt pressure to dye it, pretend to be 35 again, no thanks,” she tweeted at the time. “We all have huge issues to address, I know. This is one small battle. But I think all of us have small personal battles. Let’s start by being kind to each other, even when we disagree. Please.”

Sure, Michael Myers is terrifying — but aging shouldn’t be.

Or at least that was the message Jamie Lee Curtis tried to convey while speaking to “Today” last week.

The “Halloween Ends” star, 63, shared her thoughts about getting older and the wisdom she’s gained since turning 60 — which included going under the knife.

“I did plastic surgery. I put Botox in my head,” Curtis said. “Does Botox make the big wrinkle go away? Yes. But then you look like a plastic figurine.”

Due to her experiences of succumbing to beauty standards, Curtis says that she always tells her daughters, Annie and Ruby, to keep one rule in mind: “Don’t mess with your face.”

And although the actor — who rose to fame at age 19 with her role as Laurie Strode in John Carpenter’s 1978 classic “Halloween” and has been highly visible ever since — could empathize with the appeal of turning back the clock, she insists that getting cosmetic procedures isn’t worth it.

“Walk a mile in my shoes,” she said. “I have done it. It did not work. And all I see is people now focusing their life on that.”

Curtis has never shied away from her thoughts on aging or cosmetic procedures, and has also spoken candidly about how her experiences with plastic surgery led to a yearslong drug addiction.

She explained to Variety in 2019 that she began getting plastic surgery after a cameraman once refused to shoot her because her eyes were “too puffy” on film.

“I was so mortified and so embarrassed and had just so much shame about it that after that movie, I went and had routine plastic surgery to remove the puffiness,” Curtis told the outlet. “They gave me Vicodin as a painkiller for something that wasn’t really painful.”

Curtis, who has been sober for over 20 years now, has also spoken about embracing her body as it is — and how empowering it has been.

In March, she revealed a photo of her character in “Everything Everywhere All at Once” on Instagram. In the photo, her character sits with her belly proudly on display. Curtis explained in her post that she gave a very specific idea of how she wanted her character to be styled in the film: “I want there to be no concealing of anything.”

“I’ve been sucking my stomach in since I was 11, when you start being conscious of boys and bodies, and the jeans are super tight,” Curtis wrote in her post. “I very specifically decided to relinquish and release every muscle I had that I used to clench to hide the reality. That was my goal. I have never felt more free creatively and physically.”

First introduced to the general public in the late 1980s, Botox has now become a billion-dollar industry that has challenged our relationship with beauty, wellness, plastic surgery, ageism and even gender ― it’s not just women who are getting the procedure.

According to the 2020 plastic surgery statistics report by the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, in 2020, women received about 4 million Botox-type treatments while men underwent just over 250,000 procedures of the kind.

Although there’s still a large difference in number of treatments between the two genders, experts are quick to note that, in the past few years, there has been a sharp increase in desire for the muscle-freezing, wrinkle-reducing injection among a range of people.

“While Botox is and has traditionally been more popular among women, various sources have demonstrated that it has been growing in popularity among men, as well,” said Dr. Samuel Lin, a board-certified plastic surgeon and associate professor of surgery at Harvard Medical School.

Facial plastic surgeon Dr. Jacob D. Steiger has also noticed the trend. “We are seeing the proportion of men versus women increasing,” he noted, “meaning the male segment is increasing at a higher rate. This is jokingly referred to as ‘brotox.’”

According to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, “brotox” is the No. 1 cosmetic procedure requested by men, with a 400% increase in treatments administered since 2000.

Overall, men and women seem to concentrate on the same area of the face when undergoing treatment: the forehead.

In the past, “people preferred a more total effect to the point that they looked expressionless,” explained Dr. Bruce Hermann, a board-certified plastic surgeon. “Today, I find that the majority of women prefer the maximal effect possible without having a frozen forehead. For men, I find that in general they prefer an effect similar to women but a bit more subtle on the forehead.”

Although men and women tend to seek Botox treatments on similar areas of the face, experts note that the procedures differ based the gender one was assigned at birth. As a general statement, given their larger muscle mass in the facial musculature, men need more Botox than women do to obtain similar effects.

“For example, in the glabellar area [the skin between your eyebrows], for a similar effect, I start women with about 15 units of Botox and go up as needed to achieve the desired result,” Hermann shared. “For men, I would normally recommend starting with 20 units and adjusting from there.”

The expert is quick to note that the approach gets more complex when dealing with patients’ foreheads. “Men commonly prefer a more subtle effect in the area,” he said. “So I’ll use a higher dosage per area in men but inject a smaller surface area.”

As long as the dosage is adjusted, the frequency of injection is the same for men and women, Steiger said. For most patients, results last about four months.

Anatomical variations in skin composition can also potentially lead to gender-specific differences in terms of reactions and complications. “Men typically have thicker skin with higher collagen composition compared to women,” Lin explained. “Male skin also tends to be more vascular, which carries a higher complication rate of bleeding and bruising when injecting Botox.”

Although based on anecdotal evidence, some physicians also believe that Botox wears off faster in men given their metabolism. However, Lin explained that this should be discussed directly between a patient and doctor, because it’s not easy to generalize “given broad differences in human metabolism.”

In short: Men and women look to address similar facial issues when getting Botox, but the dosages needed to reach similar results can vary.

Experts, including Hermann, believe the overall trends will stay the same in the future: Men and women will continue seeking to tackle similar facial issues through the treatment. Although more women than men are likely to undergo the procedure, “the percentage of men getting Botox will increase slightly each year,” Hermann predicted.

The surgeon specifically calls out ageism in the workforce. Although ageism was once an issue commonly mentioned by women in the workforce, it affects men as well.

Case in point: In 2019, Google settled an age discrimination lawsuit concerning its hiring practices. As a result, over 200 job seekers over the age of 40 who had applied for positions at the company received a settlement of $11 million.

COVID-19 also changed things. “The ‘Zoom effect’ is a phenomenon brought on by the pandemic whereby people working from home saw themselves more frequently on camera and started to notice things that made them look more aged,” Hermann said. “A study by the American Society of Plastic Surgeons in 2020 showed an increase in interest in plastic surgery or non-surgical procedures like Botox to look younger in 11-35% of women surveyed that were using Zoom or similar platforms.”

If you’re ever considering a Botox treatment, here’s how to find a reputable provider.

When most people think of aging, they think of loose skin, brittle hair and fragile bones — but there’s one more thing to add to the list, and it involves your nails.

With time, you may have noticed changes to your nails’ texture, thickness, strength and even growth rate. According to experts, this is completely normal, and most people will experience age-related nail changes by the time they’re 40. Despite these side effects of aging being inevitable, there’s a lot you can do to manage them.

We tapped experts to learn about the different ways nails change as we get older along with tips on how to navigate them.

Noticing ridges on your nails? This is referred to medically as onychorrhexis and is akin to wrinkles on the nail.

“When parts of the nail growth plate (aka the nail matrix) become thinner and begin to atrophy, the result is ridging (parallel longitudinal depressions in the nail plate),” said Dr. Dana Stern, assistant clinical professor of dermatology at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York.

A number of things can contribute to onychorrhexis, including nutritional deficiencies and hormonal changes, but age is another factor.

According to Dr. Michelle Henry, the founder of Skin and Aesthetic Surgery of Manhattan, our nails can also become brittle over time. This is due in large part to the degradation of the structural keratin proteins in our nails, which play a major role in our nail health and protect against external damage.

“As we age, our bodies start to produce less of the natural proteins found in nails, which can lead to nails becoming more brittle, dry, and prone to breaking,” Henry noted. “These keratin proteins are also found in our hair follicles, which is why we may also see a change in our hair texture as we age.” What’s more, if you have a family history of brittle nails, one study found that your chance of developing brittle nails is greater.

If you’ve removed your nail polish only to find that your natural nails are yellowing, know that it’s most likely related to a slower growth rate.

“Fingernails grow on average 3.47 mm a month, which means the average fingernail takes six months to replace,” Stern said. “As our nail growth rates slow, the nails are exposed to considerably more environmental influences and these exposures, over time, can affect the color and overall appearance and strength of our nails.” Other common causes of yellowing include fungal infections and prolonged polish wear, Stern added.

But why exactly does nail growth rate slow down with age? Henry said it relates back to our bodies producing fewer keratin proteins. “With less keratin being produced, our nails naturally start to lose their strength and structural integrity, which may lead to thinning and discoloration,” she said.

An often-overlooked nail change people undergo relates to cuticles. Cuticles act as the nail’s natural protective seal, and when they’re ragged and dehydrated, they can separate and lift, resulting in hangnails and openings where organisms and water can enter the nail unit, Stern said. This can not only lead to infection but, combined with other changes in nail texture and thickness, can highlight these age-related changes. Ultimately, healthy cuticles can contribute to more youthful-looking nails.

Finally, onycholysis, a condition in which the nail lifts off the underlying nail bed, is one of the most common age-related nail changes, according to Stern. “The slightest trauma, such as overly vigorous cleaning under the nail with a tool, can result in the nail lifting off of the nail bed,” Stern said. Over time and with age, your nails may fail to adhere to nail beds as firmly as well.

There are several things you can do to manage age-related nail changes. For one, develop a routine for your cuticles to keep them hydrated and well-kempt. Stern recommended gently pushing them back with a washcloth after a shower or bath, as well as hydrating them daily with oils or ointments (versus creams, which tend to not absorb as effectively, she said). If you’re experiencing a hangnail, resist the urge to bite or pull it off and instead use a clean cuticle nipper and cut it at the base. When it comes to using nail polish remover, look for hydrating, acetone-free formulas, as acetone can dehydrate and weaken the nail and surrounding area.

Also, consider the nail file you use. Stern said to use a glass file instead of a cardboard emery board, as these can cause microscopic tears at the nail tip, which can turn into splits and breakage. Glass files, on the other hand, create a perfectly smooth edge. And, be sure to replace dull nail clippers, as Stern said old ones can lead to splits and snags.

You should also consider the amount of water that hits your nails. “Nails are extremely absorptive of water (even more so than skin) ― when water is constantly moving in and out of the nail it puts a tremendous strain on the delicate nail cells, which can result in weakening, softening and breakage,” Stern explained. Not to mention, this can dehydrate your cuticles and cause them to lift and separate, which can lead to hangnails or openings where infections can more easily gain entry. A good solution? Wear protective gloves when washing dishes, cleaning the house or gardening.

Finally, Stern said if you’re experiencing sudden nail changes, see your board-certified dermatologist, as these can potentially be a sign of internal disease.

Maybe it happened when you had to make another salon appointment for a roots touch-up. Or maybe it’s because you noticed a lovely gray-haired person and thought, “Could I pull off that look?” Or possibly you’re just tired of hiding behind the dye on your head, when there’s an aged-to-perfection dynamo trapped inside who can’t wait to get out.

So here you are, reading an article about gentler, easier advice on going gray. We have tips from those who’ve done it themselves and from stylists who help people make that long, careful leap all the time — while emerging on the other side, looking fabulous.

First, let’s acknowledge that there still are plenty of good reasons for continuing to dye your hair, even if some of them are based in fear that you need to keep doing it as you get older. “I find that hair dye use is more common among people who work public-facing jobs or any kind of competitive field where appearance is a factor,” said Mirza Batanovic, style director for hair care company Eufora International. “People will choose to cover the gray to keep up with appearances and younger competitors.”

And then there’s the “I’m not old; I’m actually only 28, right?” factor. “We all want to look and feel young, and we want to hold on to our youth,” stylist Rod Anker said. “For so many, even the thought of having a head full of gray hair makes them feel older.”

Those factors may be true, but are there positives to embracing the gray? Yes, said Cassie Siskovic, U.S. artistic director of hair, facial and body care company Alfaparf Milano. “Beauty continues to evolve and change, and wearing natural gray hair is a wonderful way to express your individual beauty,” she said.

Whitney Lichty’s hair has been dye-free for more than two years, and now she’s “feeling as confident and empowered as ever.” On her Silver Strands of Glitter Instagram page, she proudly models her gray-locks-looks for more than 100,000 followers. “Through social platforms like Instagram, I’m able to connect with thousands of people, worldwide, who are on their same journey,” she said.

She acknowledged that it isn’t always easy: “You’re left with a growing line on your head as you patiently wait for the dyed hair to grow out. Insecurities can creep up, and comments and stares from loved ones and strangers can leave you feeling self-conscious. It can be a lot to process, and it’s a bigger commitment than people are ready to make.”

Her advice? “I would suggest surrounding yourself with cheerleaders and people who will encourage and support you, whether that support is coming from close to home or from the many online social platforms with people on the same journey as you,” she said.

First, you need to prepare yourself for “the talk” with your stylist, who’s gotten used to seeing lots more of you as the gray hairs have crept in. Most likely, they’ll be understanding. “As much as they’ll miss having you in the color chair, stylists want to help,” said stylist Michelle Cleveland. So spill the beans and make a plan, already. And that plan will need to take into account your timing, hair type, dye type and more.

“It’s a different approach for everyone,” Anker said. “I always like to start by coloring with less coverage — so instead of full 100% coverage, we start with slight translucent coverage of about 75%. It softens the regrowth and allows clients to get used to seeing something a little different that’s one step closer to the goals.”

From there, Anker begins to drop coverage to about 50% over a period of two or three months. “Then you can add highlights or simply stop coloring your hair altogether. It takes longer to do it this way, but it’s gentle on the hair, and it’s a good choice for anyone who’s a little anxious about the process.”

Keep in mind that as you’re dealing with a new head of hair, daily maintenance will probably be different than you’re used to. “Gray hair is void of melanin, the pigment that gives your hair its color,” Batanovic explained. “Melanin typically has moisture content and fats attached, so once it’s gone, hair can feel coarser and dryer than even colored hair.” And then there’s the shine factor. “Gray hair won’t shine like chemically colored hair,” Anker said. “The lighter color absorbs light instead of reflecting it.”

To maintain your newly gray locks, you’ll need to arm yourself with the right products and treatments. Many experts mentioned purple shampoos and other purple products, which help brighten hair and keep yellow tones at bay. “I recommend Aloxxi’s Violet Shampoo and its InstaBoost color depositing conditioner mask,” master colorist Jessica Wall-Innella told HuffPost. “Start with Strictly Platinum or Silver Fox.”

This could be a good time to book some in-salon services, too, now that you’re saving so much money by skipping coloring sessions. “I recommend a glaze every so often to keep the tone and shine, and then using a clarifying shampoo a few times a week as it’s growing out,” said stylist Jennifer Korab. You might also want to increase the frequency of deep conditioning and heat protectant treatments.

Once you start looking, you’ll find there’s no shortage of companies that are more than willing to help you make the best of your new look. Jenniffer Paulson is vice president of marketing for Go Gray, which sells products “for every state of your go gray journey.”

“We see products for every type of hair, from blond hair, to curly, to straight hair, but there isn’t much in the way of gray transitional hair,” Paulson said. “We have products for men and women who are going on a natural gray journey. Everything is specifically designed to address the concerns of transitions, but also to keep the hair moisturized and healthy-looking throughout the process.”

The final key to taking care of your locks as they grow out? “Regular haircuts!” Siskovic said.

Visual evidence: “I recommend taking pictures, lots of pictures,” Lichty said. “When you’re purposefully growing out your roots, time can feel like it’s at a standstill. There were months when I wasn’t even sure my hair was growing at all. Documenting your growth can be a great visual representation along the way.”

Freestyling: “A big mistake is attempting dye removal at home,” Wall-Innella said. “Without a full understanding of color, some have tried to remove their previously colored hair themselves. This usually results in an expensive color-correction process.” (In other words, you’ll end up spending time and money back at the salon anyway.)

Be nice: “Always speak kindly to yourself,” Lichty said. “Growing your natural gray hair can be emotionally complex. When you’re feeling discouraged, speak kindly and confidently to yourself, and take it one day at a time.”

Hang in there with your stylist: “A great partnership with your stylist is key for a successful transition,” Wall-Innella said. “Don’t listen to others when making the transition. Do what’s best for you, stay the course, and remember that patience is key.”

The image I see of myself in my mind is that of a photograph taken in 1992, when I was 22 years old. The photo is of me and my friend, Sean. I’d gone with him to have his professional headshots taken (he’s an actor and songwriter) and the photographer offered to snap a few of the two of us. The frame is a close-up shot of both of our faces. I am sitting on his lap, my arm around his neck, my eyes fixed on something past the camera. Sean stares directly into the lens with all the confidence and defiance of youth. We are both so very, very young.

While I know, as a relatively intelligent, mostly adjusted, grown woman, that I no longer look like the person in that photo, what I see in the mirror these days always takes me a bit by surprise. It is my mother’s face that stares back at me, a face that sparks both distress and grief. When and how did I start to look so old?

“There’s a certain amount of sadness, grief when we look at our faces [as we get older] — I should mention I’m 73,” Naomi Woodspring, an author and gerontologist, told me. “Yet notions, ideas about what we see in the mirror are seen through the lens of our current age.”

And these ideas change as we change.

Intellectually, I know I cannot magically remove all the effects of aging from my skin and body, no matter what advertisers and (often) the media want me to believe. I also know there must be some way to let go of my inner psychological equation that youth equals beauty and that, without it, I am no longer attractive. I’m not sure, though, how to go about changing my outdated definitions of these things.

I talked with three psychologists and researchers about ways to alter the narrative running through my head, the one that prattles on about how I look old and how unattractive the wrinkles and sags in my face are.

“First, you have to make a decision to accept yourself and accept aging. Think about what prevents you from doing that. You may think, ‘I’m not attractive, I’m invisible.’ But what, really, does this keep you from doing?” asked Ann Kearney-Cooke, an author, lecturer and director at the Cincinnati Psychotherapy Institute.

“How do you really want to spend your time?” she asked me.

I don’t especially want to think about how I look. It was never something that really bothered me or occupied my time, at least not until a couple of years ago when I turned 50. Now I’m often overly focused on the gray hairs and the lines and creases on my face. I want to change this narrative in my head.

Goali Saedi Bocci, a licensed clinical psychologist and adjunct faculty at Pacific University School of Graduate Psychology, explained to me the process of cognitive behavioral therapy and restructuring thoughts. Essentially, she explained how I could start to alter the story in my head, the one that continually laments my apparent untimely demise.

Cognitive behavioral therapy is a lot about changing our thoughts, Saedi Bocci told me ― which isn’t an easy thing to do, at least not for me. I have a very loud and insistent voice in my head that, at times, spews all sorts of negative things. I suspect many of us do. It’s difficult to change that perspective. That, though, is exactly what I needed to do.

“Cognitive restructuring, cognitive reframing, and thought distortions are challenging,” Saedi Bocci said. One kind of thought distortion is catastrophizing, she explained. An example would be taking notice of a line or a wrinkle and catastrophizing by thinking something like, “My aging is premature. By the time I’m a specific age, I’m going to look a specific way.”

The subtext, of course, being that that specific way will be old and no longer attractive.

“One thing doesn’t have to lead to this rabbit hole of thoughts,” continued Saedi Bocci. “I can make an observation, take a step back and say, ’OK, I’m assessing, yes, this is a true physical change. I’m not going to say this wrinkle isn’t here, but I can change the meaning of it.’”

This goes hand in hand with practicing mindfulness and nonjudgment, Saedi Bocci explained. “We’re so obsessed with good, bad, pretty, ugly. If we take back the label, remove ourselves and not make a judgment; well, that’s the healthiest place we can be.”

As soon as we label something as good or bad, delicious or disgusting, or whatever, it becomes that. Words are incredibly powerful. As Kearny-Cooke put it, “If you move around the world thinking you’re pitiful, then people will see you that way.”

“And so,” said Saedi Bocci, “being aware and intentional with our words, with our thoughts is powerful. Look at the story behind it. What does beauty mean? What does attractiveness mean?”

By thinking about these things, about the backstory of them, I realized that I was capable of changing some of my preconceived notions, or cognitively restructuring my thoughts.

As Saedi Bocci explained, cognitive restructuring means taking a pre-formed thought ― one based on societal norms, values, expectations or things your parents may have taught you — “into a court of law and arguing all sides of it. Is this something that’s true? Is it untrue? Is it helpful? Is it unhelpful?”

These kinds of questions are important when there is a level of cognitive rigidity, such as believing that only one thing — youth — equals beauty.

To combat this rigidity, talk and think about other forms of beauty. “Ask yourself, what is leading to this? Where have you gotten those messages from?” she continued.

She told me I needed to find a way in, the one place where I could begin the unraveling of whatever narrative has been looping through my mind in an unhealthy way. (I confess, at times, there are several.)

One way to begin shifting your narrative is to figure out what your signature strengths are, Kearny-Cooke told me. This could be a great smile or great legs. Think about how you enjoy them and/or show them, she suggested.

“Also, challenge yourself to stop seeing yourself through men’s eyes,” she added. That, as Kearny-Cooke said, is often a difficult thing. But what if I redefined that? She suggested I keep track each day of any thing I did that made me feel good about my body and/or myself — things like taking a walk or learning something new or planning a trip I wanted to take.

She also suggested I alter my inner monologue to include phrases like: “I’m eating healthy, I’m moving. I have good relationships with people. I have goals. I’m proud of what I’ve done in my life.”

“We all are proud of some of the things we did and not so proud of others,” Kearny-Cooke said, “but if we really try to tell ourselves a story, a new narrative about our life story, we can decide what the next chapters will look like.”

One way to help do this is that, instead of getting together with friends and lamenting our culture and how older women do not seem to be as valued as younger ones, spend that time with your friends going on a hike, planning adventures (I’m partial to ones of the cycling variety) or learning a new language.

“Remember, curiosity, courage and adventure-seeking are all youthful qualities,” she added. As I pondered this, I thought about another photograph of myself, taken a couple of years ago during a monthslong cycling trip across Central Asia. In this photo, I am laughing. I haven’t showered or seen a mirror in days. And I do not think I look old.

All three of the experts I spoke with emphasized the importance of creating my own narrative about my life. Kearny-Cooke described it as “honoring all the things you’ve overcome, the things you may still be struggling with, and the knowledge you’ve gained through your whole life — really honoring them,” she said. “And then, make a decision about what you want this time to look like. Ask yourself how you can gain power.”

As most of us know, we can’t control a culture’s or other people’s reactions to us. We can, though, decide to be somebody that people want to spend time with and get to know. We need to decide who we want to be.

“Am I going to speak out about issues or values I have? Am I free from that evolutionary selection of the young woman? Thank God I’m out of that. I’m free of that. I can create my own version of a middle-aged woman,” said Kearny-Cooke.

Her suggestion on how to begin to accomplish this: Make deliberate choices and write them down every day until eventually they become a mindset.

“Regardless of how you live your life, you bring that many years of experience into that face in the mirror,” Woodspring told me. “In my research, most people readily admitted that there was a certain amount of grief connected with aging.”

“But there was also acceptance,” she continued, “And I believe that the acceptance comes from all of those years of life experience and is part of what happens when people realize they have lived more life than they have left to live. We begin to see the world differently. We begin to see ourselves differently.”

Essentially, what I think she wanted me to know was that I am at the beginning of this transition into what I guess could be called ‘old age,’ that, eventually, I would make what she called a pivot, a pivot where I would begin to see myself differently.

Kearny-Cooke has a rowboat metaphor that she uses when she counsels people about beauty, aging and acceptance. Imagine you’re in a rowboat and the rudder that steers the boat is stuck. There’s also water in the bottom of the boat. You have a bucket with holes in it, but still you keep trying to bail out the water. You spend all your time and energy on the water problem that you can never solve, while completely ignoring the fact that the rudder on the boat is stuck, and is really what you should be paying attention to.

What I take from this is that I need to stop bailing out the water. There is nothing I can do about aging, but what I can do is focus on regaining control of my narrative and accepting that I cannot stop the effects of aging.

Though Sean and I are not as close as we once were, we still check in occasionally. In the early ’90s, we’d go out dancing two or three times a week. About 10 years ago, I sent him an email rambling about those nights we spent in questionable bars and sketchy music halls and lamenting the absence of adequate dance time in my current life.

He wrote back, simply, “I am always, always dancing with you.”

And I think that, for me, that is part of how I begin to accept aging. It’s not that I want to be “young” again or go back and relive any of it (God forbid), but I find comfort in believing that there is a 22-year-old me always and forever dancing with a 23-year-old Sean. Her existence helps me to recognize (and honor) all that has transpired over the past 30 years, as well as this new version of myself — who may have wrinkles, gray hair and the face of her mother, but is still alive, learning and growing and becoming, and maybe, maybe also a version of “beautiful.”

And as I write these words, perhaps I am taking the first step to making them so, of deciding what the rest of the story of my life will be.

Lately there’s been this recurring TV commercial that my husband, Chris, and I find particularly distressing. It’s for a diabetes drug. The ad begins with a son coming home for a visit after leaving for college. He observes the way his father has turned his focus to old hobbies and is developing some new, healthier habits, implying that using this drug opens space in your life for other things besides managing your Type 2 diabetes.

The 60-second spot cycles through scenes of the father — a somewhat hefty, gray-haired man — working out, preparing salads (while his wife flashes their son an approving look), tinkering with his car’s engine and fishing on a scenic lake. The wife, a woman with a nondescript, practical haircut (also fully gray) and mom jeans (definitively not the trendy ones that my 19-year-old daughter wears), hovers on the periphery.

Our distress is rooted in the implication that this man and this woman supposedly represent people at our stage of life: parents with a child who has just left for college (our daughter began this fall), adjusting to the empty nest, rediscovering old pastimes and trying out new ones. Every time we see it — and if we happen to be watching the nightly news or one of the early morning shows, we see it a lot — one of us inevitably has to ask, “Do I really seem that old?”

“No way,” the other reassures. “There’s no way that couple is our age.” An unsure silence usually follows. It’s weighted with all the denials that want to confidently claim our hold on youth and vitality but are struggling to take shape and leave our mouths. Even if the actors in the ad are miscast age-wise (and I really want to believe they are), a nagging feeling tugs at the edge of my consciousness and leaves me doubting. Maybe that commercial is more about us than we care to admit.

This week, I turn 50.

I’d like to say that I am embracing this milestone birthday with boundless grace and gratitude. But honestly? I’m dragging my heels more than a little bit as the looming finish line of my 40s approaches and I teeter on the brink of becoming officially “middle-aged” (which statistically actually happened when I turned 40, since the average life expectancy for women in the U.S. is 81).

“You are only as old as you feel, right?” a friend (still living blissfully in her mid-40s) quipped recently in an effort to reassure me that turning 50 is no big deal. It didn’t work. “If that’s true,” I responded, “I’m in big trouble.”

Because here’s the thing: I do feel old. In. So. Many. Ways.

Take, for example, my left foot. It hurts. Regularly. Especially when I wake up in the middle of the night to pee (don’t even get me started on this epic betrayal by my bladder). The first step out of bed genuinely feels like the floor is made of spikes. I move through the darkness to the bathroom in an off-balance hobble reminiscent of a drunken sailor. It’s not pretty. A recent trip to the podiatrist revealed that the plantar fasciitis I had surgery for in my 30s has returned along with a half-inch heel spur. It might eventually mean more surgical intervention, but for the time being it means consistent use of a bulky stretching boot, Advil and sensible (translate that to ugly) shoes.

My foot issue wouldn’t be overly concerning if it weren’t for the fact that I’m supposed to be training for a half-marathon at the end of May — an ill-conceived venture instigated by my oldest brother (who might also be pushing back against the realities of his age; he’s 53, FYI) that I grudgingly agreed to because of my lifelong FOMO and not being able to stand the thought of my three brothers accomplishing it without me.

My foot, coupled with the gathering aches in my joints, the extra pounds assembling at my waistline (and other places I didn’t even know you could gain weight) that are more determined to stay than I am to fight them off, and an expectation (based on empirical data from the last few years of trying to regain my exercise momentum that includes two broken kneecaps and a stress fracture in my hip) that at any moment something is inevitably going to break down, have me strongly doubting the possibility of running that race, let alone making it up the stairs.

So, this very-soon-to-be-50 body — with its taunting night sweats forecasting menopause, mysteriously appearing spots and wrinkles, and obnoxious sagging flesh — is making me feel old. But it’s not just the physical. There’s also the fact that my firstborn (the culprit in the creation of that sagging flesh) is about to turn 22. How is it possible that I have a 22-year-old? Chris and I got married when we were 22. There’s no way that this kid of mine, who I still partly see as the 4-pound premature baby I could hold in the palm of my hand, is possibly ready for anything so grown up. And yet, whether that’s true or not, he does have a serious girlfriend and is about to apply to graduate school.

Despite my sincere efforts to stay relevant and keep up with the interests and outlooks of my own Gen Z kids and the college students I teach, some recent interactions have exposed the grim reality that I have not. Here’s a sampling:

1. I made a “Schitt’s Creek” reference in my class the other day, and my students offered me their best blank stares. “Nobody has watched ‘Schitt’s Creek’? Come on! ‘Ew, David’? ‘Best wishes, Warmest regards’?” I exclaimed. One guy dutifully raised his hand. “My mom loves that show,” he said.

2. Aware of its cult-like following, I convinced my 19-year-old daughter (who’d binged the series) to watch the first episode of HBO’s “Euphoria” with me while she was home for spring break. It was a mistake. She’d prepared me for the sexual content and substance abuse. But as I watched the teenage characters face one traumatic experience after another, I couldn’t stop myself from repeating, “Where are their parents?” and felt a burgeoning anxiety for the well-being of all teenagers the world over. “I can’t do it,” I told Lily, peeling my fingers away from my eyes, when she asked if I wanted to watch the second episode. We turned on “Grey’s Anatomy” instead.

3. I once saw a T-shirt that said, “You know you are getting old when you open your mouth and your mother comes out.” Well, last week, when I spent 10 minutes engaged in a sanctimonious conversation on a walk with a friend about Rhianna’s sheer black maternity dress over a lacy bra and panties and nothing else! that she wore to the Dior Show during Paris Fashion Week, I heard myself say, “I mean, really, can that even be called a dress?” and there my mother was.

4. Today I experienced a disproportionate surge of excitement when I managed to guess the day’s Wordle on my second try (and I came precariously close to posting it on Facebook).

When I turned 40, I didn’t feel old. There wasn’t time. I was teaching a full load of classes, and I’d started a master’s program in creative writing with lofty literary goals keeping me focused. My children were 12 and 9, and I was looking ahead to the business of middle school and high school. My work and the kids’ activities and year-round sports — baseball, soccer, gymnastics, basketball, track and field, lacrosse — were the guardrails that kept my schedule full, productive and moving in a defined direction.

Now, 10 years later, my kids are both in college and where all that scheduled activity used to live is wide-open space. Unlike Drug Commercial Man who has apparently pounced on the chance to re-create himself as he’s entered his new stage of life, I feel stalled. I’m approaching this sixth decade without a map, and a languishing sense of uncertainty has latched on and won’t let go.

It doesn’t help that I’m turning 50 at a time when the whole world seems to be experiencing an existential crisis. There are layers of collective and individual trauma that have emerged from the ongoing effects of the COVID-19 pandemic, the war in Ukraine and the sobering forecasts from global climate researchers that have us all feeling a generalized sense of unease. But as I try to wrap my head around the mounting dread accompanying my birthday and what comes next, I recognize there is more to it than that.

My dad died when he was 53. He’d lived with an incurable illness for close to 10 years, and though reaching his 50th birthday was an achievement none of us had allowed ourselves to envision after his diagnosis, it felt less of a celebration and more of a step closer to the end (which, as it turned out, it was). My mom was 52 when he died. She and my father had dated since she was 14 years old. The grief of losing him derailed her natural transition to midlife, and she spent a good part of the next two decades trying in various ways to reinvent herself and fill the void. Now 78, she’s reached a graceful and settled rhythm, one definitely worth striving for when I reach that age. But in terms of role models for how to lean into my current moment or portraits of “flourishing 50s,” neither my father’s nor mother’s trajectories offered much guidance.

The truth is, I’m scared. I’m scared that I’m 50 and I haven’t done enough. I’m scared that I’m 50 and I don’t know what to do now. And I’m scared that before I can unravel these fears and grab onto a tangible thread of direction, time is going to run out.

Positive thinking, and oftentimes my therapist, tell me to wrap my arms around my fears, pull them close and listen to their wise whispers. My thinking, on the other hand, tells me to grab a handful of chocolate chips, hide under a weighted blanket and ignore my fears for as long as I can.

My immediate challenge, since there’s only so much fulfillment I can garner from the chocolate chips before self-loathing about the chocolate chips sets in, is to find some sort of middle ground. Maybe I don’t have to go as far as fully embracing the things that scare me, but I can at least acknowledge them, give them a little space inside all of this new wide-open space I have and stop trying to run from them (which, currently, doesn’t have the outlook of being all that successful anyway — see previous commentary on my left foot).

Maybe it’s not so much about suddenly re-creating myself in a way that’ll make my kids feel compelled to do voice-over narration about their new and improved mother when they come home from college, but instead it’s about taking the pressure off, easing my way in and reminding myself who I already am. And even though I’m clearly not all that secure about her, there’s one thing I do know about 50-year-old me for certain: She’s not yet surrendering to the exterior cues prescribing mom jeans and a practical haircut for women her age, no matter what portrait that drug commercial paints of who I’m supposed to be.

Melanie Brooks is the author of “Writing Hard Stories: Celebrated Memoirists Who Shaped Art From Trauma” (Beacon Press, 2017). She teaches professional writing at Northeastern University and narrative medicine in the MFA program at Bay Path University in Massachusetts and creative writing at Nashua Community College in New Hampshire. She is completing a memoir called “A Hard Silence” about the lasting effect of living with the 10-year secret of her father’s HIV before his death in 1995. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband, two children (when they are home from college) and two Labs.

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