The first gym I ever joined was the West Side YMCA in Manhattan. As a recent transplant from California, I signed up for an "Introduction to Karate" class in preparation for the mugging I was convinced was imminent. 
When it finally came, my legs proved more reliable for running than roundhouse kicking. I was 32 years old and already believing I was too old to start working out. Now, nearly 40 years later, I'm probably in better shape than I was then.
"At the touch of a button, a tanned virtual training partner materialized onscreen, furiously pedaling and encouraging, 'You got this! You're crushing it!'"The venerable edifice, the West Side YMCA, was the Grande Dame of fitness centers, built way back in 1930. There's a stinky splendor to old gyms, a nostalgic romance for dilapidated punching bags, clanging dumbbells and hissing steam rooms where you half-expect journalist Damon Runyon to amble in with Jack Dempsey. 
Farewell, antiquated dumbbells, rusty free weights and glitchy cable machines. Hello, shiny new digital zero-emission cardio and strength stations.
In those days it was the YMCA, an acronym for Young Men's Christian Association. By 2010, they had dropped the M, C and A, re-branding themselves into the more streamlined moniker, "The Y".
Times and places change. I left NYC for Austin in 1997, and I've been going to the same neighborhood gym now for over 25 years. 
So it was with some apprehension that I heard the news that my longtime fitness center would be closing for two weeks to be totally updated and refurbished with brand new fitness equipment. Farewell, antiquated dumbbells, rusty free weights and glitchy cable machines. Hello, shiny new digital zero-emission cardio and strength stations.
My Gym Routine 
My gym routine was one of the few constants I could cleave to, the rare daily habit I felt good about, and I was wary of the impending change. The interim gym-less weeks proved frustrating but fruitful. I began improvising a makeshift program during outdoor walks using my own body weight — chin-ups on poles, push-ups on park benches, dips on stairway railings. It felt good. It forced me to shake up my routine. 
One week before the grand re-opening, they held a sneak preview of the new, improved fitness gear. The new equipment — all jet black — was simultaneously impressive and intimidating: Glistening new barbells, versatile strength machines, clang-less rubberized free weights and glossy cardio gear were all lined up like monolithic dominoes. The company spokesman for the new equipment flew in from Miami to orient the members and staff to the new equipment.
Toned and tan in a form-fitting monogrammed T-shirt, Marty was equal parts Jim Thorpe and Gordon Gecko. Gathering our small group into a semi-circle around one of the new treadmills, he pulled his cellphone from his pocket, announcing, "First, let's install our app on your phone."
My heart sank. I'm app-averse, suspicious of such vaporous technology. "Do you have to install the app to use the equipment?" I asked tentatively. My little tour group looked at me like the resident class geek.
I'm App-Averse 
Marty was indulgent and reassuring. "No, no," he said. "But it does let you access all pertinent stats, maximize your gains, track losses and monitor your ratio of time investment to maximize results." I had the disconcerting feeling Marty's previous gig was as a stockbroker.
Apparently, the only thing this new gear couldn't do was to offer up a post-workout cup of chai tea.
Stepping gingerly over to a gleaming new stationary bike, Marty climbed astride and began peddling. It was indeed a cycle to behold, complete with a high-def TV screen with virtual videos of various biking trails around the world.
"You can ride through the streets of Rome, cycle the bridges of San Francisco, or climb the biking trails of Machu Pichu," Marty rhapsodized, flipping through an array of scenic vistas. That sounded cool to me, though I wasn't previously aware of any biking trails built by the Incas.
"You can also access personal training programs," he continued, "with our virtual team of certified fitness coaches." At the touch of a button, a tanned virtual training partner materialized onscreen, furiously pedaling and encouraging, "You got this! You're crushing it!" Apparently, the only thing this new gear couldn't do was to offer up a post-workout cup of chai tea.
After the tour, Marty asked our little retinue if we had any questions. A staff member raised her hand, asking, "How do our blind members access this equipment?"
"Damn new machines. I pulled a muscle on that chest press. Probably take a month to heal."
Marty's face went white. He appeared as stumped as a contestant on a quiz show in Latin. "I'll have to get back to you on that," he stammered, before leaving to catch his flight back to Florida.
The honeymoon went south the day of the grand re-opening. The first mishap occurred when a longtime member was going through his paces on the new speed-programmed treadmill and pressed a button saying "MAX," thinking it was a cable channel. It wasn't, and he was sent flying like a tossed squirrel. The virtual coach on the video screen was oblivious, still exhorting, "You got this! You're crushing it!"
That was only the beginning. Returning members began grousing about limited access and range of motion in the new gear. Two days later, my longtime fellow gym rat Ron arrived with his arm in a sling.
Flexibility of Body and Mind 
"Damn new machines," he grumbled. "I pulled a muscle on that chest press. Probably take a month to heal."
"Give it time," I said. "They say the body remembers."
"Yeah," he said. "And it holds grudges, too."
It's been a few months now, and I've started acclimating myself to the New Normal at my revamped fitness center. I've even developed an appreciation for the new squeek-less cable machines. The incline benches are much more versatile and the mint-scented antiseptic wipe dispensers beat the heck out of the malodorous old rag piles. Still, like old high school crushes, I sometimes wonder whatever became of those old weights and machines.
We can adapt. We got this. We're crushing it.
One day on the stationary bike I found my eyes drifting up from the video screen to the large window overlooking a real trail outside, inviting me to get on a real bike with two wheels that would actually transport me somewhere. The next week I found myself riding through hills capped by bluebonnets under a crisp blue sky, and it felt great. I've begun mixing my workouts between indoors and outdoors.
Flexibility is as much a matter of mind as body, and we need it to survive. We adapt or we calcify. I'll always retain an evanescent affection for all the gyms I've loved before. But the retrospective truth is it isn't the Y, or the trendy new apps, or the virtual machines or familiar workouts that keep us fit and active. It's us. The gyms, machines and old routines are merely the vehicles we take, not the destination.
We can adapt. We got this. We're crushing it.


Wherefore and 'The Y'

Steve Uhler

Before he retired from academia 14 years ago, Alfonso Siverls had no expertise in media. Now, at 76, he is a podcast producer, filmmaker, videographer and TV show host. Siverls credits his estimable array of skills to BRIC Arts Media in downtown Brooklyn, New York, which offers classes (many of them free) and presents events that focus on media education, contemporary visual and performing arts and civic action.
Shoemaking instructor Emily Putterman-Handler (left) with student Diane DeRosa"As I was wondering what my next step might be after retiring, I heard an ad on the radio about a media orientation class at BRIC," said Siverls. "I went, and I was hooked. I was fascinated with all the opportunities to do new things, and over the years everything I learned triggered a creative aspect of myself that had been dormant."
"Sixty years ago, we used to buy albums together, and now we have a podcast."
Founded in 1979, today the nonprofit's main venue is BRIC House on Fulton Street, which houses a public media center, a contemporary art exhibition space, two performance spaces, a glass-walled TV studio and spaces for artists of all ages to work. 
Each year, BRIC arts and media education programs and shows reach over 25,000 individuals. Residencies and fellowships are available, and the Youth Education department includes a network of artists who teach arts and media education in more than 35 public schools in New York City.
After Siverls took media classes at BRIC for two years, he began helping other students there with TV production. He started his own monthly TV show, "Second Saturday." He took classes in photography. 
After he learned how to make a documentary, he made one on Arturo Alfonso Schomburg, the noted historian and chronicler of the Black experience whose name now graces a research library and archive repository in the New York Public Library system. "That was a fabulous experience," Siverls said.
Screen Writing, Documentary Filmmaking and More 
When Siverls first heard about  classes in podcasting, he had no clear idea what that was. After learning everything BRIC had to teach on the topic, he started "Jazz, Just The Way We Like It," a weekly podcast series with his longtime friend Lawrence Williams. They play and discuss classic songs of the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, and sometimes they talk about politics. 
"Sixty years ago, we used to buy albums together," Siverls said, laughing, "and now we have a podcast."
On his website, Siverls describes his many projects — including the four books of poetry he has published — as "Working Towards What I Will Leave Behind." Though he credits BRIC for teaching him many of the skills he has learned, Siverls has additional words of praise in regard to the social interactions at the organization. "All the people, most of them younger than me, are fabulous," he said. "BRIC is a wonderful place, and learning there is a lot of fun."
Alfonso Siverls in the studio at BRICPeople from all over the world register for online classes at BRIC, said Skye MacLeod, senior director of media education. "That shows the international stature of Brooklyn. Though our community media education program primarily focuses on helping the Brooklyn community get their voices heard through our four public access TV channels, we also offer a large number of other classes."
MacLeod mentioned that the three-hour session in the fundamentals of screen writing is especially popular, and serves as a starting point for many people interested in filmmaking.
Older adults are big fans of the documentary filmmaking class. "They want to learn to document their lives, and they bring so much energy to our building, and so many amazing stories," he said. "We're all about honoring what they want to tell the world and helping them tell those stories."
The 92nd Street Y, New York Dates Back 149 Years 
BRIC has collaborated on local programs from time to time with The 92nd Street Y, New York (92NY) on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, long considered one of the top community-based art centers in the U.S. 
How long? Founded in 1874 as the Young Men's Hebrew Association, the nonprofit organization welcomes all and boasts patrons in all 50 states and some 200 other countries. Almost everybody who is (or was) anybody has performed (Yo-Yo Ma), read (James Baldwin), taught (Martha Graham) or exercised (Hank Greenberg) at 92NY — just check out this star-studded timeline for more famous names.
Last year, 92NY offered 3,723 classes, lectures and special events. Instructors teach everything from ballet to pickleball to music appreciation to silversmithing to dance for people with disabilities to quilting to self-defense to portrait painting to ukulele. Online sessions are available in abstract drawing, cooking, humor writing, paper marbling, Zumba and more, as are numerous art lectures, readings and musical programs.  
A potter at work at 92NYEmily Putterman-Handler, 56, teaches shoemaking, an in-person class. In her introductory class, students make a pair of mules. In the advanced class, they tackle oxfords, boots and more. 
"People of all ages come to class," Putterman-Handler said. "Currently I have some software designers, engineers and people in finance, all taking the class because they want a different kind of challenge. I like to provide a nice atmosphere, and I put on soft music so the students can relax, work on their art and make friends."
Putterman-Handler was first drawn to shoemaking as a freshman at the Parsons School of Design, and she's been teaching the art for 35 years, with stints at the Fashion Institute of Technology, the Pratt Institute and other venues in New York. 
Some former students have started their own shoe manufacturing businesses, Putterman-Handler said, and one made a pair of slippers that was part of a recent exhibition at the American Folk Art Museum that paid tribute to the work of Morris Hirshfield, a painter and shoe designer.
Guild Classes 'Beloved by Artisans' 
"I'm taking a class now with a master miniature oil painter," Putterman-Handler said. "This place is one of the last places with old-time guild classes in jewelry making and painting taught by experts, and for that it's beloved by artisans."
The Art Center, part of the Gilda and Henry Block School of the Arts, includes the Ceramics Center, the Jewelry Center and the Fine Art & Design Center. The ceramics studios —  equipped with 25 electric potters' wheels, a gas reduction kiln and three electric kilns — is where Helen Chardack, 66, exercises her creativity three times a week.
"You make friends here, we help each other, and it's a wonderful community."
Chardack's latest project is a series of neolithic tools. "I throw a closed form and then alter it, because I don't want it to look like an old stone tool," she said. "Some are super smooth in my hand and others are faceted. Right now I'm figuring out a way to turn them fluorescent. This is all about creativity and self-expression." 
The social aspects also appeal to Chardack, who has worked in the ceramics studios for about 20 years. (Maybe you saw her in a segment on happiness that aired Jan. 8 on "CBS Sunday Morning.") "You make friends here, we help each other, and it's a wonderful community," she said. "That's really satisfying."


Famed Arts Organizations in Brooklyn and New York City Foster Creativity

Patricia Corrigan

"Aside from a house and a car, fixing my teeth would be the most expensive purchase of my life."The day before my 62nd birthday, I got braces on my teeth. Not the wire-and-metal-stud variety I might have had 50 years ago, but clear "aligners" that I thought would be inconspicuous. 
My smile had always bothered me, but I had given up the thought of straightening my teeth decades earlier, when an orthodontist said I needed surgery to fix my underbite. At the prospect of having my jaw wired shut for six weeks I thought, "I don't look that bad." So, I dropped the idea. 
Why revisit it now? My crowded teeth were difficult to floss, and my top teeth seemed to be getting more crooked, which is possible, as teeth can shift over time. For years I smiled for photos with my mouth closed.  
For years I smiled for photos with my mouth closed.
Hearing my concerns, my dental hygienist suggested I consult an orthodontist.  
I was skeptical, expecting to hear, again, that I'd need surgery or that my three remaining wisdom teeth would have to be pulled to make room in my mouth. Either of these suggestions would have ended my quest for straight teeth. 
Aside from traditional wire braces, newer options include wire-and-porcelain braces and devices that fit behind the teeth to be invisible. After taking impressions, photographs, and a 360-degree scan of my jaw, Dr. F said I was a candidate for clear aligners, which fit over the teeth and work by slowly pushing them into position. I'd still have an underbite, but my teeth would be straighter, no surgery or extractions required.   
Too Old?
A few weeks later, after consulting with the company that makes the custom aligners, Dr. F showed me a video simulation of how she expected my teeth to move. It looked like magic — albeit high-priced magic. Aside from a house and a car, fixing my teeth would be the most expensive purchase of my life.  
Family and friends encouraged me to do it, but I had to wonder: Wasn't I too old for this? 
"Oh, I have patients in their 80s," Dr. F said.  
The American Association of Orthodontists estimates that one in three orthodontic patients are adults, and a 2022 survey of AAO's nearly 10,000 members showed, on average, a 19% increase in patients over 50 since 2018. Overall, the survey data suggest there are as many as 270,000 orthodontic patients aged 50 or older in the U.S. and Canada, according to Melissa Palmer of the AAO. 
I had to wonder: Wasn't I too old for this? 
Why this surge of interest in straight teeth? Vanity drove my decision, but in an email, Myron Guymon, DDS, MS, president of the AAO, said improved function and stability are other important reasons to pursue orthodontic treatment. Straight teeth are easier to clean, which helps us maintain good oral health. "A well-aligned bite and straight teeth may help to decrease future dental problems," he said. 
Soon after starting the process, I learned it is not as magical and inconspicuous as I thought. First, Dr. F bonded tiny "attachments" made of composite dental resin to some of my teeth to anchor the aligners. I would need 36 sets of upper and lower aligners, changing them every two weeks over at least 18 months as my teeth shifted.  
'Was It Worth It?'
Teeth move more slowly in adults than in adolescents, but they begin moving soon after pressure is applied. Until settled in their new position, they'll move back just as quickly, so the aligners must be worn 20 to 22 hours per day. Formed from clear plastic, they stain easily and are not strong enough to withstand the pressure of chewing. I was told to remove them to eat or drink anything other than water. 
That leaves only two to four hours per day for meals, or even less, considering the brushing and flossing needed before re-inserting the aligners. Good-bye to a second cup of coffee in the morning or lingering over a glass of wine in the evening. 
Not knowing how I'd survive a year and a half of this, I joined a couple of online support groups, one of which, with 1,000 members, is specifically for people over 50. Visiting these groups, I'm often greeted by a screen-filling photo of teeth. Many people post success stories, but just as many have problems that they highlight with circles and arrows on their pictures. 
As I approach the end of my treatment friends ask, 'Was it worth it? '
Older adults are more prone to gum disease than younger patients, and they may have crowns, bridges or dental implants that can complicate treatment, said Guymon. Good communication between patients and their dental providers is essential. For example, as my bite changed, an existing crown began preventing other teeth from closing together properly. Fixing the problem required a visit to a prosthodontist, who "polished" off a tiny fraction of the offending part of the crown. 
For people using clear aligners, it is not unusual to need "refinements," meaning the initial treatment didn't do the trick, so an additional batch of aligners is needed — adding to the treatment time. Also common is interproximal reduction (IPR), which is a process of filing away a hair's-width of enamel to make space between teeth. Everyone in the support group said it was no big deal, but I felt like Dr. F was sawing away with the dental floss equivalent of sandpaper.  
Two years in, I now wear aligners only at night, but I still have metal hooks on a few teeth, to which I attach tiny rubber bands meant to pull a couple of stubborn pre-molars into their final position.  
As I approach the end of my treatment friends ask, "Was it worth it?"
Like most challenges, this one was toughest at the beginning. And in a sense, it will never end, because anyone who gets braces — of any kind, at any age — needs to wear a retainer at night for the remainder of their days, lest those formerly crooked teeth return to their old positions.  
Overall, I am grateful to have an orthodontist who was honest about what could be achieved. My teeth are still not perfect, and I've had to adjust to my new bite, but for the first time as an adult, I'm learning to smile and laugh while showing my teeth.  


Braces at 62? It's True.

Patricia McTiernan

The Best of 2023
Through Dec 29, we're looking back at the 10 stories that most captivated our readers in 2023. The Next Avenue editorial team is pleased to highlight this as one of our most read stories of the year.
As the lights dimmed in the concert venue, my husband and I settled into our seats amid the perfection of a late-summer evening. The pre-concert buzz filled the air and heightened the excitement I was already feeling.
Tom Jones, 1968As with all concerts, there was an opening act — and we expected to be mildly amused by this one, which was none other than Tom Jones, the 1960s heartthrob known not just for his hit songs but for the legions of female fans who show up at his concerts and pelt him with their panties.
Jones is older now, and, on this night, so was his audience — me included. Among this snowy-haired crowd, bellies protruded over the waistlines of well-worn jeans. Bald heads and sensible shoes abounded. Hearing aids peeked out of ears, just above lobes adorned with silvery drop earrings. 
I shouldn't have been surprised by the graying crowd since both of the artists scheduled to perform had their biggest hits during the Johnson Administration.
Different From Who I Remembered 
As Jones took the stage, his own gray hair curling in a soft halo around his face, I doubted any panties would be flying in his direction. He limped out, supported by a cane! Perhaps the price of decades of swiveling and panty catching?
He limped out, supported by a cane! Perhaps the price of decades of swiveling and panty catching?
He hobbled toward the front of the stage, and though it was definitely him, he looked a lot different than the Tom Jones I remembered, the one who even the seven-year-old me, watching on the black-and-white TV in my suburban New Jersey living room, had recognized as very handsome. 
My parents loved him, too, which was saying something because my father, a professional opera singer, disdained most pop singers. But not Jones. My dad raved about his voice. Back then I didn't know the phrase "sex appeal," but I knew the guy had something.
Was this the same guy?
Let's be honest. Someone who hasn't seen me since the Johnson Administration would probably squint to make sure it was really me, too. 
Turning 60 was exciting, but a few years into my new decade, I'm a little less enthusiastic about the march of time. I'm not happy with the age spots that now dot my face. I lament the crepe-y skin that sags on my legs and has suddenly shown up on my upper arms. My hair seems thinner and I have to ask people to repeat themselves more times than I care to admit.
Missing My Younger Self
I've always been known for my steel-trap mind, the one that remembers what no one else can. These days, though, I find myself forgetting my dog's name. And I miss my younger self, the one who danced till she dropped, who dreamed of an interesting career, marrying a handsome husband, raising a family and buying a beautiful house. 
Someone who hasn't seen me since the Johnson Administration would probably squint to make sure it was really me, too. 
I'm lucky that those dreams have come true. I'm working on inventing new dreams now, which can be exhausting. Yet, on this night, just before our 35th wedding anniversary, I was happy to be out with said husband, enjoying a concert that was guaranteeing nostalgia. I shifted in my seat and tried to focus on the present.
The bouncy blares of the trumpet signaled the start of the show, and as soon as Jones opened his mouth, I immediately forgot his age — and mine. "It's not unusual to be loved by anyone," he sang. At 82, his voice was as strong as ever, and before I knew it I was up on my feet dancing in front of my chair.
The crowd went crazy for him, cheering, screaming and whooping. Jones received it graciously and then explained the cane. He needed hip replacement surgery — his second one, he said — and would be having it as soon as he returned to England. "And then I'll be hipper than hip," he quipped.
But in the meantime, he would sit down to perform the rest of his set. And what a set it was! He captivated the audience with plenty of familiar tunes, along with some I didn't recognize. And I couldn't believe it when suddenly panties were flying up to the stage!  
Lost in the Moment 
By the time he sang "Delilah," his popular hit from 1968, everyone was on their feet, including the woman in front of me — the one with a walker. To my surprise, she raised her hands up over her head and swayed to the music while singing her lungs out. She was clearly lost in the moment.
Tom Jones, 2022I began to imagine that she too was reveling in the memories that flooded her brain. Perhaps she could see herself glued to the TV screen in some apartment somewhere, curlers in her hair as she paged through a Tiger Beat magazine. Or perhaps Jones's dreamy baritone made her think of wearing mini-skirts and go-go boots. Or maybe it conjured images of her in a bucket-seated car with some guy on a steamy summer night. 
With braces on her knees and graying hair on her head, it was hard for me to imagine her as that young girl. But as she swayed her hips back and forth, I knew she could.
And that's when it hit me: No matter how old you get, no matter the circumstances of your life, somewhere deep inside you lives the teenager you once were. You might not think about her much or even realize she's there. But buried in each of us is that person who wondered about love, dreamed of a future, and couldn't imagine that her skin would ever wrinkle, her joints would ever fail, or her idols would turn gray.
I threw my head back and joined the euphoria. "Why, why, why Delilah?" I sang with abandon. 
The realities of aging cannot be erased — but maybe they can fade a little bit if you're willing to drag yourself to an oldies concert and let the music of your youth wash them away.
I threw my head back and joined the euphoria. "Why, why, why Delilah?" I sang with abandon. "Forgive me Delilah, I just couldn't take any more." But I did I want more. I wanted more nights to feel like a teenager again. More moments of abandon, more experiences that bring tears to my eyes, more chances to be who I always was — a girl with dreams that are stoked by a heart-stopping, familiar song.
Jones is touring the country again this summer, and from the pictures I'm seeing on social media, I'm betting that Jones will be picking up some more panties from the stage. Because it looks like I'm not the only one who's realizing that What's Old is New Again, Pussycat!


I Went to a Tom Jones Concert and Here's What Happened

Andrea Atkins

I was lying in bed, upset that my breakthrough COVID-19 left Christmas in tatters. Granted, things felt topsy-turvy. But when Facebook Messenger flashed with a "Friend Request," my feeling was part surprise, part uncertainty. 
"Cannot believe this! You look BEAUTIFUL, healthy & happy!" wrote J., my elementary school neighbor in West Los Angeles, using heart emojis.
Clicking on her profile, I could see the young girl I'd once known in photos of an attractive brunette, now a Dallas mom of two. Her feed was full of quotes from the Dalai Lama. J. appeared a perfect model citizen — but she had been my personal monster, a master of bullying.
We grew up a block apart, running between my yellow home and her Tudor charmer many times a day to listen to records, play Twister, or compare whose fridge contained junk food. I knew her parents and brother as well as I knew my own family.
I can't recall the day I went to school and J. would no longer let me sit with friends. I was cast out, but kids rallied around J. 
Until everything changed. J. lead a pack of girls; I was happy to be included. It was a respite from my house, where my divorced mom welcomed a boyfriend who was staying indefinitely.
I can't recall the day I went to school and J. would no longer let me sit with friends. I was cast out, but kids rallied around J. I was followed home, kids chasing me on foot while others threw eggs and sped away on banana-seat bicycles. I had zero friends; not one kid dared talk to me.
Class was agony, as I waited for the next nasty note, delivered to my desk by a smirking girl in ponytails tied with red ribbons. Maybe the ribbons were yellow? Memories are sporadic; they flash with holes in them, like a film strip nibbled by mice.
Lunch was the worst. J. organized singalongs, injecting my name and the fact I was short into unflattering songs. I found a storage shed to cower behind. 
One thing I recall? The principal saying she couldn't help. Back before participation trophies, getting bullied was your fault. I was guilty of being weak; that was the message I internalized.
My parents put me in private school, a financial sacrifice. Years passed. I avoided J.'s house. When I got my learner's permit, I used three streets away to practice driving, never hers.
Why Victims Can't Just "Move On" After Abuse
By the time J. found me on social media, this seemed like ancient history. I'd been to therapy, was married and raising three daughters in a house with a picket fence. I'd moved on, right? Maybe J. and I would turn out to be friends.
Except, I started having weird dreams. In one, a woman in a Mardi Gras mask menaced my kids. As I lay there sick, flashbacks flooded me. Or were they hallucinations of COVID-induced fever? I saw J. walking toward me, smiling. People were around, but nobody noticed when her grin turned menacing. 
I was annoyed with myself: Here I was in my cozy house, decorated for the holidays, afraid of phantoms.
May is Mental Health Awareness month, and it comes as a revelation how far from alone I am in experiencing a terrible childhood event. 
Some 20% of students ages 12-18 report being bullying in the past year, per 2021 government statistics. 2018 numbers from Pew Research clocked the number of teens harassed online at 59%.
Until I spoke with experts, I never realized my reaction when my tormentor returned, and the characteristics I developed following childhood trauma (known as an adverse childhood experience, or ACE), follow patterns. 
"I get emails [from victims] daily," said Dr. Dorothy L. Espelage, a William C. Friday Distinguished Professor of Education at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, whose expertise in bullying has been brought to members of Congress, and philanthropists like Mackenzie Scott.
"It becomes part of who you are," said Espelage, who herself survived abuse growing up. "There's always this facade you feel you're putting on for the world." 
I realized how right she was — in spite of accomplishments, I doubt myself, and the validity of my perceptions.
This is typical: The sense of trust children need in the adults around them, to keep them safe, does not hold after suffering through something like the overwhelming persecution J. visited on me. 
I also have anxiety, common in the adult child of such challenges. Studies indicate PTSD can be present in victims of bullying up to 40 years later.
"Trauma can't override your life, but it will be with you forever. There's strength in [surviving] that experience."
"Scientists are finally realizing you can't wish away trauma. The idea of, 'Pull yourself up, the past is in the past' doesn't work," added Espelage, whose dedicated UNC research lab addresses violence prevention in schools. "These are permanent parts of your personality you have to find a way to use [positively]."
This is certainly not the message people heard back when the self-help community pushed the notion that anyone can completely transform. Or maybe I just wasn't ready to consider that this episode, rarely discussed in friendships forged in adulthood, had become part of the fabric of my life.
With bullying on social media grabbing headlines, and celebrities such as Monica Lewinsky and Britney Spears being reexamined as victims of sexism and media bashing, it might have occurred sooner that J.'s behavior was nothing to dismiss.
One Supportive Person Can Lessen Impact of Bullying 
Society might be having overdue conversations about mental health, but child psychiatrist Dr. Christine M. Crawford of Boston University School of Medicine and associate director of the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), added that such talk has not amounted to better outcomes for a vulnerable student facing more powerful peers, like I did. Disturbingly, breaking headlines are full of horrifying recent attacks and teens dying by suicide, allegedly prompted by harassment at school and online.
Bullying is a group phenomena, added Crawford, and teens and tweens need their cohorts; they join in because they think there's no choice. 
"There's a growth in cyberbullying, especially since the pandemic," she said. "Kids five to eleven are showing higher rates of depression and anxiety, especially in communities of color."
Before it sounds too hopeless, experts noted the growing normalization of psychiatry and therapy in the quest for improved mental health means things are slowly going in the right direction.
Not only are more people aware of self-care, but it's no longer in fashion to dismiss someone's childhood as a mere excuse for their struggles. Luckily, today's teachers are better schooled than they were in my time about the importance of creating a community of upstanders (someone who intervenes when they see bullying) who will push back against antisocial behavior.
Research shows even one supportive friend or adult can greatly lessen the impact of bullying. Additionally, diagnostic methods to pinpoint personality disorders have improved, meaning people lashing out at others for their own psychological reasons are able to get help sooner.
Even so, Espelage suggested that in my shoes, she might spend more time, not less, mourning the me that might have been if not for J. 
"What would you be like if you hadn't been turned on in fifth grade?" Espelage asked. "Because no therapy, no acupuncture, will wish it away. Trauma can't override your life, but it will be with you forever. There's strength in [surviving] that experience."
The mental health professionals must be right, because now I'm not so eager to answer J.'s Facebook Message. I feel a not-unhealthy sense of righteous anger about my past struggles, now that I better understand how deeply bullying affected me.
My tormentor seems reformed, sure, but I wonder if her kids know the truth about her own childhood. My urge to offer her absolution was trying to prove I'm "over" it. I'm not. 
Just like the answer to exactly when I'll feel better, I'm leaving J.'s communication unanswered.


My Fifth-Grade Tormentor Found Me on Facebook and It Brought Up Past Trauma

Rachel Spalding

It's a Sunday afternoon in 1977 and my 10-year old self is with my father in the basement helping with a repair project. Blue Maxwell House coffee cans line the wall, filled with useful metal bits and a hurricane glass sits next to its kerosene base on a bookshelf. 
We stand next to the furnace that rumbles now and then, our heads bent over the open jaws of the vise. My father demonstrates how to twiddle the handle to push the opposing blocks of metal closer and closer to the piece of wood, pressing it snug.
Tools used to fix the wiggly bridge"Hand me a nail." he says. I hand him a nail. "Hand me the hammer." I hand him the hammer. The afternoon proceeds in this manner, serious and scripted. Did I ever ask to use the hammer myself? Did he ever offer? I can't be sure. I'd like to give him that possibility. Maybe I wasn't that interested in hammers or nails. I just wanted to be there with my dad, doing something simple and right. 
Did I ever ask to use the hammer myself? Did he ever offer? I can't be sure. 
Years later, as a frugal feminist, my tool-deprivation and secondary role irked me. Why was it that all the guys took 'shop' in middle school and I took 'home-ec?' Why was it that I saw myself only in the helper and cleaner-upper role on those Sunday basement afternoons?  
Here I was paying people to fix my stuff. And I was outsourcing joy — earned by problem-solving and fixing with my own wits and hands.
A Light Bulb Went Off
In my early 50s all that ended along with my marriage when I had to replace a recessed light. "I can do that," I thought. I took the bulb to the hardware store and found its twin. At home, no matter how many YouTube videos I watched, the new bulb would not fit.  
A catty voice in my head said: "How long does it take a divorced woman to change a lightbulb...?"  A different voice countered, "What would you say to a friend?" and answered, "Go to the hardware store and ask the experts."
My local ACE hardware is a mix of country store and bougie boutique. Antique baseball bats line the walls and I covet their $26 art-deco nightlights. Within 5 seconds of entering you'll hear: "Can I help you find something m'am?" At the key counter I found Johnny ("How can I help you?"), a Midwestern gentleman with rimless spectacles and a kindly, curious nature. 
I told him my story and asked, "Do you know how to fix this?" He said, "No, I don't. But I bet together we can figure it out."
Years of expecting expertise in others and denying my own responsibility and power dissolved with Johnny's words. We inspected the metal collar; we gazed at the bulb. My hands discovered that if I held the collar base and squeezed the pins on the side and he put the bulb in, the satisfying click happened. A design flaw! Only larger hands could do both tasks at once. 
Meeting a Patient and Kind Teacher 
Soon after, I lucked into a patient and kind teacher in the world of fixing and making. We met at a local dance. His top hat, bespoke patterned coat, gray cargo shorts and white knee-high shrimper's boots caught my eye. I asked, as we danced (he mysteriously graceful in his rubber boots) "Are you an artist?" He gazed distantly and said, "It's more complicated than that." 
Wiggly bridge opening, 2019Over tea the next day he said he works summers at various dance and family camps; one in the Catskills where he is rebuilding a suspended bridge. Would I like to join him for a week of music, dancing and bridge-repair? A day later, after googling the heck out of him, I said, why yes, yes I would.
He picked me up in his Honda Odyssey, the back seats removed, the floor a collage of carpet remnants, coils of thick rope, hacksaw blades, socket wrenches, drift punches, a level; though at the time I didn't know their names. At night he threw down faded cushions from his 1968 VW bus, fell asleep and snored. I lay there at the rest-stop and listened to the hum of 18-wheelers idling nearby and in the glare of the lights wondered and smiled at what I was doing with my "one wild and precious life." 
Getting to Work 
On that first morning at camp we approached a red shed in a green field where a few sheep nibbled nonchalantly. I envied their ease. I dreaded the first impression as the only woman in the shop with the young guys in their day-glo T-shirts and Timberland boots. The hard-rock oldies on the radio and the scent of sawdust felt familiar. 
The guys were sunny and more interested in their show-and-tell and jokey ribbing than in me. My friend put me to work in the shelter of a 1956 Rockwell drill press with a simple task: drill holes in the stanchions that would hold the hand-ropes. 
A soothing rhythm developed as my fingers set the plastic ratchet clamps to hold the wood and slowly lowered the drill bit as wood particles flurried away. The repetition relaxed and satisfied. I could focus on one thing. That thing was do-able. It didn't involve complex emotions or unpredictable scenarios. It wasn't gendered or hard or something held by a priesthood. 
Wiggly bridge opening, 2019Soon the movement of clamp to wood, metal bit to wood became one graceful action. My fingertips found a spiky edge where the drill bit broke through. For every problem there was a tool to solve it —hello, Shinto wood rasp! I enjoyed the rasp's toothy grasp on the wood and smoothing effect. "We're not making furniture here," my teacher chided.  
As on all bridges in folk tales, I wrestled. My impatient desire to prove a point to myself and resentment of gendered expertise conflicted with the slow pace and the fact I was a novice with a guy who knew more than I did. And like most work, it wasn't all exciting power-tool wielding action. There were simple repetitive tasks, like gooping anti-seize paste onto every bolt on the bridge, or tying clove hitches over and over.  
I returned to humility and gratitude. Given the major shifts in my life, where else would I rather be than here, being of use, on a wiggly cable bridge looking out over a clear pond with mist rising off of it and a thick margin of wild green in the distance? 
Building Connections 
Like the nursery rhyme "This is the House that Jack Built" I understood that every part of what I was doing held a future human relationship. If the stanchion can't be built, then the hand-rope won't support the children's hands. If the children's hands won't be supported, they can't cross the bridge. If the children can't cross the bridge, the connection between the old camp and the new camp will be lost; the bridge will exist only in memory. 
When you pick up a tool, you animate it with your energy and your intention. My mentor said, "People say, "Man, I can knock that out in an hour! Your volunteer is gonna take 6 hours to put those rivets in." And I say, "yeah, but when she walks by those rivets later, she's gonna feel they're hers."  
In that moment I felt that in fixing material objects, the world is made well in some small way, and something inside is fixed too. 
That light in my kitchen became a symbol of my ability to take care of myself and to collaborate with others. It sparked a belief in my ability to problem-solve and use tools. Working on the bridge became proof that in the aftermath of emotional discord and weariness, self-renewal was possible.
For the first time in 10 years, the "wiggly bridge" of camp lore came to life. My mad hatter showed up in magenta Alice-in-Wonderland leggings, a burgundy brocade coat and his signature top hat. He lined up the children, "Youngest to oldest! Two by two!" between pips of his whistle. 
The children's hands held the guide-ropes I had pulled through the stanchions. Their hesitant steps became confident as they giggled at the bridge's bounce and sway. My teacher merrily tapped planks of the bridge with his black umbrella as he led the parade. 
I leaned against a tree and watched as the children and mothers crossed the bridge, serenaded by fiddles, guitars and song. In that moment I felt that in fixing material objects, the world is made well in some small way, and something inside is fixed too. 


If I Had a Hammer

Moira Bucciarelli

According to conventional beliefs, I should be degenerating. After all, I'm a 72-year-old grandmother with Parkinson's. But the first word I use to define myself is strong. I exercise daily. I've lost 20 pounds, and I believe I will feel even more powerful next year.
Boxing has been shown to help many people with Parkinson's improve their balance, hand-eye coordination, mental focus, muscle strength and body rhythm. I attribute this radical optimism to a team of three characters in this drama that is my life. First, my supportive husband devours books and articles about anti-aging, giving out encouragement and information freely. Then, there is a functional neurologist I've seen since my diagnosis. He has taught me about neuroplasticity. 
In my twice-monthly sessions with the functional neurologist, we work on exercises that strengthen my gait, balance and cognitive functions.
The Functional Neurology Society explains that "research has confirmed that we have the ability to create new neurons (neurogenesis), a process long considered impossible." This is how we learn new skills and how a person who has suffered a stroke of the brain's language centers may still regain the ability to speak. 
In my twice-monthly sessions with the functional neurologist, we work on exercises that strengthen my gait, balance and cognitive functions. I'm also learning to protect my nervous system with diet, exercise and stress-reducing behavior (like prioritizing experiences that bring me joy – spending time with my grandchildren and getting outside in nature hiking, walking and kayaking).
A Fighter on Many Fronts 
My boxing coach is the third part of my support team and has turned me into a fighter on many fronts. Yes, boxing! If you had told me in my youth that I'd be punching speed bags, water bags and mitts while collecting Social Security checks, I'd have laughed you out of my red Malibu convertible.
But five years ago, fate floated down, took me by the hand, and fitted me with boxing gloves! I had joined a gym to follow my neurologist's prescription to "keep moving." Several research studies support this advice. 
A study in January 2022 concluded that "regular overall physical activity levels over time were significantly associated with slower deterioration of postural and gait stability, activities of daily living and processing speed in patients with PD." 
Another study reported in February 2022 Neurology on a clinical trial in Parkinson's patients states "aerobic exercise stabilizes disease progression in the corticostriatal sensorimotor network and enhances cognitive performance." 
If you had told me in my youth that I'd be punching speed bags while collecting Social Security checks, I'd have laughed you out of my red Malibu convertible.
I became a devoted student in the Fitness Over Fifty class. One day, I was leaving the gym when I noticed a sign: "Neuro-Boxing with Ron." I had heard that people with PD were getting benefits from boxing. 
A September 2022 article in Harvard Men's Health Watch reports, "The wide-legged stance used in boxing and the shifting of your center of gravity when you throw a punch are excellent training for improving balance and posture." 
Boxing also strengthens arms, shoulders, core and lower body. Furthermore, there is a thinking component in which you must memorize and execute combinations of punches.
Laurie Keating, a physical therapist assistant with Harvard-affiliated Spaulding Rehabilitation Network and a boxing coach, is quoted in the article: "Non-contact boxing fitness has been shown to help many people with Parkinson's improve their balance, hand-eye coordination, mental focus, muscle strength and body rhythm." 
I Could Be Fierce
Even with persuasive research, I needed to figure out if boxing was proper for me. As I told Ron when I finally got the nerve to call him, "I'm a peaceful person. I don't know if I can be violent." And yet, for some reason, I agreed to try it. 
At first, I did not feel at home in the hand wraps Ron wove through my fingers and the boxing gloves he laced onto my hands. This was serious boxing. Ron had fought in the ring himself. He was a retired NYPD detective and a former Marine. 
He had chased suspects through the most challenging projects in the city and dug through the rubble of Ground Zero after 9/11. He may call his sessions "neuro-boxing" for people who want to challenge the brain to jab, punch and hook on command, but he gives the same training to athletes and weightlifters who work with him.
 I will have a powerful voice telling me I know how to stand steady and defend myself against whatever punches life throws me.
By my second training session, not only was I having fun, I wanted more than anything to please my coach. He was seeing something in me that I never knew was there. I could be fierce. I could be powerful. I could be relentless. Boxing is more than a sport. It is an attitude. 
The walls of the boxing room are covered with bravado quotations by Muhammad Ali and other greats. When my attitude was sub-par, Ron shouted many wise words at me. In one of my first sessions, I responded to an exercise with, "I'll try." 
Ron shook his head and quoted Yoda: "Do. Or do not. There is no try." And so, I take it all on, never stopping to ask myself, "who do you think you are calling yourself a boxer?" The words on the wall may have been born in the ring, but they fit all that we deal with in life:
"I don't know how I'm going to win. I just know I'm not going to lose." 
"You don't lose if you get knocked down; you lose if you stay down."
"It's not over when you lose. It's over when you quit."
Ron has nicknamed me Tyger. "Tigers are beautiful but fierce," he says, an image I keep in my head when I work out. He spells it "T-y" after Mike Tyson, whose peek-a-boo style I imagine I can replicate. I've learned that I can punch faster than many others who have more power behind their punch. 
This means that in a competition with Ron's other fighters (including a professional athlete), I threw more punches (718) in three minutes. 
I'll call that: scrappy. That self-definition propels me to scramble up a daunting hiking trail, paddle my kayak against a strong wind, and speak up when I feel dismissed.
On the door of the boxing room is a column of sticky notes. The top one says Tyger 718. This means that in a competition with Ron's other fighters (including a professional athlete), I threw more punches (718) in three minutes. This distinction gives me more pride than my combined SAT scores, college diploma and job promotions.
I can't imagine ever giving up my twice-a-week boxing practice. No matter how tired and draggy I may feel in the morning, I know the pumped-up music and energy of the boxing room will transform me into someone strong and relentless. 
Though will I ever develop the bad intentions that a professional boxer cultivates? Maybe not. But hopefully, for the rest of my life, I will have a powerful voice telling me I know how to stand steady and defend myself against whatever punches life throws me. 
And if I forget, I'll glance down at the T-shirt Ron gave me that says:
Fate whispers to her, "You cannot withstand the storm."
She whispers, "I am the storm."


Boxing in My 70s Gives Me a Renewed Sense of Power

Sally Isaacs

The first time I realized exercise could exorcise the effects of trauma and loss, I had just lost my father to cancer. I was wildly kicking in a kickboxing class, sweat dripping into my eyes, T-shirt clinging to my chest. The exercise instructor looked worried. I was much older than the other participants, and no one else was punching or kicking some imagined enemy with such vigor.
Leah Blatt Glasser and her husband at the finish line of a 10k in Holyoke, Mass.Kickboxing was the perfect release for my rage and grief after 10 days in an understaffed Florida hospital with my dying father. I had entered the gym with trepidation at first after helplessly sitting, watching and grieving for so long. 
I had entered the gym with trepidation at first after helplessly sitting, watching and grieving for so long. 
Soon the gym became my refuge, and I couldn't get enough of it. And ever since, whether in the face of my own bout with cancer, the loss of my sister and mother, or the isolation of the pandemic, I intensively kick, lift, run, Zumba-dance, power-walk, swim or spin to ward off despair.
With each curveball life threw, I knew I needed some sort of jolt into action to heal. One of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems comes to mind when I remember my state of mind shortly before I entered that first kickboxing class: 
"After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – ...This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go."
The chill of loss is immediate, but the "letting go" doesn't come easily. Active movement seems counterintuitive and yet, in my experience, it is the solution. 
"Exercise may be as beneficial as antidepressants," says researcher and medical psychologist James Blumenthal at Duke University. I would argue it's not just exercise, but exercise that burns, and thus burns out thoughts that lead to a sense of hopelessness.
An Unexpected Diagnosis 
After the kickboxing class, I began to train for our local Holyoke St. Patrick's 10k road race and a mini triathlon at our local Y. The 10k includes a genuine "heartbreak hill." The pleasure for me was in the training, more than the race itself, because it helped me increase the intensity of my workouts.
Then just one week after participation in the road race, I found myself sitting in a private room with a radiologist after my mammogram; he pointed to a tumor on a screen. I had breast cancer, without any symptoms or warning. Further, I was told I would need chemo and radiation.
The nightmare that followed sent me into a state of fear and desperation. Would I live to attend my daughter's wedding? How would I handle all the side effects of treatments, including losing my lovely long hair? For a short while, I wallowed. Then I remembered my path to feeling whole again.
Swimming while bald was a beautiful sensation, with the silky feel of water washing over my bare scalp.
Running would have been too difficult at the time, so I took to swimming in the pond at our cottage in Goshen, Massachusetts, with the goal of returning to the 10k after full recovery. Swimming while bald was a beautiful sensation, with the silky feel of water washing over my bare scalp.
One day I felt strong enough to lengthen the distance. I called a friend on the other side of the pond and asked her to sit on her dock while I swam across. She was puzzled. "I won't be able to save you if you start to drown in the middle from fatigue!"
But I needed a witness as I met my goal of getting to the other side and back. With someone there, I felt I could meet the challenge. Hope and health would return. I felt alive again. 
What My Body Could Handle 
Of course, it's a mistake to underestimate one's chemo-driven fatigue. I began a water aerobics class for cancer survivors, not realizing the other participants had finished chemo and were well on their way to recovery. I tried to keep up with their lively jumping jacks, but then, like any defeated overachiever, I practically crept to the locker room with the help of the instructor. I had to learn to tune into my body and moderate as needed. Intensity must be measured by what the body can handle at any given time. 
How could I continue to live with the memory of my sister's metastasis and consequent death?
As I began to get my full strength back, I signed up for the 10k once again, and completed the race with all the euphoria that runners feel, even slow runners like me. I was restored, ready to move forward with all that life still had to offer, despite ongoing side effects, fears and even anger at the irony of having had to accept toxins into my body to fight a toxic cancer.   
The next chapter in my exercise journey came with the loss of my sister. Upon nursing her into death ten years after her diagnosis of breast cancer, our shared condition, I realized I would eventually face my own 10th year with an uncertain fate. 
Together we had encouraged each other's denial about the possibilities of metastasis. We even flew to Santa Fe, at the height of her metastasis and shortly before her death, for a gig and a so-called vacation that landed her in the emergency room. We almost didn't make it home for her final goodbyes to the rest of the family. 
But now she was gone, and I was alone without my cancer mentor. How could I continue to live with the memory of my sister's metastasis and consequent death? Was I to follow in my sister's footsteps?
Although I had stopped identifying as a cancer "survivor" when my hair grew back, superstition struck in my own 10th year. It was then I came upon the Livestrong program at the local Y, designed for people who had experienced cancer and wished to increase their physical activity following treatments. It would differ from my other efforts because it would require commitment to a group, and I would learn the value of group exercise.
Building Strength Again 
My cancer experience was not recent, unlike others in the group, but it was certainly not forgotten, no matter how hard I tried. This was a chance to work with skilled trainers together with a group of people who all had felt some loss of strength and perhaps the same repressed fear that the cancer might return as it did for my sister. 
Participation would require letting the thought of my cancer back into my head. Looking at the others in the group, I was staring right into my past, that immediate aftermath of treatment, when suddenly I was given a premature glimpse into the vulnerability of old age.
I decided to jump in. It was free, after all, and I could always quit. The first meeting aimed to create a good group dynamic for our 12 weeks of working out together. We all shared the sense that we had lost control of our bodies on the day of diagnosis. It was not up to us whether those cells had escaped and set up camp somewhere in our bodies, untouched by treatment or surgery. What would it take to "live strong" despite the possibility of some insidious force within our bodies just waiting to steal our strength?   
It was empowering to cheer each other on as we increased the weight we could lift and our pace on the treadmill, oblivious to those who knew nothing of our individual plights. 
Early on, it was clear to our trainers that what we wanted most was strength, not just physical strength but the emotional strength to face the future, whatever it might bring. Regaining physical strength was the one thing we could count on. Eventually we also came to count on each other simply by showing up every Tuesday and Thursday to fight bone thinning, weakened joints and all the other side effects of cancer treatments. 
We shared the common knowledge from a 2019 study on breast cancer survivors: those who were the most physically active in the study had a 40% lower risk of metastasis and death. It was empowering to cheer each other on as we increased the weight we could lift and our pace on the treadmill, oblivious to those who knew nothing of our individual plights. We became a team. 
A Tai Chi instructor visited us in the room where we usually warmed up. I was skeptical. Tai Chi always seemed to me a mysterious form of movement that had nothing to do with concrete exercise or getting strong. But that night, we stood together in shared strength, unspoken connection, and seeming silence, with only the sound of our collective breathing. 
We were together in this celebration of body and mind, this flow of movement that countered all the hardships we had endured. We had become a fluid force, united by our humanity, and flowing freely into the lives we wanted to live.  


Exercise to Exorcise

Leah Blatt Glasser

"Some of the women I interviewed felt there was a definite connection between their coming out and menopause, whether or not they thought they might have been attracted to women earlier."I was at dinner one winter evening with seven friends. All of us had gone through or were in the midst of going through our menopause. Outdoors, the temperature was a brisk 32 degrees. Yet as I looked around the table in the restaurant, I had to laugh. 
Most women begin this journey from menstruation, to perimenopause, and then to menopause in their mid-forties.
Jane wore a tank top and constantly mopped her face. Marie kept her winter jacket on, zipped up to her neck. I wore a heavy sweater. The rest were clothed somewhere in between. Other than Jane, who complained that it was too hot, we were all comfortable — for the moment.
Most women begin this journey from menstruation, to perimenopause, and then to menopause in their mid-forties. With menopause comes new physical and emotional symptoms. Hot flashes or cold chills, mood swings, crankiness, feelings of sadness or anxiety are just some of the changes that might manifest themselves at this time. Trouble concentrating or feelings of fatigue are others.
Menopause and Women's Sex Drive
Stephanie Faubion, medical director of the North American Menopause Society and director of Mayo Clinic Center for Women's Health says, "Some women also experience lower sexual desire, primarily due to the lack of estrogen. There is a shift from a more spontaneous desire pattern to a more responsive sexual desire pattern where [given the] right place, right time, right partner, right situation, the woman is willing to be sexual, but she may not have spontaneous sexual thoughts or fantasies."
While it is natural for some menopausal women to lack sexual drive and it is true that dryness can make sex uncomfortable (although there are remedies for that), some women, like Evelyn, who had not been keen on having sex with her husband for years, and had been faking headaches, said, "Menopause was a good excuse to cease sexual activities completely. I no longer had to fake headaches."
During menopause, it became obvious to some women that they were in stuck places.
Some women, like Margaret, whose stories are included in the book "M-Boldened: Menopause Conversations We All Need to Have," edited by Caroline Harris, saw menopause as a sign that they were no longer a full woman. 
Margaret said, "I knew exactly when I had my last period. It was heavier than any period I had ever had. For one split second I felt bad. I could never have another baby. I felt like I had lost the ability to feel like a real woman. I felt as though sexually I was facing an end."
Others, in good relationships, noted an increase in sexual activity as, no longer fearful of unwanted pregnancies, they felt freer to enjoy sex.
During menopause, it became obvious to some women that they were in stuck places. They spoke of the chaos and confusion in their lives at that time: from kids leaving home to older parents needing care, and all had retirement looming ahead. While some took up new hobbies, others felt an overwhelming need to make more drastic changes: returning to school, finding more challenging jobs, leaving their marriages.
While some women found little, or no correlation between their sexual desires and menopause, others who left unsatisfying marriages found more compatible mates. And some ended up having better sex than ever before.
Coming Out and Menopause
Some of the women I interviewed for my book, "Married Women Who Love Women and More," felt there was a definite connection between their coming out and menopause, whether or not they thought they might have been attracted to women earlier. Those who had been married wondered if there had been signs they'd just ignored while busy doing what they were supposed to be doing as wives and mothers. They wondered if they had been playing a role while raising their children.
Maria realized that she was attracted to women when she returned to college. She said, "My husband and I had focused on our careers and raising two kids together. Who had time to think of anything else? Then I took a women's study course and my mind seemed to open up. I fell in love with my professor and realized I wanted to be with women."
For Rebecca, menopause and gayness came about almost simultaneously. "I thought it was menopause that was causing me to feel attracted to women. I think that had a lot to do with me waking up to who I authentically was."
The main thing I've learned about menopause is that it is consistently inconsistent.
Betsy said, "I suppressed my attraction to women for three decades until I decided — after 30 years of marriage, a year and half after the hysterectomy that triggered the start of menopause, that I did not want to do that any longer. After more than a year of therapy, I now have a girlfriend. I hope to preserve my marriage and maintain my relationship with my girlfriend forever. She and my husband have met and like each other but my relationship with each of them is separate. We are navigating our situation better than most."
Weight gain, which frequently happens during menopause, hampered the sexual enjoyment for some because cultural ideals equate being thin with being desirable. Some of the women who identified as lesbian or bisexual, however, seemed to be less concerned with their body images, as they were less affected by heterosexual ideals of what a woman should look like.
Joanna said, "Deep inside I've known and had these feelings my whole life. I crushed on and obsessed about girls, and later about women until I finally broke the closet door down. That said, menopause hasn't diminished (maybe enhanced?) my sex drive. My first relationship with another woman was after I began my menopause at 55."
The main thing I've learned about menopause is that it is consistently inconsistent. Very few women shared identical stories. The luckier ones said, "it was easy," or, "nothing really exceptional." Several said, "My period just stopped."
Women in menopause were once expected to be irritable, tired, depressed or all three and we fed into that ageist culture. Fortunately our beliefs have shifted dramatically. We are now seeing more media coverage of strong, energetic menopausal women. We are looking younger and sexier and are changing our cultural negativity about aging and menopause.


'When I Realized I Was Gay, Menopause Arrived.' Was There a Connection?

Carren Strock

In the fall of 2020, I was playing tennis with my pal Vini, just volleying casually without keeping score. Now and then, he would belt a shot well beyond my reach, and I would sprint after it. Only on this day, after three or four such tries in a row, I was gasping harder than usual.
"Let's take a break," I told Vini.
"I'd led a lucky life, luckier than most. If I died now, I'd have no right – none whatsoever – to feel cheated. I could, in effect, live with dying."Perhaps, at age 68, I had let myself get slightly out of shape and just needed to whip myself together.
Feeling winded in the middle of our hour-long sessions had never forced me to take a break. I had trained my whole adult life as a recreational athlete to keep going without letup, even if exhausted from my exertions, and was conditioned to catch my breath eventually. But this experience was different from anything I had ever known before.
So began the most significant health scare of my life. But I mentioned nothing about it to Elvira, my wife of 41 years.
I thought little of the incident at the time. Maybe, I reasoned, my stamina that day happened to be down a few quarts. Perhaps, at age 68, I had let myself get slightly out of shape and just needed to whip myself together. Then again, maybe, just maybe – though I never acknowledged it to myself – I had some kind of an issue with my heart.
A Persistent Problem 
Over the next few months, the problem persisted. In early 2021, I went for a jog around our neighborhood. Toward the end, I ran up an extremely steep hill, easily 100 yards long. I reached the top, panting loudly but also dizzy. I never got dizzy for any reason. I chalked the episode up as a fluke.
But then, a week later, it happened again, only worse. I ran up another hill, almost as steep, and had to stop in my tracks before getting to the top. I was dizzier than the previous time, so much so that for a second, I felt tempted to reach out to a parking meter to brace myself in case I blacked out and toppled over.
Clearly, something was wrong. But again, I set aside these inconvenient worries. I was just getting older. Stuff tended to happen. Maybe I would deal with it later. Again, nary a word to Elvira.
Then again, maybe, just maybe – though I never acknowledged it to myself – I had some kind of an issue with my heart.
Then came my final warning sign. I got into a three-on-three, half-court basketball game on a schoolyard playground nearby. About 20 minutes in, my lungs billowing away, I ran out of energy and grew dizzy. And, right then and there, in the middle of this competition, I stopped playing. Cold. I'd played hoops for 61 years, but this was a first for me. 
I should have quit the game on the spot. But pride – and the forces of denial and delusion – prevailed. So, I resumed playing. Indeed, I rationalized, I could finish the game before I keeled over dead. Still, I now knew, with a dawning sense of certainty, that I should see a doctor sooner rather than later.
Once more, I said nothing about any of this to Elvira. What if these symptoms turned out to be nothing serious? Why concern her unnecessarily? Whenever she asked me how I was doing, I would tell her I was doing okay.
Facing Serious Obstacles 
Besides, we faced another equally serious obstacle. Elvira was living in Italy while I lived in New York City, and I planned to move there as soon as possible. The coronavirus pandemic was hurtling along at full tilt, Italy its original epicenter, New York City its second. Elvira already had her hands full, keeping our family – our son and daughter, granddaughter and son-in-law – safe from the virus.
Hospitals worldwide were overrun with dying patients. Patients were delaying and canceling elective procedures and screenings left and right. How could I seek medical attention now? So, I opted, at least for the moment, to forgo a visit to my primary care doctor.
Meanwhile, I at least had the common sense to stop exerting myself as much. I avoided any activity that might leave me breathless and dizzy. I could have researched my symptoms online but decided against it. Whatever I learned would be less than definitive, mere diagnostic guesswork. Besides, did I want to know?
No. Not really.
A few weeks later, I came to my senses. I saw my physician and told him about my concerns. He referred me to my cardiologist, who subjected me to an electrocardiogram and detected an abnormal rhythm in my heart. He told me he needed to investigate further and strapped an electrocardiogram to my arm, connected to electrodes pasted across my chest, so that he could monitor my heart activity for 24 hours and evaluate the results.
Dealing With My Heart Issue 
The upshot was that I was suffering from atrial flutter, a cousin to atrial fibrillation, though less severe. My heart was beating arrhythmically, one minute fast, the next slowly, due to a defect in electrical conduction. It was unlikely to pose any immediate danger, but it was hardly nothing. Long-term, it represented a clear-cut threat. At some point, it could trigger a heart attack or stroke.
I was advised to undergo a procedure called catheter ablation. It would be minimally invasive, involving a small incision in my groin that would enable a wire to be threaded through to my heart to correct the arrhythmia. I was told the procedure was effective 95% of the time and was scheduled for surgery at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City.
Again, I told Elvira about none of this – nothing about my breathlessness or my dizziness, nothing about seeing a cardiologist, nor his diagnosis and my upcoming procedure. I had good reason to hold off, I felt. I wanted to get all the facts nailed down first and leave nothing open to surmisal or speculation. As I've learned, sometimes, in marriage, we have to keep secrets and tell lies for the good of both parties. This happened to be one of those times.
I could die. I could suffer a stroke or sudden cardiac arrest on the operating table. And what then?
But now, in a video call, I told Elvira. And she took it, as she takes most news, more or less in stride. She accepted my reassurances that I would be okay at face value, just as I expected she would.
"I can come back to New York to be with you," Elvira said.
This was no small offer. Elvira hated to fly in airplanes. She dreaded every flight and stayed nervous from takeoff to landing. Flying to New York City to be with me also meant she would be leaving behind our daughter, granddaughter and son-in-law, all still quarantined in the strictest of lockdowns. Offering to fly across the Atlantic Ocean during a once-in-a-generation pandemic to be at my side touched me as profoundly as when she accepted my marriage proposal.
"No," I said. "No need."
The date for my surgery loomed large, and I tried my utmost to maintain a modicum of equanimity. These were reputable physicians at a world-class institution. The procedure was well-established as the gold standard. I was in otherwise excellent physical condition. What could possibly go wrong?
But, of course, anything could. The procedure could go awry. It had happened. I was scared. I could die. I could suffer a stroke or sudden cardiac arrest on the operating table. And what then?
Reflecting on Our Life Together 
I contemplated my mortality more gravely than I ever had done before. Everything would end for me. And why now? Round and round my head, this question went. Here I was on the cusp of starting a new life in Italy, reuniting with my family, only to be cut short. I would be gone, never to live in our new house, never again to be a husband, a father, a grandfather, much less a friend, colleague or neighbor.
With this new understanding of my life, a peace came over me, a peace such as I had never felt before, a peace that I now knew would see me through.
But I never said so to Elvira in any of our video calls. I was here and she was over there. Why complicate our complications? Instead, I told her I would leave the hospital all right. Again, I kept my secrets and told my lies. Specific stuff is, for the moment, best left unsaid.
But as I agonized, I reflected on my life, the whole of it. And I recognized, with a brilliant new and transcendent clarity, that I had led a good and more fulfilling life than I could ever have imagined or expected. 
Elvira and I had lived together since 1977 with no lapse in love, fidelity or faith in each other. We had raised a son and a daughter, both now decent, humane, intelligent, funny and beautiful adults. We had our miraculous granddaughter, Lucia Antonia. I had arrived at age 68 in otherwise above-average health. Even my career had proven to be a moderate success.
I'd led a lucky life, luckier than most. If I died now, I'd have no right – none whatsoever – to feel cheated. I could, in effect, live with dying. Besides, I had no control over any of it now. The anesthesiologist would knock me out, and the surgeon would do his stuff. It would be what it would be, and whatever was going to happen would happen, and I would just have to accept the outcome.
And just then, with this new understanding of my life, a peace came over me, a peace such as I had never felt before, a peace that I now knew would see me through.
The procedure went perfectly. I was in and out of the hospital within about 30 hours. The surgeon gave me a before-and-after presentation to demonstrate his success. He showed me one graph with spikes and dips showing my heart beating erratically and another with it beating smoothly.
My heart was fixed. I was good to go. Italy awaited. Three months later, my family met me at the airport in Rome.


Atrial Fibrillation: A Love Story

Bob Brody

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