I’m In My Crone Era & I'm Unstoppable

I'm 43 and all I want to do is garden, form an unnatural alliance with a crow, and strike fear in the hearts of men. I'm in my crone era and, boy, do I feel powerful!

Being in my crone era means I’m not only accepting my aging body, but I’m leaning into it. I’m over people pleasing, done conforming to societal beauty norms, and ready to embrace my most intrusive thoughts. I’m swapping the basic b*tch Pottery Barn aesthetic of my home in favor of that of a powerful bohemian sea witch. I’m getting a LifeStraw and digging an underground bunker in preparation for the impending collapse of society.

I’m not dreading, delaying, or denying aging, nor am I planning on aging “gracefully.” I want to age boldly, manically, and with just a touch of whimsical menace.

Whether browsing the produce aisle of my local market or riding an elevator, I want to make the men I encounter in my daily dealings feel as uncomfortable as they’ve made me. I’ll bark like a dog, make eye contact while sharpening my toenails into tiny daggers, or roll my eyes to the back of my head while reciting Sylvia Plath.

I used to walk past construction sites with great trepidation, but now I stroll past unscathed, humming an unsettling tune, casually swinging a shrunken head, and watch those fellas scatter to the porta-potties. Because, despite what Mayim Bialik tells you, no amount of hormone replacement therapy tastes as good as hissing at a man in a visibility vest feels.

I’m not dreading, delaying, or denying aging, nor am I planning on aging “gracefully.” I want to age boldly, manically, and with just a touch of whimsical menace.

After a thrilling day making men question the very fabric of their reality, I want to return to my sacred hovel and unwind by tending to my numerous vining plants, cataloging the gold teeth gifted to me by my devoted murder of crows, and practicing my signature cackle — a cackle born from a place of reckless abandon that dances the delicate line between sounding positively delighted and criminally insane. One that will scare away my enemies and summon my coven, a group of similarly minded crones with whom I will raise a flock of chickens and whittle branches into magic wands that double as fashionable canes when our knees go out.

As for my changing body, I’m gonna have fun with it! There’s simply no need to Botox neck bands once you realize the delight of standing naked in front of the mirror and flexing your neck tendons so your breasts move up and down like a set of joyful marionettes, like I am a goddamn Vaudeville queen. Vaginal dryness? Hell yeah. Move over Cardi B, because this DAP just made laundry day a breeze.

Some may say that 43 is too young to be considered a crone, but I believe that you can embark on your crone era at any age. The only requirement is simply having had enough of being anything else.

Perhaps embracing my inner crone is a rite of passage, akin to the classic witchcraft phase I moved through as a teen. A second chance to reclaim my power and sense of agency in a world that is constantly telling women we are either not enough or too much. A rebellion against years of pressure to mold my appearance and personality to something more palatable for male consumption.

Or maybe I’m just really into velvet wall tapestries.

Either way, I’m approaching advanced age with great fervor, and I hope you can too. I can’t wait to see how weird things are gonna get.

Jennifer Donovan is a former medical researcher reimagining her life as a writer. Her comedic style focuses on creating content that sparks dialogue, provides levity, and fosters community. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their two children.