My first memories of women I admired and aspired to be like someday were from my favourite TV shows. Marlo Thomas and Mary Tyler Moore. Peggy Lipton and Susan Dey.If these names give you zero context clues, here's a hint: Susan Dey played Laurie Partridge on The Partridge Family and Peggy Lipton starred in The Mod Squad. These women were mod and groovy and gorgeous.Do you have it? Correct. The 70s.I know I'm dating myself. In fact, I'll celebrate a milestone birthday this year. It has no clever name. No "Flirty Thirty" or "Nifty Fifty" for this decade. Apparently you just turn sixty quietly or loudly and carry on. Creating a fuss is not considered an attractive quality in older women.I'm not afraid of turning sixty, as I thought I might be. I'm not embracing wrinkles gracefully, to be honest. I do need to drink more water. My intentions list is longer than my years.So fear of wrinkles yes, but I'm not scared of ageing or dying. And I'm not scared of becoming an invisible older woman—though, believe me, that is no fake conspiracy theory.I am scared, though, of getting to this age without finding my true purpose or passion. Because, come on. If you haven't found your purpose by sixty, when will you? I'm supposed to be wise and I'm not there yet. Accomplishments grow, but so do one's goal lists, as the clock ticks faster.What drew me to these female characters was partly their impeccable style and sheer glamour. But there was more. They exuded independence. They had careers and spoke their minds to men.What I didn't know in my innocence was that the Women's Lib movement of the 60s and 70s was in full force. Women and their allies were fighting for their lives while I crushed on David Cassidy.As I sat down to watch a favorite show in 1973, I had no idea that Roe v. Wade was being passed—a monumental moment that has eroded shamefully. But I was silently soaking in the political and societal ripples as a child. I felt a buzz and a shift at some tidal level.Children are always watching and listening. Choose your words to your daughters carefully. And your sons.Sixty years on and women still need to fight. In The Color Purple, Celie says, "A girl child ain't safe in a family of men. But I never thought I'd have to fight in my own house."If you've read the novel or seen the movie, you know the heartbreak in those words. If you haven't—please do. Today.As a dual American-Canadian citizen in 2026, I feel that second line profoundly. When girl children and women aren't safe, we need to fight.Sliding towards invisible says a lot about how we as a society value women and elders, but I'm not gonna lie—it has advantages.I spend some of my days every week as a high school supply teacher. Another day I volunteer at a long-term care home. So I spend most hours in a typical week with teenagers and older folks. It's such an interesting vantage point to observe these two cohorts as an outsider of sorts.Both groups are shockingly honest and authentic. Teenagers have their whole life ahead of them and everything to gain. Seniors have most of their lives behind them and nothing to lose. So both open up and reveal their thoughts with complete candour.The teenage girls delight and fascinate me with their youthful boldness and confidence. Their dreams are big and shiny. I feel an obligation to pave the road ahead for them. I try not to instill fear or squash their enthusiasm. The only feminist advice I can't help sharing over and over is this: Never put the key to your happiness in someone else's pocket.The residents at the care home can appear frail—until they start to share their stories. The oceans they crossed. The abusive husband they walked out on with a car full of kids in tow. The husbands they adored and miss. The jobs they held when women didn't do those jobs. The children and pets they nurtured with little money. The siblings they helped raise and the homes, gardens, kitchens, communities they created magic in.As they speak, every impression of frailness fades away and their strength glows.Some of them were the groovy and mod women of the 70s I yearned to emulate.And here I stand, poised between the generations, facing down sixty.I have a number of thirty-something friends and nieces. They've figured some things out. They have date nights and self-care appointments. Yet they still struggle to find affordable, good daycare. They still struggle to be validated and respected when they've chosen a child-free life. And they seem overwhelmed and tired. The day has too few hours and feelings of failure lurk at the fringes.The times they are a-changin', but we're not there yet.Yesterday on a local social media post, a woman was asking for advice on dog training. I had no advice to give, so I kept scrolling. But one of her lines struck and stayed with me. She ended her post with this:"Please. I need help, not judgment."Sister, we hear you.There was a fascinating trend on social media at Christmas time. Post after post of stories about "Who fills Mom's Christmas stocking?" Some were bitter, some funny, some poignant. Obviously the discussion struck a nerve.Partly it was a little silly venting during the stressful holidays, but partly it was a metaphor for something way, way bigger for women and moms. As we trudge along day to day in our responsibilities—who is filling our stocking?It's hard to be a revolutionary activist when you're legitimately tired. Most women care deeply and passionately about making the world safe for a girl (and boy) child, but there's presents to buy and meals to cook all year round.I self-reflect a little because life is rarely one-dimensional. A little piece of why my stocking is empty is because Martyr Me thinks I should do it all and don't need (or deserve?) help. A little piece is Controlling Me thinking I'm the only one who can do it properly. A little piece is Egotistical Me enjoying the praise of occasionally being able to "do it all"—and this high is in peak form during the holidays. A bigger piece is that Caregiver Me genuinely enjoys making my family and friends happy.Until I feel undervalued. And then the bitterness seeps out a little.We're complicated and balance is tricky, isn't it?I want to model the perfect balance for the teenagers and the thirty-somethings, but I'm still getting it right myself. On the edge of sixty, I'm still a work in progress.I know that words and actions are powerful. I know from the classroom that teenagers are watching me for guidance behind their gloriously long throwback-to-the-decade-I-was-born-into lashes.Life is a cycle, as women know best. I feel a responsibility to carry on the legacy of the women at the long-term care home who moved mountains in their lifetimes, at home and in the workplace. The personal is always political.Today I draw inspiration from many women, fictional and very real.Ilona Maher: US rugby team Olympic medalist, Dancing with the Stars darling and podcaster. She's funny, she preaches body positivity, she's someone I want to borrow confidence from. She's someone I aspire to be more like now, not someday.The women protesting today in the streets of Iran, brave beyond my wildest vision. The protest sign "REVOLUTION NOW" takes my breath away with its immediacy and pulls me to action. Revolutions are happening and I'm being called. The sideline is not where I want to say I stood, if I'm privileged enough to have grandchildren.Oh—and Peggy Lipton of my beloved The Mod Squad? She's the mother of Rashida Jones. Talented, beautiful. And an activist fighting for intersectional feminism, racial justice, humanitarian aid, and youth empowerment.Every decade brings us women to aspire to.Happy sixty to me. I'm finding my voice. I'm owning it.I challenge you to do the same, even if you're not having a milestone birthday.Revolution now. Help, not judgment. Find your voice. Own it.By Angela CherubiniAngela is a retired high school English teacher, supply teacher, volunteer, runner, and story-keeper.
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