Forget Aging Gracefully. I'm Aging Out Loud.

I love my granddaughter, but if she replays that song one more time, she is going to hear exactly what it sounds like when grandma turns into a demon. I’m not proud of it, but that was my thought when my beautiful 10-year-old granddaughter picked up the remote and smiled in my direction. She knows that one-dimple smile is Boomer kryptonite. I sighed, forced my lips to smile, and said yes to her unspoken request.

I was headed toward the kitchen with our empty popcorn bowl when she asked, “Will you watch with me, Memoe?” I almost reminded her I’d viewed K-Pop Demon Hunters twice already that day and at least a dozen times in the past year. But then I realized: I’d never actually paid attention. I’m often advising others to “be present,” to practice intention and mindful listening. Yet, I couldn’t recall anything beyond those six now-famous words “This is What It Sounds Like.”

I set the bowl on the counter, plopped down next to her, and stared at the screen, willing myself to care as much as she. Rumi, the lead character, was only 3 lines into the lyrics when my mouth fell open. She wasn’t singing to the demon hunters. She was singing to me. “The worst of what I came from, patterns I’m ashamed of…” In that moment, she transported me from my cozy den to a painful place I rarely let my mind linger.

In 2012, surgeons removed a large cancerous tumor from my abdomen. The scar extends ten inches from my sternum to below my navel. Initially, I thought of it as a badge of honor commemorating my survival. I overshared my painful journey and displayed my quilted torso to anyone who asked. Years passed, and something shifted. Slowly, unconsciously, I body-shamed myself into thinking my triumphant scar was a flaw, another imperfection I needed to conceal. I stopped celebrating my healing and became ashamed of the man-made evidence of it.

Rumi continued, “We listen to the demons...we let them get between us.” Sometimes the worst demons are in our heads. Think of the hours we waste fighting not monsters with otherworldly powers, but our negative self-talk that incessantly whispers:

· I’m too old.

· I’m too big.

· I can’t do it.

· I don’t deserve it.

· I'm not pretty enough.

· I can’t wear a bikini.

That last one? Totally me. All the magazines, fashion blogs, and filtered reels on social media pummel us with images of blemish-free, perfect people. They don’t have bad breath or bad hair days, let alone an unesthetic mark on their drum-tight abs. Who says overexposure to filtered reality only impacts young people? Even women with decades of accomplishments can be virtually waterboarded into believing those images reflect mandatory beauty standards we cannot reach with a ladder and 6-inch stilettos.

“The truth now?” I didn’t stop wearing sheer blouses, crop tops, and bikinis because I’m old. I stopped because, like Rumi, I was hiding my scars—my truth.

Ironically, I am always impressed when I see a woman with a V-neck blouse exposing the telltale scar of open-heart surgery. I don’t think, “Geez, cover that up. No one wants to see that.” I think, Wow, I love her confidence.

Or, as the Demon Hunters sing, “There’s so much unexpected beauty in broken glass.”

It’s true this long, deep scar will always be part of me, reflecting victory over the hardest battle of my life. And no, I’m not a shero, but I AM a survivor. Survivor means you have lived through something that caused others to die. Whether it’s war, an automobile accident, childbirth, or surgery, we’re still here!! The scars and crow’s feet are reminders of our resilience, not our weakness.

I’m no longer listening to the lies I told myself. There is nothing wrong with my body. My scars are my map. My receipts. The history of a life I fought hard to keep.

So heaven help me, I’m wearing my bikini. If someone sees the truth beneath my sunscreen…good. I do not care.

Sitting next to my granddaughter watching an animated half-demon sing about shame, survival, and self-acceptance, I felt my heart beat a new rhythm. One my cardiologist would approve of!

I hugged myself tight, smiled, and thought, THIS is what mental liberation sounds like!