Unfading: The Myth of Beauty and the Wisdom of Age

There is a quiet revolution in choosing to let go of beauty as performance. It is not an act of rebellion with fists raised, nor a declaration of war against the world’s expectations. It is softer, subtler—a turning inward, a gentle exhale that releases the weight of being seen. But make no mistake—there is fire in this release, a slow-burning rage that has simmered beneath the skin for centuries, passed from woman to woman like a whispered warning.

For so long, beauty has been a currency. A woman’s value often measured by the way her features arrange themselves in harmony, by the softness of her skin, the grace of her posture, the effortlessness with which she exists within the gaze of others. To be beautiful, they say, is to be worthy. But of what? Attention? Desire? Respect? And what happens when beauty fades, when the currency loses its value? The answer has been written in the bones of every aging woman who has been made invisible, who has felt the world's gaze pass over her as if she no longer exists.

I am 46 years old, and I find myself competing with the wrong things every day. I am bombarded with images of youth, of tight bodies and skin, shaking and gyrating in front of me, leaving me with a sense of loss. I try to tell myself that I need to follow and look at women and fashion that involve women who look like me—not women that, even in my wildest dreams, I could never compete with. But what do we do with the women who were told that beauty was their value? What do we do with the ones who were trained from childhood to believe that youth was their power, only to find themselves discarded when it fades?

But this is not just a woman's burden. Men, too, face the expectations of virility, strength, and unwavering dominance, their worth often tied to youth, success, and physical capability. Aging for them can feel like a slow erosion of identity, as they battle against the ticking clock of perceived relevance.

The Universal Truth of Aging and Identity

The myths have always told us what happens to those who chase youth beyond reason. Dorian Gray’s beauty becomes his damnation, his soul rotting in secret while his face remains untouched. Narcissus, so enamored with his own reflection, wastes away. Across cultures, the lesson is clear: to clutch at youth is to court destruction.

Zen teaches that attachment leads to suffering. This truth extends beyond material things to the very way we perceive ourselves. To be attached to beauty—to fear its fading, to chase its maintenance, to measure our reflection against an ever-shifting standard—is to be bound by illusion. And yet, the world has tethered both men and women to this illusion for millennia, tying their worth to external validation like an iron collar. But what if we let go? What if we stepped beyond the need to be seen as beautiful or strong and into something deeper: a presence, an essence that is undeniable yet asks for nothing?

The Moon and the Mirror

The Zen story of the mirror and the woman speaks to this transformation. A woman, once celebrated for her beauty, fears the passage of time and visits a Zen master. "How do I remain beautiful forever?" she asks. The master hands her a mirror.

"Look into this each day," he says. "If you see clearly, your beauty will never fade."

At first, she clings to his words, mistaking them for reassurance. But over time, she understands: the beauty that does not fade is the beauty that is not dependent on youth, desirability, or validation. It is the beauty of presence, of self-knowing, of becoming a reflection of something vast and eternal. But the transformation is not easy. It is a shedding of layers, a stripping away of years of conditioning that have whispered: Be soft. Be quiet. Be beautiful.

Chang’e and the Art of Ascending Alone

In Chinese mythology, the moon goddess Chang’e drank the elixir of immortality and ascended to the heavens, leaving behind the world she knew. Some say she was selfish, others say she was wise. But in her solitude, she became something more than a wife, more than an object of longing—she became luminous.

To enter cronehood is its own kind of ascension. It is not an exile, though the world often paints it as such. It is a rising beyond the triviality of being looked at and into the fullness of being. It is the realization that a person’s worth has never been tied to the way they are seen but rather to the way they see.

The Goddess: Joseph Campbell and the Archetype of Transformation

Joseph Campbell, in The Goddess, explores the divine feminine in its full cycle—Maiden, Mother, and Crone. In many cultures, the Crone is not a figure of loss but of power, the final and most potent form of the goddess. She is the wisdom keeper, the destroyer of illusion, the one who sees beyond vanity and into truth. In Hinduism, Kali, fierce and untamed, is an embodiment of this stage. She does not seek beauty—she devours it, replacing it with raw, unfiltered strength.

Aging, then, is not something to be feared but revered. It is an initiation into a role that has existed across time and myth: the guide, the oracle, the one who no longer exists for others but for herself.

The Seer’s Transformation: Beyond Ornamentation

This is the part they don’t tell you: aging is not a decline; it is a transformation. It is stepping into a body no longer willing to be ornamental by necessity. It is no longer playing the role of the maiden, the mother, the seductress, or the unshakable patriarch. It is embracing the part of the story where the individual becomes the seer, the one who carries the weight of knowledge and wears it as armor.

This is not fragility, but fortification. The lines on the face become calligraphy of a life lived deeply, the softening skin a shedding of the past’s expectations. The body ceases to be a thing to be gazed at, and instead becomes an instrument of perception, honed by years of watching, listening, and understanding.

The Grit and Grace of Release

There is power in beauty, but there is greater power in release. To let go of the grasping, the seeking, the quiet fear that we will disappear if we are no longer adorned in the expectations of others. To walk into a room and no longer need the world’s eyes to confirm our existence.

Zen asks: Who were you before the world told you who to be?

Aging is not a death sentence; it is a coronation.

Not soft. Not ornamental by obligation. Not fading.

But something else entirely—

Luminous. Untamed. Free.

And for those who fear their own fading, let them remember: the moon is most powerful in its fullest form.

Thank you for stopping by!

I hope that you enjoyed your stay.

April Martin is a writer, illustrator, and USAF veteran with a bachelor's degree in photography. Specializing in cerebral, emotionally charged storytelling, her work delves into the complex realms of mental health—including schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and severe personality disorders—bringing a raw, unfiltered perspective to the human experience. With a background spanning from military service as a B1-Bomber crew chief to working closely with the neurally diverse community, April brings a unique depth to her narratives. Her current graphic novel project, The Chaos of Lucifer, is a testament to her commitment to creating gritty, resonant stories that explore the fragility and resilience of the human spirit.

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