Look, I’m Gen X—we invented ironic detachment as a survival mechanism—but even I have to admit this year has kicked my ass. My personal annus horribilis, if we’re being fancy about it. The kind of year where autumn feels less like a cute metaphor and more like an actual mood: everything falling apart in vibrant, crunchy, photogenic decay.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

As October draws to a close and we enter the last two months of the year, I seem to be feeling less stressed than I have been for most of 2025.

For once, I’m actually looking forward to spending cosy evenings indoors, all hygge with my husband, plus our winter walks and talks. Who knew?

Here’s what I’m clinging to as we slide toward winter: seasons don’t stop. They’re the original rollercoaster, and unlike the disasters of this year, they’re at least reliable.

Winter will be cold and dark and probably involve too much self-reflection over copious amounts of coffee and G&Ts—but, and this is the part I’m tattooing on my brain—spring always comes back.

It has to. It’s contractually obligated.

So yes, I’m in my midlife autumn, nursing my wounds and watching things fall away. But I’m also that stubborn weed that refuses to believe this is how the story ends.

Winter can do its worst. I’ve got my layers, my hygge game strong, and the unshakeable Gen X conviction that after you’ve hit bottom, the only direction left—as YAZZZZ sang—“is up.”

Spring is coming, and when it does, I’m going to be insufferably smug about having survived.

The Myth of Balance (and Why It’s Overrated)

Let’s talk about that sacred cow of modern life: work–life balance.

It’s outdated. Over-marketed. A big, shiny lie.

Balance implies calm, symmetry, and control—three things absolutely no one has in 2025. We’re not balancing; we’re juggling flaming swords on a unicycle while trying to look emotionally regulated.

We’re stirring pasta with one hand, answering Slack messages with the other, and calling it “mindfulness.” We’re doom-scrolling at bedtime and calling it “staying informed.” We’re running on fumes and calling it “discipline.”

Balance, as we’ve been sold it, is a fantasy. A productivity-porn fever dream that whispers:

If you just optimise better, plan better, wake at 5am, batch-cook on Sundays, colour-code your Google calendar, meditate for exactly 12 minutes—you’ll finally find harmony. BULL S**T , FA FA FA FOULLLL!

Life isn’t a spreadsheet, and you are not a project that needs better management.

The Stoics knew this long before hustle culture and LinkedIn thought leaders.They didn’t chase balance—they sought equanimity. Yes - I am in it - my oracle phase- but indulge me for a minute.

That quiet steadiness that comes not from controlling everything (impossible), but from mastering your response to it (deeply possible).

The goal isn’t to make your life symmetrical—it’s to make it sincere.To build a life that feels like one cohesive story instead of a series of competing chapters where Work You, Home You, and Social Media You are all beefing with each other.

Shout out to Ryan Holiday—his books Stillness is the Key and Courage is Calling, along with his Daily Stoic newsletters, have been a serious source of enlightenment.

When your work aligns with your values, when your boundaries actually support your wellbeing, when you stop treating peace like a weekend activity or a vacation you have to earn—you stop juggling and start living.

Balance is the illusion of control.Integration is the practice of acceptance.And acceptance, my loves, is where real peace begins.

It’s not about having it all.It’s about knowing what “all” even means for you.

So instead of asking, “How do I balance it all?” try asking: What deserves my energy today?

Not what screams the loudest.Not what guilt tells you.Not what the algorithm says you should be doing.What actually deserves you?

That question changes everythingggggg

The Prince of Misalignment

If you ever forget what misalignment looks like—don’t worry. The universe provides examples daily.

Twelve million pounds and a dead accuser later, and any decent person in the UK is still asking: Will Andrew Mountbatten Windsor aka Andy Windsor ever face real accountability?

Let’s be clear about what we’re looking at here: a man whose excuses—“no recollection,” “I was at Pizza Express in Woking,” “I don’t sweat”—sound like rejected scripts from The Office.

SIDEBAR: Shout out to Emily Maitlis, because I genuinely don’t know how she conducted that interview with a straight face. The woman deserves a BAFTA for maintaining composure while someone tried to alibi himself with a chain restaurant.

The real insult has been the tax-paying British public footing the bill for his protection and his silence. His security detail. His legal settlements. His carefully managed public invisibility. Now thanks to Kingyyy - this will be no more.

All while ordinary people are choosing between heating and eating, between electricity and therapy, between dignity and survival.

It’s misalignment on a royal scale: privilege pretending to be innocent.Reputation propped up by taxpayer pounds. Accountability buried under ermine and entitlement.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here facing consequences for our actions—losing jobs for being late, getting fined for missed payments, having our reputations destroyed for far less.

This comes as no surprise really—in my opinion, power of any sort corrupts, and crowns corrode faster than most.

I’m a closeted royalist—anyone who knows me knows I loved and respected the late Queen. I’ve got some time for King Charles, none for William, but ALL DAY for Harry.

However, at the end of the day, royals are human beings—not special, not chosen by divine right, not exempt from basic decency. Nope. They’re arse-wiping, snot-cleaning, regular Joe Bloggs like you and me.

Let that sink in.

The only difference? When we mess up, we face consequences. When they mess up, we pay for the cover-up.Meanwhile, HMRC will still be looking for people to pay back their Covid loans. smh.

The Antidote: Grace Wales Bonner at Hermès

And then—grace. Literally.

Grace Wales Bonner, the newly appointed Creative Director of Hermès’s women’s universe.

Let me say that again, slower, so we can all feel the weight of it:A Black British woman is now leading one of the most revered, quietly powerful luxury houses on earth.

Hermès isn’t just a brand—it’s a 187-year-old French institution that’s historically moved with the speed of hand-stitched leather. This is a house that has built its entire identity on heritage, craft, and an almost monastic devotion to tradition.

Into that rarefied space walks Grace Wales Bonner. Not as a token. Not as a headline. But as the woman who earned her seat at the table through decades of uncompromising, visionary work.

This isn’t a diversity headline—though the media will try to frame it that way.This is a cultural correction.

The result of consistent, soul-rooted work finally being recognised by an industry that has historically gate kept Black excellence while appropriating Black culture.

For generations, Black designers have been the uncredited architects of cool—setting trends that white designers got awards for. The fashion industry has long had a parasitic relationship with Blackness: it wants our aesthetics, our cultural references, our cool—but rarely our leadership.

Grace Wales Bonner has been building toward this moment her entire career—one stitch, one reference, one deeply researched collection at a time.

She fused European tailoring with Afro-Atlantic spirituality, rewrote the language of modern luxury, and pulled from James Baldwin, Harlem Renaissance photography, Caribbean diaspora, and West African textiles—not as costume, but as conversation.

She didn’t chase virality. She didn’t pander to the algorithm. She built a legacy—with intention, intellect, and integrity.

That’s what alignment looks like. That’s purpose rewarded.

The world is finally starting to understand that Black creativity isn’t a trend to mine—it’s a tradition to honour.

Grace Wales Bonner at Hermès is proof that excellence, when rooted in authenticity, becomes undeniable.Even to institutions built on gatekeeping.

Autumn teaches us what to shed.Winter teaches us what to survive.Spring reminds us why it was all worth it.

If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Comment, Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have considered moving up to paid on my substack as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

OF COURSEEE!! there are so many things to be outraged about but If you ask me, I think there’s a lot of outrage about the wrong things. In a world where it isn’t cool to be seen as going against the grain, it will take a lot of courage for one to be virtuous in 2025.

The Courage to Look Foolish

The ancient philosopher Epictetus once said:

“If you wish to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid.”

Translation? Sometimes doing the right thing makes you look dumb.

To be virtuous or virtue isn’t trending on TikTok.It doesn’t clap back, subtweet, self-promote, or drop a hot take for likes.It’s showing up — quietly, consistently.Choosing empathy over ego.Choosing silence over spectacle.Doing what’s right when no one’s watching — and especially when no one’s clapping.

In a world obsessed with optics, that kind of behaviour feels almost rebellious.Virtue today is countercultural.It’s not sexy. Not shareable. Definitely not sponsored.

Doing right rarely feels like victory. It feels ordinary. Invisible, even.Yet over time, it builds something no money, follower count, or hyper-glossed filter can buy: peace.

In 2025? Peace is rarer than a good Wi-Fi signal in Zone 2 — and infinitely more luxurious.

Culture Check: To Greta, To Meghan… and (sigh) To Kemi

Language evolves. So do we.

Once upon a time, to Beckham meant to bend it.To Kardashian meant to contour — both your face and your moral compass.

But in this era of midlife rebellion, it’s time to update the dictionary.

To Greta (v.)To rebel with purpose.To call out the madness.To plant both feet on solid ground while everyone else performs compliance.

“I’m feeling a little Greta today.”Translation? Too seasoned to fake it. Too tired to stay quiet.

To Meghan (v.)To master the art of quiet revenge — with a side of grace.

“She pulled a Meghan,” we whisper, admiring the woman who wins without a press release.That’s not pettiness. That’s strategy. That’s a PhD in peace.

To Kemi (v.) — use sparingly.Definition: A middle-aged Black woman who’s misplaced her Black sensibilities somewhere between Parliament and performative politics.Exhibit A:

We see you, sis. But we don’t claim you.On behalf of the Midlife Nigerian-British Ladies Association, London Chapter — we’d like to respectfully leave the WhatsApp group.With love, light… and mostly shade.

Midlife Reckoning: Gatekeepers at the Gate

Let’s have a word, Gen X.

We can’t all be gatekeepers when the gate’s hanging off its hinges and the keys are lost in a group email.Too many of us are still playing the “one-in, one-out” game — clutching our hard-won seats like scarcity is a virtue.

We make noise on International Women’s Day, then hoard the mic for the rest of the year.Time to evolve.

The Millennials and Gen Z girlie dem? They collaborate.They build. They DM each other — not for gossip, but for growth.

Real power isn’t about keeping others out.It’s about knowing your worth and creating space without fear of disappearing.

Midlife isn’t about proving yourself anymore.It’s about owning your stage — and knowing exactly when to step aside.

You don’t need to overschedule or overperform to be seen.You are the résumé. You are the reference.You’ve already earned your seat.

Be Greta when the truth needs a spine.Pull a Meghan when grace needs a face.And when life starts to feel like a badly run UN session?Log off. Pour something strong. Exit with quiet dignity.

Save this one for your next meltdown, existential crisis, or WhatsApp group implosion.And if it hits home, pass it on — because someone out there is learning, like the rest of us, that sometimes…

The loudest move you can make is silence.

If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Comment, Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have considered moving up to paid on my substack as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x

MMM40. Can you believe it? We actually made it to 40 musings. 🎉

When I started this, I thought I’d maybe squeeze out 10 before running out of steam (or out of patience). Yet here we are — 40 newsletters later, still laughing at the madness, raging at the nonsense, and dancing through the mayhem in sensible shoes.

But let me start with a confession. I get paid to market other people’s brilliance, but when it comes to marketing myself? I get shy! Confusion sets in - what do people want to see - my imposter syndrome voice gets louder and louder. Meanwhile my Clients get shiny decks and polished strategies; I get half-finished drafts and voice notes labelled “post later” that never see the light of day. Funny, but not funny.

Maybe it’s peri-brain, maybe it’s procrastination… either way, it’s done. That era is over.

From here on out, it’s one voice. My voice. Unapologetic. Midlife. Unfiltered.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Fam, let me start with a confession.

I get paid to market for others, but when it comes to marketing myself? Suddenly I’m the cobbler with no shoes, tiptoeing barefoot through my own ideas. My clients get campaigns, strategies, polished decks; I get voice notes, half-finished drafts, and the eternal excuse: “I’ll post it later.” - later rarely comes.

That ends now.

This — this evolution of myself— isn’t about shinier fonts or a slicker logo. It’s about finally owning my voice across every channel. No more split personalities: strategist here, soft-life auntie there, sarcastic truth-teller everywhere else. Exhausting. Diluting. Done.

From here on out, it’s one voice. My voice. Unapologetic. Midlife. Unfiltered.

Honestly, the timing couldn’t be better. Because the world feels permanently stuck in protest mode.

We’ve got chaos on London’s streets, migrants still treated like suspects, corporations queuing up for their annual Black History Month photo ops, Nigeria blowing out 65 candles while corruption eats the cake, and Gen Z vaping their way into popcorn lungs.

So really, what’s the point of me whispering when the world’s already shouting?

London Protest: What Are We Doing?

Last weekend, London’s streets turned into a theatre of slogans — placards waving, chants ricocheting, racism bold enough to strut without shame.

I was / am disgusted. Far-right mobs make my skin crawl. Racism has no place in British society. Full stop. Yet there it was, bold and unashamed. What’s worse? The silence that followed. No media uproar. No reckoning. White supremacy brushed off like background noise.

Let’s be clear: migrants are not the problem. The real problem sits higher up — an elite hoarding wealth, dodging taxes, and distracting the masses with “the other.”

And without migrants? Britain would collapse in days.

* The NHS would fold — 1 in 6 staff are migrants, 30% of doctors trained abroad.

* The economy would sag — migrants contribute more in taxes than they take in benefits.

* Culture would flatline — no Afrobeats, no curry houses, no Stormzy.

* Even football would limp — Marcus Rashford, Bukayo Saka, Cole Plamer. Gone.

This isn’t new. The Windrush generation answered Britain’s call, only to be treated as trespassers. Kids of migrants in the 80s were taught to shrink: walk behind, avoid eye contact, code-switch to survive.

Fast forward to 2025, and we’re still here. Racism bold in the streets, institutions pretending not to see.

Migrant Realities

That protest energy flows straight into the migrant struggle.

We bring the recipes, the rhythm, the free labour, the NHS shifts, the cultural sauce — and still get treated like uninvited guests at the very party we built.

Britain has selective memory. Post-war rebuilding? They called, and Windrush answered. NHS on its knees? Migrants staffed the wards. Fruit to be picked, labs to be led, tech to be launched? Same story. Who shows up? Migrants. Every single time.

Without us, this island folds quicker than a cheap bra in the wash. The buses wouldn’t run. The hospitals wouldn’t heal. The music would be silent. Dinner? Tragically tasteless and beige.

So when someone says “go back where you came from,” I just laugh

Black History Month (UK): Receipts, Not Hashtags

October is creeping in, and so are the predictable corporate moves: hashtags, stock images, and polished #BLM statements from brands that dont really care and are just ticking off CSR / DEI initiatives if they still have them.

I’ve been here before. In a former job role, I poured my soul into a Black History Month newsletter about racism, erasure, code-switching. People nodded. Then October ended, hashtags faded, and business as usual waltzed back in. That’s the cycle: performative allyship, seasonal diversity, and silence.

I said this then and ill say this now, the rush for brands, businesses and investors all of a sudden showing support to the black during the height of BLM would fall off a cliff, and it did/ it has.

A grassroots social media movement is calling for Black consumers, particularly Black women, to boycott non-Black-owned beauty and hair care retailers starting September 1st. Organisers and influencers are calling for a nationwide boycott, encouraging black consumers to stop purchasing beauty and hair care products that are not black -owned.

The movement gained momentum after TikTok creator @delwboy posted a video that quickly went viral, sparking a powerful conversation about the economics of the Black haircare industry.

Key Goals of this boycott are to redirect spending from major retailers and non-Black-owned brands to Black-owned beauty businesses and to Demonstrate the economic power of Black consumers in the beauty industry

The movement emphasiSes that after many years of black women carrying the hair industry on their backs, WE finally decided to take their economic power back. Black women spend six times more on hair than white women — £88 million in the UK alone. That’s power. That’s leverage. Yet we’re still sidelined, copied, and sold toxic products with a smile.

That’s why this September’s boycott matters. It’s not just about products. It’s about dignity.

We are tired of tokenism. Tired of Black founders being pressured into scaling too fast. Tired of brilliant brands shuttering while corporations steal our ideas.

Sidebar: go listen to Emma Grede’s Aspire podcast episode with Diarrha N’Diaye of Ami Colé. Powerful stuff.

If BLM means anything, it’s this: receipts over rhetoric. Buy Black. Year-round. Amplify, invest, sustain. Don’t cheer resilience while pulling the rug out.

Nigerian Independence Day

Nigeria turns 65. Old enough for a senior railcard, still too young for decent governance.

As part of the diaspora, I carry both pride and frustration. Nigerians are giants: Afrobeats, Nollywood, Chimamanda, Burna Boy, IAMISIGO reshaping fashion.

In the UK, we’re doctors, nurses, teachers, lawyers, athletes, artists. From Anthony Joshua in the ring to Bukayo Saka on the pitch, we don’t just participate — we excel. Britain is richer, sharper, bolder because of us.

And yet, home breaks hearts. Oil, talent, brilliance — squandered by corruption. Displaced people with a country. Nigerians scatter not because we don’t love home, but because home hasn’t loved us back.

Still, hope refuses to die. End SARS 2019 showed a fearless generation — tear-gassed, beaten, silenced, but unbowed. Maybe, like Nepal, Gen Z will take the reins and finally rewrite the story.

One Voice, Moving Forward

So here we are at the end of my musings for now, No more mixed messages just my unfiltered mix of s***s,giggles, thought provoking topics - topped up with humor , some gossip and vulnerability.

So if you’re here for soft life and vibes only, this might not be your stop. But if you’re here for messy truths, cultural clapbacks, and midlife rebellion — welcome home.

Strap in. The mayhem’s just warming up.

Now I want to hear from you. What do you want to see dismantled, celebrated, or dragged into the light? Hit reply, share this with your people, and let’s grow this movement of midlife women who are sick and tired of being sick and tired with a lot to say.

If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Comment, Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have considered moving up to paid on my substack as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Thanks for reading MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM ! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x

Autumn lurks at the moment. The days are officially shorter, darkness creeping in before 8pm. Only a few weeks ago it was still light. I don’t mind the chillier mornings though — they feel honest somehow.

In the these crazy times, honesty matters. I choose to be on the side of REAL TRUTH.Not the curated kind. Not the spin-doctored “both sides” kind. But the messy, uncomfortable, bone-deep truth that demands we support the oppressed and call out injustice wherever it shows its face. That’s the bare minimum of being human.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Which brings me to Misan Harriman’s exhibition The Purpose of Light at the Hope 93 gallery, and the documentary Shoot the People at the BFI Southbank. The documentary is produced by Andy Mundy- Castle who is also of the Nigerian diaspora - when i found this out - i had a huge smile on my face. 

I’ve known Misan over 20 years — back when we were post-teens in the Nigerian diaspora, moving through the same London circles. He was a “city” boy: polite but obnoxious, flashy. Looking back now is almost comical, because the growth is astronomical. A decade ago he was outside London Fashion Week snapping street style. Then came Covid. Then George Floyd. something in Misan began to bubble — in his work — cracked open.

Misan’s lens doesn’t just capture moments. It refuses to let the world look away. He has archived protest, grief, unrest, resistance. Vulnerability and defiance, frozen in time.

A few years ago, at a march for Congo or Palestine (too many marches, really), Misan raised his camera and caught me mid-resistance. That photograph now hangs in his exhibition. For me, it’s proof: I showed up, I raised my voice, I refused silence. Most of all - I am PROUD to be featured as part of Harriman’s work - it is a moment of pride for me,  this kid from Misan’s home state of Delta in Nigeria.

Misan is an activist as much as an artist. He disregards comfort and safety to bear witness, to become a custodian of our collective trauma as Black and brown people. It takes courage. Whenever we speak, I worry for his mental health. The vitriol he receives online is relentless. Yet he says: “I do this because I must”, HOW POWERFUL IS THAT????

That kind of empathy and love — for people, for justice, for history — is rare. I’m glad to be alive in a time when people like Misan exist and insist. HE MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS. I could barely hold back tears when I introduced myself to his amazing wife - the bible says he who finds a good wife, finds a good thing - in this woman i swear he found a gem. 

If you haven’t yet, go to the Hope 93 gallery in London. See The Purpose of Light and then pop down to BFI Southbank and  Watch Shoot the People. Both of these works are powerful time capsules, reminders, and warnings of the times we are in. As we say in itsekiri ERE MISAN - ERE!! Misan Harriman

Michaela Coel: The Face, The Force, The Future

What does Michaela Coel mean to me — an African diaspora kid of a certain generation? EVERYTHING.

This woman is a GIANT to the culture. The epitome of DIY. The blueprint. The “I’ll build it myself, and you’ll just have to catch up” energy that redefines possibility.

So when I see her on the cover of Vogue, it isn’t just fashion. It’s cultural affirmation. A loud, unfiltered reminder that we’ve been shaping and remixing culture all along.

To call her only a “writer,” “actor,” or “director” is an injustice. She is:

* A cultural guardian of Black girl culture.

* A muse — Grace Jones for Gen Z.

* A face for the ages: Queen Elizabeth of Toro, Iman, and something entirely her own.

Those angular features. Cheeks like blades. Lips like sculpture. Skin that commands light without apology. She is beauty, but also disruption.

She has walked through fire. Survived a rape early in her career — transmuting that pain into I May Destroy You, one of the most powerful series of our time. That wasn’t just art. That was alchemy.

She’s a Spike Lee of sorts — but for Black Britishness. For the diaspora stitched together by Wi-Fi and memory.

Michaela is more than a moment. She is the moment. A living bridge. For some of us, she’s a mirror. For younger ones, she’s a portal, Micheala is Not just a cover girl. A cultural giant.

Tears of a Clown: Success Tax, Pennies & Perimenopause in the Valley

Do you ever get tired of being tired?Like bone-deep tired. The kind that makes you want to pack it all in and just… stop.

I’m in that season. Bills overdue, direct debits bouncing like afrobeats, pennies left to my name. I’m not writing this for pity (I hate pity). This is truth: I feel embarrassed, afraid, uncertain. And pretending otherwise is exhausting.

I call it the Success Tax. The price you pay for refusing to stay down. Every time life knocks you flat, you get back up. Over and over. UP UP UP. Like a jack-in-the-box nobody ordered.

Dean Graziosi said: “Success won’t come chasing you down — you’ve got to chase it.” Some days I think that’s me: chasing success in slippers while it runs ahead in Nike Pegasus.

Then perimenopause gatecrashes the race. Hormones turn every problem into a catastrophe. Anxiety sneaks in at 2am. Depression mutters “you’re not enough.” Mood swings flip me from zen to “burn it all down” before the kettle boils. A bounced debit becomes a referendum on my worth. A late text reply feels like exile. Sometimes I cry because my nails look wack, i forgot to get salt from the shops even though i was out a few times or when i think the  laundry  basket looked at me funny. It is out of control!!!

They say it’s darkest before dawn. But must I hit rock bottom for light to come? Some days I feel like 2025 mugged me and left me on the pavement. The peri-mental spiral is real: muttering turns into full-blown conversations with myself. Bargaining, consoling, scolding… then laughing at the absurdity. Tears of a clown.

The silence from friends stings. Everyone’s battling their own storms, I get it. But when your hormones are rioting, even a small sting feels like a wasp nest.

Yet — I am lucky to have family and  a husband who has been my rock. The ones who doesn’t flinch when I unravel. That kind of love, steady when everything else shakes, is a wealth no bank can measure.

So yes, I’m afraid. Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I’m broke. And yes, my hormones are dragging me like a malfunctioning self-drive car. But I’m still here. Still standing.

Maybe survival looks like this: ugly, unfiltered, overthinking everything… but still here.

As usual, If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have consider moving up to paid as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x 

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Working with IAMISIGO for Copenhagen Fashion Week wasn't just Comms and brand strategy — it was a living, breathing act of cultural preservation wrapped in hand-beaten metal resistance.

Bubu Ogisi, the creative director of IAMISIGO, doesn't "make clothes" in the pedestrian sense. She channels history and stitches memory, and turns textile traditions into wearable manifestos. My job? Make sure the world got it — without watering it down for the Western gaze.

CPHFW is many things: sustainable, structured, and very Scandinavian in its punctuality. Lagos? Lagos is organised chaos with a pulse. I was somewhere between translator, hype woman, and air traffic controller — making sure BUBU’s wishes for the show were conveyed as deeply African, fiercely modern, unapologetically itself… while still starting within the allotted slot. Well, 20-minute slot in this case — the traditional 15 minutes wouldn't work for us. Perfection cannot be rushed.

The moment I almost cried — not from stress, but from watching the first full run-through. Goosebumps. Lump in throat. Full cinematic cliché. Watching Bubu take the applause she deserved — a full-on moment for me. I was beaming with pride.

The magic wasn't just in the clothes — though those were something else entirely — but in the room. It was models walking with the weight of heritage and the lightness of art. It was knowing that somewhere between Lagos, Accra, Kampala and Copenhagen, between the ancestral and the futuristic, we'd built a bridge.

After years in fashion, shows can start to blur. This one won't. It will live in my memory not because it was perfect, but because it was true. In an industry addicted to reinvention, truth is still the most radical thing you can put on a runway.

The post-show high lasted 36 hours. The post-show foot pain lasted a week. I'd do it all over again tomorrow — sign me up.

Hip Hop at 46: Still Paying My Dues

I'm 46 and still a child of hip hop. Not in the "stuck in the 90s" way — though, let's be honest, my internal soundtrack is still heavy on Nas, Lauryn, and Biggie — but because hip hop shaped the rhythm of how I move through the world. It isn't just music. It's a lens, a language, a life skill.

I talk about hip hop like it's a living, breathing being — because for me, it always has been. It walked me through awkward teens, ambitious twenties, reckless thirties, and now these unapologetic midlife years.

Reggie Yates recently wrote about RESET THEORY — "Forever young, or refusing to grow up?"

His words hit. The culture has to evolve. Rappers have to age, and hopefully their sound with them. Yet some older cats insist on rapping about things that, at their age, just feel… gross, to be honest. How can you be almost 50 and still rapping about b*****s and hoes? The tables have turned at this point — if you are almost 50 and still rapping on this subject matter, guess what? You are the b***h. You are the ho! Life totally fucked you.

Hip hop in 2025 is messy. Industry plants everywhere. Gentrification on steroids. But I'm not done riding for it. Not by a long shot. Thankfully, a few of my favs are evolving the craft like fine wine.

We've got grown-folks rap thriving: Jay-Z pushing 60 and still dropping verses that send kids scrambling to Chat GPT to decipher. Nas in his renaissance. Missy Elliott out-innovating your favourite twenty-something producer. CLIPSE — yes, CLIPSE — back with an album that's both nostalgic and future-facing. Malice and Pusha T sound sharper than ever, reminding us maturity doesn't mean mellowing out; it can mean cutting deeper. "Let God Sort 'Em Out" is basically my new mantra.

The way we consume music has changed. Streams, playlists, algorithms telling us what we "might like." Efficient, yes. Fleeting, also yes. Back in the day, an album drop was an event. You lived with it. Read the liner notes. Argued about favourite tracks in person, not just in comment threads. Now? Your favourite artist's single can vanish down your feed before you've even memorised the hook.

For me, hip hop still demands presence. It's the one genre that makes me stop mid-task and listen. Never background noise — always front and center, syncing to my own heartbeat.

Hip hop is why I walk into a room like I belong there. Why I side-eye anyone clapping on the wrong beat. Why I can sit in a Copenhagen Fashion Week boardroom one day, negotiating deals worth thousands of pounds, and still lose my mind over a perfectly timed DJ track drop the next.

It's not nostalgia. Not a phase. It's a lifetime membership. In 2025, I'm still paying my dues — in full, with interest. Thank God for Kendrick — in him I trust.

Back to my life: I'm making s**t work the best I can. I realize I'm not alone trying to unravel my life — shed old things and become my new self. The tea is, nobody tells you becoming yourself at midlife feels like breaking in a new pair of Docs — stiff, awkward, rubbing in places you didn't know could blister.

Life right now feels like a construction site. Dusty, noisy, and full of mess. I feel so unprepared for this shift — it's like I'm trying to land a plane with no manual. This has been my life the last few years. Walking into my being now means bumping into all the old versions of myself — the people-pleaser, the hustler, the one who said yes before she even knew what the ask was.

Growing pains are real. Bodies rewrite their own rules without permission. Just when you think you've cracked the code, there's another life plot twist that shows up unannounced.

The beauty of midlife is that it strips you down to essence. I have been laid bare. MY YANSH is open.. No more rehearsals. No more pretending. Your own voice gets louder than the noise. You learn that peace is a flex, boundaries are love letters, and "no" is a full sentence.

For me, walking into my being feels both scary and exciting. Like stepping on stage with no script but finally trusting I can freestyle my way through.

Midlife isn't the end of youth. It's the start of truth. So I'm lacing up my boots, blisters and all.

Let’s talk about Serena Williams — the woman who could probably bench press a small car while serving aces — is now hawking weight loss drugs. Because nothing screams "athletic excellence" quite like trading your racket for a prescription bottle. Somebody wake me up when septemeber ends like the green day songggggg.. what da helly??????

Let me paint you the picture: Serena Williams, spokesperson for health company Ro (purveyors of those trendy GLP-1 medications), sharing her "positive experience" with weight loss drugs. Oh, and plot twist — her husband Alexis Ohanian just happens to be an investor and board member. Wonders ehhh!!!!- they shall never cease.

This is the woman who redefined what powerful looked like. Who made thighs-that-could-crush-watermelons aspirational. Who carried an entire sport on her incredibly strong back while reminding us that bodies were built for domination, not decoration. She turned muscle into mainstream and proved that champions come in all shapes, today, she's telling us the real victory is on the scale.

The irony is deliciously bitter: she built her legacy proving that strong was beautiful, that power was gorgeous, If SERENA— has to bow down to the skinny industrial complex, what hope do us mere mortals have?

Maybe this is midlife's cruelest lesson: no matter how many trophies you've won, how many millions you've earned, or how many times you've proven yourself unstoppable, the body shame machine will eventually come knocking apparently, it's very persuasive when it brings investment opportunities.

Though I proudly wear my REBEL badge and try my damnedest not to conform to society's beauty standards, I'd be lying if I said Kate Moss's infamous 90s mantra didn't whisper seductively in my ear sometimes: "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Hate to admit it, but that quote has some staying power.

Here's what really gets me though: these celebrities peddle weight loss solutions to us regular folk, but they've got teams of people managing every aspect of their lives. Personal trainers, nutritionists, chefs, probably someone whose entire job is monitoring side effects and adjusting dosages. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here Googling "normal GLP-1/ Ozempic side effects and reactions" at 2 AM and hoping for the best. SMH. o

Sharon Chuter — A Trailblazer Gone Too Soon

The beauty world just lost one of its fiercest visionaries. Sharon Chuter, founder of Uoma Beauty, passed away at just 38 on August 14, 2025 — a stunning loss that leaves a void far larger than any palette could fill.

Born in Nigeria and forged in the corporate corridors of L'Oréal and LVMH, Chuter launched Uoma Beauty in 2019 to do more than sell makeup. She set out to redefine beauty itself. The brand burst onto the scene with a bold statement: a 51-shade foundations. She wasn't competing with Fenty — she was reaffirming, reclaiming what beauty could and should stand for.

But Sharon Chuter didn't stop at products. She founded the Pull Up for Change initiative — and its clarion call, #PullUpOrShutUp — in 2020. She demanded transparency: show us your diversity numbers, or get lost in the noise.

In 2021, she elevated her activism with Make It BLACK, a campaign flipping the narrative on the word "black" — pushing brands to relabel packaging in black, and funneling the proceeds back to Black entrepreneurs.

Sharon Chuter stepped off the CEO stage in 2023 after a breakdown of health — a wake-up call that came with the weight of 134-hour work weeks and zero sleep. She lost 10 kg in a week, sparking fears of cancer. Thankfully, that nightmare wasn't real, but it cost her the job. She walked away from the boardroom, hoping for real rest, but the brand's assets were quietly sold behind her back during medical leave — can you just imagine… F**K THOSE PEEPS man.. everything she had worked so hard for just taken away just like that. Jeeezz!

She was found at home, on a patio — the cause of death still under investigation. we need answers ooo, why are black female founders under attack? 1st we lose the brand AMI COLE and now we reading UOMA was stolen from Sharon and then she is found UNALIVE??

Losing Sharon Chuter feels different. I want to know how she died. I was lucky enough to meet her at the Glamour Woman of the Year awards in 2023, and her energy was infectious.

In midlife, we're supposed to be easing off the accelerator, not flooring it — but Sharon proved that the real vice is complacency. She reminded us that representation isn't optional; it's revolutionary. My UOMA products (still unused) will become a memory for me. I refuse to buy anymore, knowing that the soul of the company left this earth already and she was not happy.

Rest in peace Sharon, my fellow Naija sis — as we say back home: YOU TRY!

On a final note, Summer 2025 has turned out to be one of my best summers yet - I got to do some incredible stuff , travel to a few different places and seen a lot of s**t! Most importantly I spent a lot of time with my nearest and dearest - and this has proved time and time again to be the best tonic for my woes. I am so blessed.

As usual, If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have consider moving up to paid as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x

P.S There’s no better time than now for us to start the UOMA boycott.

June 6th, 2025: I’m at Heathrow, boarding yet another flight back to Malmö after two weeks of grafting in London. Hustling. Networking. Smiling through rejections and lukewarm “keep in touches.” A trip that, if I’m honest, didn’t quite work out the way I hoped it would. The energy felt off. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was Mercury doing nonsense again.

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As I settle into my seat, I say my prayers and just before I have a look through Netflix to see what moves I had downloaded, I start scrolling through the socials—and then BOOM. There it is: Simz just dropped her new album.

My anxiety-ridden face melts into a grin. Yes o! My sis dropped a lifeline.

Simbiatu Abisola Abiola Ajikawo—aka Little Simz—has been my little sister in my head since her debut. She’s Nigerian by blood, Brit by postcode, and just like me, her lyrics speak diasporan third culture realness.She raps like she’s been in our WhatsApp groups. Like she’s watched us age gracefully into soft life but still keep pepper spray in our handbags, just in case.

With LÖTUS, Simz didn’t just release an album. She released a whole spiritual seminar. A body of work that feels like what happens when introspection lifts weights, flies business class, journals with intention, and comes back with chakras aligned and edges laid.

This is grown woman rap. Nigerian slang, London cadence, but the delivery? Universal. Simz raps from her soul, from her solar plexus, from that place where your ancestors and your therapist meet for drinks and drag you lovingly.

The lotus flower’s meaning across cultures is one of rebirth, purity, and spiritual elevation. That’s exactly what this album is. After a very public creative divorce from her long-time producer, Inflo, Simz lays it bare. “Thief,” the opening track, is a lyrical exposé—raw, poetic, and clearly aimed at someone close.

But as we say in Naija: Naija no dey carry last—and we MOVE.

Simz teams up with Miles Clinton James (of Kokoroko fame), who produces the entire project with lush, layered, AFRO-jazz-meets-cinematic-orchestration vibes. The production? Textured like Aso-oke on a humid Lagos afternoon.It’s giving orchestral grime.It’s giving “Yoruba priestess in a Celine blazer.”It’s giving “I’ve done the healing, now here’s the sermon.”

For yours truly, the standout track? LION.

Featuring the mighty Obongjayar another one of Naija’s finest, it’s Marvin Gaye meets Fela Kuti on a rooftop in woolwich.Waists are winding. Yansh is yanshing. From the very first beat, I was up in my economy seat doing spiritual warfare through rhythm.It’s spiritual. It’s dangerous. It’s divine.

Throughout the album, Simz testifies. She lectures. She floats. On “SOS,” she addresses the rap game like a tired but stylish auntie at a family meeting.She gives us receipts with love. And when she taps into her softer moments? It’s not sad girl aesthetics—it’s I’ve walked through fire and didn’t burn energy.

LOTUS isn’t just music. It’s audio therapy.It’s incense, and the incense tax.It’s brass sections and boundaries.It’s what my inner voice wishes it sounded like—over immaculate production and unapologetic clarity.

LÖTUS is Simz’s coronation.She’s Lauryn Hill, Sade Adu, Erykah Badu, and the Ladiju Sisters, all rolled into one.In the 1hour 20 minutes I was up in the air listening to this album, I felt deep, unshaken gratitude.Not just for the music, but for Simbi herself.May her reign be long, bold, and boundary-breaking.

Meanwhile in the circus tent the Rumble of the Rich Men.

One minute they’re beefing—Musk calling for impeachment, Trump threatening federal contracts, Epstein name-drops flying like confetti.Next thing? Tesla shares bounce, Elon apologises, and the bromance resumes like nothing happened.

I mean ARE YOU HAVING A BUBBLE, TRUMP?ARE U HAVING A LAUGH, ELON???Come on. We saw it coming like a Nollywood plot twist.

It’s all one big distraction.It’s optics.It’s giving Jayda Essence Hall’s “look over there” while the world is on fire.And while the boys were cosplaying Real Billionaires of Mar-a-Lago, real things were going down.

Greta, Gaza & Guts

Greta Thunberg joined a flotilla to break the Gaza blockade. Israel intercepted the boat—on international waters—snatched activists (Greta included), and deported them like DHL returns.

She clapped back, called it what it was: kidnap.God bless her. God bless every soul on that mission. May they all return safe.

Greta’s urging the world to go to Gaza.In person, in spirit, in solidarity.That’s the real front page news.Not this clown-off between Trump and Elon.

The Diddy Debacle - OKPORRRRRRR

Whew.This week’s testimony from “Jane,” one of Diddy’s exes, was harrowing.

A social media influencer, she testified about abuse, manipulation, coercion into unprotected sex with sex workers—and Diddy watching her sleep with other men. Including entertainers. Including his personal trainer Paul.

Yep. Freak-Offs™ were scheduled. Staffed. Ready.It’s giving “Yansh on tap.”It’s giving “No orgy, no entry.”NA WA OOO.

Diddy’s legal team is pulling every stunt in the courtroom circus—calling mistrial, questioning jurors, all of it.But the prosecution? They’re painting a picture that looks like a long-standing, coercive sex-trafficking operation.

This isn’t about kink.This is about control. Power. Shame.And “Jane’s” story echoes what Cassie Ventura and others have said.These weren’t just “freak nights.” These were orchestrated violations hidden behind fame, fortune, and fear.

These are CRAZYYY times people, i aint gonna lie.

I mean what do you guys think? Hit me up in the comments.

Love,

Ari.x

P.SIf this musings and others made you laugh, think, shake- yansh, or side-eye the state of the world—do your good deed for the day:Like it. Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already.

Writing these takes incense, WiFi, and a borderline concerning amount of oat milk lattes. If you’re feeling generous (or just entertained), you can also drop me a tip or buy me a coffee

—every rebellious aunty needs caffeine-fuelled encouragement.

Your support keeps me going. Literally. 🖤

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Gaza continues to be erased with clinical precision. The term "asylum" is now a branding strategy. Climate denial is being greenwashed with yacht fuel. And somewhere between Diddy’s trial, TikTok farmers, and billionaires trying to trademark culture, I caught myself looking up plots of land somewhere HOT wondering if it’s time to raise pot bellied ,goats and lean all the way into my midlife exit fantasy. I am OVER the western world. 

Reverse Asylum: When White Tears Unlock Borders

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So here’s the headline that made my left eye twitch: 35 white South African nationals were granted refugee status in the U.S.—on the basis of “white genocide.” Let that sink in. In 2025.

This same asylum system regularly denies safe haven to Black and brown people escaping actual war, cartel-controlled violence, climate displacement, or political persecution. But white South Africans? Come right in. No questions. No irony. I didnt know if i should laugh or actually cryyyyyyyy. 

This isn’t just a bad policy—it’s performance art for the insecure. It’s the weaponisation of a word as sacred and severe as “genocide” used to mask resentment over land redistribution and crime—two issues that, ironically, disproportionately impact Black South Africans.

Meanwhile, real, sustained violence against Black women, LGBTQ+ South Africans, and the economically marginalised gets zero airtime. It’s not trending on Twitter. It doesn’t get Fox News prime slots. It just… keeps happening. Quietly. Violently. Invisibly.

Ramaphosa vs. Trump: Diplomacy on Hard Mode

Then there’s the geopolitical theatre that unfolded on May 21st.

President Cyril Ramaphosa visited the U.S., only to be ambushed by Donald Trump—armed with debunked videos and doctored images supposedly “proving” white genocide in South Africa. One of the most egregious pieces of “evidence” turned out to be a photo from the Democratic Republic of Congo.

It was less of a state visit and more of a Daily Mail fever dream disguised as diplomacy.

But instead of walking out—or flipping the desk—Ramaphosa responded with poise. He corrected the record, reminded the room (and the cameras) that Black South Africans are the most frequent victims of violent crime, and calmly reiterated the country’s land reform efforts as necessary redress—not racial vendetta. I loved when he turned to the WHITE man in the South African delegate (- a billionaire himself and the minister of agriculture) and asked him to respond to Trump.  As if to say - “ABEG  TALK TO YOUR GUY” lollllz

That, my friends, is diplomacy under duress. You know deep down he wanted to slap someone and fly back home. But instead, he chose legacy over ego. That’s leadership. That’s emotional restraint on masterclass levels.

Meanwhile in the U.S.: Farming, But Make It Aesthetic

Back across the Atlantic, American agriculture has become content. No soil experience? No problem. Just buy a drone, throw on some Carhartt, and announce your journey into “regenerative farming.” Apparently, you can now become a farmer with zero training—just vibes and a tractor named Freedom.

This influencer-farmer era—let’s call it FarmTok gone feral—has turned rural labour into a gentrified aesthetic. But the foundation? Crumbling.

When ICE raids and immigration crackdowns decimated the farm labour force, it wasn’t "Chad from LinkedIn" who stepped in to pick strawberries. “NO one”. farms lost over $3 billion in crops in 2019 in the first administration of Trump,  with the present GOVT back  in power and the ice raids being ramped up - they are losing almost 5 x times that amount.

50–70% of America’s farm labour force is undocumented and are the backbone of the US Food system, and when they’re deported or too afraid to show up, America’s entire food chain collapses.  These former “MAGA” strong holds are besides themselves - all raging with regret- which i think is so funny - like what the f**k did you think would happen? Its the privilege and effrontery for me…

Black Farmers? Not New to This. Still Fighting.

While white farmers cry foul, Black and Indigenous farmers aren’t shocked—they’re just exhausted.

In 1920, Black farmers owned 14% of U.S. farmland. Today? Less than 1%. That’s what decades of USDA discrimination, land theft, and structural exclusion will do.

But still, they farm. Quietly. With innovation and resilience

The Diddy Trial: Abuse, Silence & the Machine Behind the Man

The Diddy trial isn’t just a courtroom drama—it’s a masterclass in how power protects itself. Former assistants including the one whom legend says knows where all the bodies are-  Capricorn Clark described years of intimidation, kidnapping threats, and physical violence. Cassie Ventura testified about abuse, coercion into drug-fuelled sex acts, and blackmail with revenge porn.

Kid Cudi’s Porsche? Firebombed. Witnesses? Traumatized. The entertainment industry? Mostly silent.

Global brands who once begged to associate with him? Quiet. Music execs? Even quieter. Because when power bleeds into profit, morality takes a nap.

This isn’t about one man—it’s about the machine that enabled him, protected him, and profited from him for decades.  Jimmy IOVINE was mentioned in Capricon’s testimony - and not in a positive light… SIGHHH… in some ways - PUFFY was always going to be the fall guy - HIS HANDS AREN'T CLEAN though - but there were bigger players involved for all of this to have been happening unchecked.

So yeah… this week felt like satire. But worse—because it’s real.

White refugees are being fast-tracked while Black and brown asylum seekers rot in detention. Billionaires are playing Monopoly with entire cultures. Ramaphosa showed more restraint than I have at a Zara sale. American farms are collapsing because Chad thought cucumbers grow in crates. And Diddy’s trial has become a slow drip of everything we’ve suspected for decades—corruption, silence, complicity, and a whole system built on "don’t ask, don’t disrupt."

It’s all so loud. And yet, in the moments that matter most, the people with the biggest platforms are dead silent.

But here’s the thing—we’re still here. Still side-eyeing the nonsense. Still surviving the chaos. Still holding space for nuance, for justice, for joy. Still cracking jokes because if we don’t laugh, we’ll scream. Or worse—become unseasoned.

I don’t have the perfect answer. I’m not sure if the goats or pot bellied pigs and solar-powered retreat are the solution (though it’s tempting). But I do know this: we find power in naming the absurdity, in refusing to look away, and in finding our own damn rhythm in the madness.

So tonight, I’m closing my laptop, making myself a triple Gin and Tonic, and whispering “woosah” into the wind.

Sometimes, the most revolutionary thing we can do is rest… and plot.

Finally, I am sending a special shout out and all my love to LIVERPOOL. standing with the people there who experienced a domestic terrorist attack as they celebrated Liverpool’s premiership title. YOU will NEVER WALK ALONE.

Please comment, interact, like, share, re-stack and subscribe if you haven’t. I TOTALLY need the encouragement and want to grow my small community on here.

You can also tip me or buy me a coffee if you enjoy my work.

Love,

Ari. x

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There’s so much freedom in not doing what everyone else is doing—especially in midlife, when society politely suggests you fade away respectfully.

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I f*****g can’t. NOPE. Even when I try, my subconscious throws a side-eye and snatches me back. I was simply not built for conformity for conformity’s sake.

While the world zags—chasing the next algorithm, swiping through trends, buying anti-aging serums infused with unicorn tears—I’m over here zigging in technicolour. Wearing clashing prints like armour. Mindfully minding my own damn business. Choosing joy over hustle. Energy over aesthetics. Peace over performance.

Zagging? That’s for the crowds. Zigging? That’s for the bold, the curious, the gloriously unbothered. Those who find things scary—but do it anyway. 

We are the ZIG-ers.(Careful how you say that. Could get you slapped if you’re not melanated.)

The ones who make audacious, off-script moves not because it’s cool—but because our spirit says this way. We feel. Then we do.

Midlife is My Mixtape

I’ve outlived bad hairstyles, bad bosses, bounced rent payments, countless pots of burnt jollof, and the kind of friendships and situationships as well as relationships that made me question if I had offended the ancestors.

I wear my scars like sequins—earned, not bought. The real flex? Marching to the beat of your own midlife mixtape. 

I’ve always been like this. If everyone loved something (or someone), I’d instantly side-eye it. Suspicious. Uninterested. Oppositional by nature.

I blame my mum and aunties. Do you know how many times I heard:“Just because everyone turns left doesn’t mean you should,”or the classic,“If everyone is putting their hand in fire, does that mean you’ll put yours in too?”

Countless. It stuck. Like OLD SCHOOL PALMERS (cocoa butter) did in winter.

Zigging is freedom when you deep it.It’s embracing this moment in life—gloriously messly, gloriously yours.

It’s “Too blessed to be stressed” energy mixed with “f**k around and find out.”

Zigging is that voice that whispers:“Spice up your damn life.”

My response?Zig a zig ahhhh.

On Diddy, Power, and The Silence That Kills

Now. Let’s pivot.

Because while I’ve been zigging my way through joy, healing, and bold expression—there’s another layer we can’t ignore.

This Diddy madness? From hero to absolute zero.

Sex trafficking. Extortion. Abuse. Even if he’s not technically indicted for all that, the accusations are enough to make your spirit scream.

As someone who grew up on hip-hop, this is heartbreaking. These unchecked crimes are rotting the culture from the inside out. The silence is loud. The cover-ups? Nasty work.

We talk about community, but too many stay quiet when it’s time to protect our women. That ain’t it.

Cassie’s story? Whew.If you’ve read the statement, seen the court docs, watched the footage… you know.

He stomped her head. Kicked her back. Tried to de-life her.Forced her into those so-called “freak-offs.” That ain’t love. That’s a predator with a god complex.

That’s manipulation, power, and control.

Kid Cudi? Blown-up car, DAY AND NIGHT - Ex friend of Kanye..

His Car exploded in his driveway. Diddy allegedly mad because he was cool with Cassie- apparently they were friends.

Who does that?Who the hell does he think he is—Puff Bin Laden?!

Wigs off and huge shoutout to Alex Fine—Cassie’s now-husband. Hired by Diddy as a trainer, ended up being her protector. Diddy allegedly tried to blacklist him too, kill his career. And still—Alex stood firm. Married her. Loved her. Fathered her children. That’s real. “Fix your face, watch your mouth”—was Diddy’s favourite threat to her. Shudder.

Cassie said she did hundreds of those freak-offs. Violated beyond measure. That $20 million settlement? Nowhere near enough. But she’s free.Free from the drugs. Free from the control.Free.

There’s one celeb I just know has seen some things.Allegedly, of course. But come on.

We are literally watching him unravel in real time. The energy’s off. The eyes are heavy. The light’s dimmed.

I’m talking about Justin Bieber.

This is someone who, like Cassie, got swept into the industry young—barely formed as a person, yet surrounded by power, predators, and pressure.

Since puffy got did, It’s like Justin’s spirit’s calling out for help in plain sight.

I JUST WANT TO HUG him and let him know everything will be okay.

He’s vulnerable. Clearly going THROUGH it.The trauma. The silence. The way his body language screams what his mouth can’t say yet.

Seriously, if what’s allegedly gone down is even half true—it’s some next-level s**t.

Protect Your Magic, Guard Your Real

This musing started with zig-zag living, but it cracked something open.

Because when you choose to zig, you start seeing the world as it is.You hear the offbeat. You clock the quiet abuse.You refuse to play along just because it’s easier—and you start holding space. For yourself. For others. For truth.

We exist in a world that screams “be yourself!”Then side-eyes you the minute you actually do.

Do you want to know the real grown woman truth?:

You cannot bring your whole self everywhere.Not to work.Not to that “good vibes only” WhatsApp group chat.

I’ve always preached showing up as your authentic self.Still do.But you’ve gotta know which version of you the room can actually hold.

That full-fat, seasoned, spicy, culturally marinated you?Keep that for your people.The ones who see you.Love you loud.Hold you soft.

Not every space deserves your whole self.And not every space has earned it.

Protect your magic—not out of shame, but out of wisdom.

The Pattern is the Point

This whole Diddy situation? Like Cosby, Epstein, Weinstein—it’s cracked something open. The silence that used to cloak powerful men is lifting.

The patterns are clear: Freak-offs. Control. Manipulation. Generations of damage, finally surfacing.

Cassie found her voice.Cudi survived.Alex Fine showed us what protective love looks like.

Midlife?It strips off the nonsense. The illusion. The falseness, It hands you clarity—and the courage to use it.

So no, I’m not zagging to keep up with anyone’s curated highlight reel.I’m zigging—with purpose, with joy, and yes, with a bit of glitter on my trauma and healing in my heart. Minding my joy which is nobody else’s business.

If you’re still here, still nodding, still reading?

You’re probably zigging too.

So I’ll say it one more time, loud for the people at the back:

Stay bold. Stay loud.And really, really, really…Zig a zig ahhhhhh.

Please Like, share, restack and subscribe if you haven’t.

Oh- and buy me a coffee if you enjoy my work.

xoxo

P.S ALLEGEDLY RE JUSTIN BIEBER - I aint tryna get sued by nobody whilst i’m here minding my business .

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It’s wild, isn’t it?

When your favourite piece of clothing—the one that once made you feel unstoppable—still fits, technically… but it just doesn’t feel right anymore. It pinches in places you didn’t notice before. It clings where you now crave softness.  You suddenly realise: maybe it’s not the fabric that changed, maybe it’s you who’s changed.

That’s where I’m at. Growing out of old dreams, is like retiring a pair of trusty jeans that rode with me through the wild nights and even wilder plans. They served their purpose. But now? I’m daydreaming new ones.  Midlife, this time, they’re stitched with quieter threads—less toxicity and strife, more harmony and less stress.

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I used to chase rooms filled with the right people. You know, the ones who looked good on your insta feed or a LinkedIn brag or a dinner party name-drop. But the spaces I crave now? Just need to be filled with the right energy. The kind of people who don’t just see the highlight reel, but the whole damn blooper reel too—and stay anyway.

Yes, my dreams still involve cool places and people… but my definition of “cool” has evolved. These days, it’s less rooftop parties and more rooftop solitude. Less VIP lists, more inner peace. I mean I am not a recluse or becoming one—as every now and then, you can catch me OUTSIDE.

I know I’m not the same. I can feel the shift, tugging at the edges of who I used to be. And while I’m excited to meet the next version of me, I also know I can’t skip the messy middle. In the words of JAY Z on his smash hit with Linkin Park “ encore” There’s no grand “opening” or  grand “closing.” Just layers being peeled back, one truth at a time. I’m a work in progress. Forever.

Genuine Joy (Even When You’re Falling Apart a Bit)

Let’s keep it a buck: being genuinely happy for someone else when your own life feels like it’s being held together by chewing gum, dry shampoo, and ever decreasing faith is hard…  That’s not just emotional maturity—that’s advanced-level adulting. That’s emotional Pilates, some kind of stretching that hits parts of your soul you didn’t even know were tight.

Truth is celebrating someone else’s joy doesn’t shrink your own. In fact, it plants it. Quietly. Like hope with a long germination period.

Being happy for someone—even when you’re bruised, in a funk, or just emotionally crusty—takes guts. It means you’re starting to accept (or at least wrestle with the idea) that life isn’t a Pinterest board or linear.

Full transparency here—I still fall face-first into the puddle of “Why not me?” sometimes. I spiral. I scroll. I sulk. I whisper “when God?” under my breath more than I care to admit. I’m not proud of it. But I’m human. The path to healing isn’t a linear journey either—it’s a bloody roundabout.

But comparison? Oh, that B***H is  a slick thief. An “OLE” as we say in Lagos. Out here in these streets stealing hope, peace, and joy.  Sometimes she looks like inspiration until she starts whispering, “You’re behind.” Your mates have done XYZ and you haven’t.  Mindfuck!!!! 

Real joy for others is radical. It punches scarcity in the face—the same scarcity mindset that tells us there’s only so much love, success, money, or visibility to go around (just like the mindset of those who bullied that US Substack author off the platform last week... you know the one 👀).

Nah. The universe isn’t stingy. But it does respond to energy. And when your energy says,

“There’s enough for all of us,” it listens.

So yes, clap for them. Even with shaky hands. Even from the back row. Joy is contagious—and when it’s your turn, you’ll want people who clapped for you when they had every reason not to.

We Rise by Lifting Others (Not Just a Cute Quote)

“We rise by lifting others,”I heard Davido mention this in an interview on the Breakfast club a few days ago and it stuck with me. Not just because I love a well-dropped wisdom bomb, especially one I think I have heard before but can’t place where, but because it reminded me how powerful we can be when we shift the spotlight off ourselves for a moment and shine it on someone else.

But what does that actually look like in everyday life? Like beyond the emojis and messages of support on social media to see?

Here’s a starter pack for you - These are simple non “performative” acts of lifting others 

* Send the damn message.“Saw your launch—you're killing it.” Not because you want something. Just because you mean it.

* Make intros with intention.Know someone who could use a connection? Bridge the gap. Share the plug. Be the unofficial fairy godmother and connect people.

* Hold space, not spotlights. This is one i keep learningWhen someone tells you good news, don’t counter with your own. Just let them shine.

* Clap from the back row.Not every win needs a front-row ticket. Silent support is still support. Like. Share. Comment. Promote.

* Speak their name in rooms they’re not in.Be that whisper in the boardroom, the advocate over brunch, the hype woman they didn’t even know they had.

Lifting others isn’t performative. It’s a way of being.And when you do it from a real place—not for clout, not for karma points, but because you actually want to see people win—you start rising too.

Not always financially  ( though you don’t do this for money, it would be nice to be remembered if there was some monetary gain - most people don’t think like this which irks me, I gotta be honest).Not always visibly.But soulfully. Quietly. Powerfully.

Do I Hate the Game? Or Just the Player? Or Both??

Just the other day I asked myself:

Do I hate the game? Or just the player?One? The other? Both?I couldn't decide, i am undecided.

The game, you know the system.  —society, the rules, the algorithms, the industry gatekeepers, the silent expectations no one warned us about—can be rigged. 

Exhausting. Downright disrespectful to your spirit. It favours noise over nuance, speed over substance, shiny over soulful. It’s why burnout is trending and authenticity feels like a branding strategy.

But sometimes, it’s not the game.Sometimes, it’s the player.

Me.You.Us.

The version of me that hustled in silence, hoping someone would notice.The version that stuck to timelines society made without consulting me. The version that kept showing up in rooms I’d outgrown or being available to people whom I shouldn't. 

It’s not about choosing sides. Maybe it’s about seeing the messy middle—where the game is flawed and the player needs recalibrating.

So no, I don’t have it all figured out.I’m still learning to unfuck my life and let go of old things, people, relationships, dreams that no longer serve me.

Shout out toAshley Kelsch and Necole ❤️ whose posts this week are so relatable , have resonated deep and have totally just inspired my own musings. Subscribe to their newsletters if you aren’t already guys.

Anyway , ill be here trying to choose softness over cynicism which ill do my best to accomplish on most days). But Still side-eyeing the algorithm, the patriarchy, and my own procrastination.

But maybe that’s the point of growth in midlife.It’s not about declaring victory.It’s about asking better questions—and having the guts to hold yourself accountable. I GAT’S NO ONE 2 BLAME BUT ME…

Like how I have put on some weight post easter even though the wedding I was trying to look good for is on Saturday… Ah well, as we say in Lagos- “I can’t come and keee ma self.” I will just have to reset my diet again - Stop eating bread, diary and potatoes which I have indulged in since easter sunday.

Accepting it, All of it, the Mess, Lovingly and with intention.

Let’s see how it goes shaaaaa.

One love. x

P.s As I mentioned in my last post and in subsequent others, I am really trying to grow the community here so do engage with this post of it resonates.

Do not forget to Like, re stack and share with others who are not subscribed to my musings.

Please consider upgrading to a paid subscription If you can afford it or buy me a coffee, I need all the encouragement I can get.

P.P.S HUGE CONGRATULATIONS to my beloved cousin Rihanna and ASAP rocky. baby no3 on the way. You doing it guys!! That’s right, build that family - cement that legacy my sister.. people can’t understand, these guys are trying to get the family thing done and dusted so they can face business. I LOVE it, and I JUST LOVE them!!!

Some people have the gaul to be asking for album - there’s you album - there it is for you - It is called preggers . LOLLLLLLLLL

I am going to be an aunty again :)))))))

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Pharrell, forever the boundary-pusher, didn’t bother with a photo. No, darling—he’s PAINTED. Immortalised by the brilliant Henry Taylor. Icon behavior. That’s his cover—timeless, untouchable.

A$AP Rocky’s cover? That’s the one I’m eyeing—my forever style crush (neck-and-neck with his Mrs., Rih, of course). Shot by Tyler Mitchell, Rocky drips in a lush green suede Ozwald Boateng suit, crowned with a diamond teal brioche hat, styled by none other than the architect of fashion himself, Law Roach. LAW DON DID IT AGAIN! The entire inside spread? A showcase of Black excellence—Aaron Pierce, Teyana Taylor, Ayo Edebiri, Joey Lorenzo, LaKeith Stanfield—all styled by Law. He did what needed TO BE DONEEEE!!

Lewis Hamilton’s cover? Shot by Malick Bodian and styled by my beloved Ib Kamara (our star boy—so, so proud!), he channels the spirit of the late, great André Leon Talley—possibly the most fashionable Black man to ever grace this earth , EMODYING Black style and grace at a time when it was hard to find in the mainstream media —in Ferragamo, worn like gospel.

And Colman Domingo? PHWOARR! If I were a man, I’d fancy him too. He stuns in a Napoleonic-era suit, styled by Max Ortega and captured by Ike Ude—my Naija brother and a dandy par excellence (because Nigerians in the diaspora always bring the heat).

But while these covers serve undeniable LOOKS, I can’t help but ask: Is Vogue finally catching up—or just cashing in? Black dandyism isn’t some shiny new trend. It’s been here, thriving, long before mainstream fashion decided to pay attention.

From the Harlem Renaissance cats strutting down Lenox Avenue, to the flamboyant Sapeurs of the Congo, to the Distinguished Gentlemen of Bamako—Black dandyism has always embodied swagger, history, and resistance. My friends Sam Lambert and Shaka Maido of Art Comes First—tailors who worked with Ozwald back in the early 2000s—helped spark a resurgence of the African dandy at fashion weeks. Their looks were studied, copied, and suddenly there was a whole movement of Black fashion boys turning up at shows looking dapper as hell.

Image of some “cool cats” Harlem renaissance circa 1918- 1930

I witnessed this up close, growing up in Africa. Smart tailoring wasn’t a flex—it was just life. My father? No exception. Most weekends, we’d visit his tailor in Obalende, Lagos—a man whose scissors were gold and whose eye was sharper than his shears. Safari suits for the heat, rich velvet smoking jackets that gave member of “the temptations” —my father’s wardrobe was his quiet rebellion. Every stitch laced with pride.

Then there’s Uncle Benji, a.k.a. Apollo—a classic man if there ever was one. His white silk shirts pressed? His white cotton shirts,  Starched to the gods. His flared trousers and “African dictator leather slip ons with insignia’s and his loafers”? Legendary.

African dictator’s FAV shoe in the 80’s and 90s. Slip ons with insignia or a side buckle

This was African dandyism. Think Jerry Rawlings’ crisp military presence. Mobutu Sese Seko draped in leopard print, tailored to perfection. These men understood presence long before Vogue’s glossy spreads.

Top Photo Former President of Zaire Mobutu Seko (1965 -1997) 2nd photo: Former president of Ghana Jerry Rawlings 1981-2001)

So, why now? Is Vogue genuinely celebrating Black style, or is this another strategic “inclusion moment” to claw back relevance as print media gasps for air? Black creativity has been hyped, consumed, and discarded like last season’s collection too many times before.

Yes, it’s gorgeous to see these Black men front and center, but let’s not get swept away. Vogue has a long history of sidelining Black fashion narratives, propping up Eurocentric beauty standards. So, is this cover series the start of a deeper conversation—or just a cultural clout grab?

Let’s be clear: Black dandyism isn’t a trend, darling. It never was. It’s stitched into our history—from my father’s Lagos wardrobe to the streets of Brazzaville—it lives on. Whether Vogue gets that or not.

The legends- SAM LAMBERT & SHAKA MAIDO

Tracee Ellis Ross and the Complexity of “Too Late”

Tracee Ellis Ross has always kept it real about living a fulfilled life without a husband or kids. She’s challenged those boxed-in expectations society loves to place on women. But she’s also been honest. There’ve been moments of grief, reflections on the path not taken—not always regret, but an acknowledgment that life is layered.

She’s spoken about the emotional weight of separating your desires from what the world tells you to want. And yet, while she acknowledges those moments, she doesn’t let them define her. She’s built a life brimming with creativity, freedom, and self-discovery. A life that doesn’t hinge on ticking boxes.

This resonates deeply for many of us midlife women navigating the same pressures. When society defines success as marriage and children, Tracee’s message lands like a deep exhale: My life is mine.

Amazing shot of Tracey Ellis Ross shot for Byrdie by Blair Caldwell

But let me get personal for a second.

I’ve had to face the fact that I left starting a family too late. There’s guilt—I feel selfish. Right now, having kids just isn’t on the cards. Between a few rounds of fibroid and cyst removals, the pandemic, being out of work—the timing was never right. My husband? He’d have carried the child if he could (bless him). But the trauma of losing my mother young haunted me.

What if something happened to me? Who would care for my child? Sure, they’d have their father—but the thought always crept in. I was abandoned—not out of choice, but circumstances—and that shaped how I saw the world. Some argue that’s reason enough to have children, to rewrite the story. But as a parentified child raising younger siblings since I was ten, every part of me felt like I’d already done the parenting thing.

The timing had to be perfect. God forbid I had a child out of wedlock (those cultural echoes run deep). Then one day, I woke up—46. No kids.

I had to admit to myself: I put my career first. My goals first. My fear of abandonment, of not being enough, meant I needed to feel settled—secure—before I could even consider motherhood. And I ran out of time.

Could I still have a child now? Technically, yes. But the risks—gestational diabetes, high blood pressure (which I’m already managing), preeclampsia, miscarriage, stillbirth—especially after 40? They linger in the back of my mind.

For now, I’ve made peace with it. I’ll be the best aunt, bonus mother, godmother anyone could ask for. Maybe that’s what I was meant to be.

Adoption? Surrogacy? Never say never. But for now—AH WELL! NEVER SAY NEVER

That's all for today,

Please don’t forget to like, restack and subscribe if you haven’t.

Take care,

Ari.x

P.S NONE of the images used belong to me, they were sourced on google and Pinterest.

But You’re standing there with the confidence of a girl who thought she was cool and just stood there  mouthing along like a malfunctioning animatronic, praying nobody notices.

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I used to be the one people asked about new music. The plugged-in playlist queen. Now? Now I’m that auntie squinting at the speaker like, “Who dis?”

The truth is, TikTok ruined music discovery for me.What used to be organic joy—stumbling across a banger in a film or randomly on SoundCloud—has become an endless scroll of 7-second hooks, sped-up heartbreaks, and songs that sound like AI made them during a sugar crash.

Yesterday, I was humming along to a tune that made me feel things. Gave me vibes. I was like, Yes, whoever this is, they GET me.Turns out, it was Steps Beach by Childish Gambino.Also turns out—it dropped in 2023.

GAT. DAMN. IT.

I love Donald Glover. Man’s a genius. How did this one pass me by?? But this happens all the time now.Blame it on platform fatigue: Spotify kept logging me out depending on what country I was in. Apple’s discovery playlist has gone from “You’ll love this!” to “Here’s what the youth are into,” which translates to: I skip it. Regularly.

As for  live music? Don’t even get me started. I’ve officially entered the nostalgia era. I only leave the house for acts that remind me of carefree nights, questionable dancing, and overpriced cocktails. Like the sugababes last week or USHER whom i sadly didn't get to see.

Unless it’s Kendrick. Or SZA. Or Doechii. Or Teddy Swims, Or anyone still carrying the torch for real R&B, Soul and hip hop.

Also... I am always one of the oldest people in the room when i go to these. Sometimes by a decade.

My knees don’t love it, but my soul is screaming “whooohooooo”so we push on.

Dare I say it—at least 70% of new music is straight-up algorithm bait. Not made for feeling, just made for virality.I know I’m not the target market and that’s ok.But can we stop pretending a trap beat and a whispery hook equals depth?

Bring back bridges. Bring back lyrics that sting.Bring back the music in music.

Until then, I’ll be in my house, rediscovering old gems a year late and fake-humming with pride.

Rocket Barbie Goes to Space – and Feminism Just Filed a Restraining Order

So, a billionaire sends his girlfriend and her glam squad to space and somehow it’s being paraded as a feminist milestone?

I swear we are living in a Black Mirror episode directed by the ghost of late-stage capitalism.

Let’s set the scene:Jeff “I’d like to return empathy for a full refund” Bezos decides to play NASA and surprise! His girlfriend gets a golden ticket to orbit.And not just her. Oh no. She brought the crew.Like it’s a galactic hen do sponsored by Lululemon.

Meanwhile, the media’s losing its mind like we’ve just sent Marie Curie to Mars.

Babe. Be serious.

This wasn’t about gender equality. This was about distraction

A billionaire midlife crisis dressed up as empowerment, complete with curated playlists, airbrushed jumpsuits, and Katy Perry who dare i say it, is now giving washed-up pop star clinging to relevance like her Spotify streams depend on it.

As for  Gayle King ,Aisha Bowe, a former NASA engineer and Amanda Nguyen, a scientist who studied planets, I guess no one turns down a free trip to space right?  How can they?

This was an opportunity to highlight women in aerospace so I understand Aisha and Amanda being there however, the cost of this space tourist trip could have funded STEM programs, be an opportunity to elevated voices that never make it to the front row—let alone the front seat of a rocket.

But instead, it gave us Space Glam. Selfies in orbit with a Spotify link to some s**t record -….This is what we’re calling progress?

While they were floating in the void feeling like a warrior queen, the rest of us were doom scrolling through Project 2025  and navigating Tariffs with our jaws on the floor.

PROJECT 2025 - You know—that actual dystopian policy agenda aiming to erase bodily autonomy, gut LGBTQIA+ rights, dismantle public services, and basically drag us back to 1952 (but with worse music). https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_2025

The timing? Almost poetic.

As the headlines scream “HISTORIC MOMENT FOR WOMEN!” I am here yelling “HAVE YOU READ THE NEWS?”

Honestly, it’s all BS,  giving “distraction tactic”.

Let’s launch a feel-good feminist fairytale into the sky so no one notices the rights we’re quietly deleting on Earth.

Listen. I’m not mad at women doing cool s**t. I live for women doing cool s**t.But this?This wasn’t a win for womankind. It was a Bezos-branded PR stunt that forgot feminism isn’t just about optics—it’s about equity.

Maybe use your obscene wealth to fund actual change instead of renting out the cosmos for a vanity reel.

Real empowerment doesn’t come with a hashtag and it sure as hell doesn’t need Bezos’ blessing.

While Jeff Besoz,  his girlfriend and her cosmic girl gang hang out in space, the rest of us are stuck on Earth with actual problems. Real ones. Tangible ones. Ones that can’t be solved with a playlist and a selfie in zero gravity. I am not even an American but maybe we could take a look into why planes in the U.S. keep crashing like it’s Final Destination: The Sequel No One Asked For?

Fox News (yes, that bastion of facts—cue dramatic side-eye) reports there have been 32 deadly aviation crashes in the U.S. in 2025.Thirty. Two and its only APRIL!!!

Before this hellscape of a year, the last deadly crash involving a U.S. airliner was in 2009.Now, we’ve got 126 people dead… and counting.

But don’t worry. Bezos is sending his girlfriend to space- one big step for Womanhood - sure. That should fix it. It’s the ultimate dystopian deflection: It is sooo American.

Prince called this nearly 40 years ago.

In Sign o’ the Times—an anthem that feels less like a song and more like a prophecy—he painted the picture perfectly:

"You turn on the telly and every other story is tellin' you somebody died...And yet we're sending people to the moon.”

Yes. YES. THAT. THIS. STILL.

It's 2025, and we are living the lyrics.

People can’t afford food, housing, basic healthcare. Climate disasters are on repeat. Democracy’s on the ropes. Project 2025 is out here scheming like a Blofelt- the ultimate BOND VILLAIN.But sure. Let’s go to space.Let’s make feminism float.

“It’s silly, no? When a rocket ship explodes and everybody still wants to fly…”

Prince didn’t miss.

We don’t need another billionaire’s girlfriend in orbit.We need accountability. We need investment in life down here, not billion-dollar toys pretending to solve problems they’ve helped create.

Empowerment isn’t just about visibility—it’s about impact. 

Anyway, i better get back to facing my own issues and not concern myself with space matters.

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Happy Easter!

xoxo

All gifs from Giphy - Image generated from SORA.

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Chimamanda said something the other day that hit me right in the sleep-deprived feels. I’ve been away from home the past three weeks, living out of suitcases, hopping between spare rooms and guest beds. Every place I laid my head? Technically lovely — crisp sheets, memory foam, even a rogue goose-down pillow in one spot. But listen, my body said nah sis. It refused to fully surrender.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Because my bed?That’s not just where I sleep.That’s my safe space. My altar. My sanctuary.It’s where my body finally exhales. Where my soul and my partner’s soul meet mid-snore, mid-dream, mid-night fart. A sacred ritual of comfort only we understand.

You could offer me a bed fit for a member of the British Royal Family in a five-star suite with room service and a view — I still wouldn’t sleep right.If it’s not my bed? The sleep ain’t sweet.

It got me thinking…

Life’s like that too. You can be in the shiniest setup — glossy Instagram feed, title that makes your mum proud, bag secured — and still be off. Still tossing and turning inside.Because when something ain’t aligned? Your soul will start squirming, There will be an unease.Like wearing someone else’s cute shoes one size too small — adorable, but you’re limping with toes curled in discomfort.

You can try to contort yourself to fit. Smile through the Team's meetings, or daily catch up.s IRL. USE ALL the corporate Jargon like you’re fluent in Corporate-ese. But that little voice inside whispers…“Sis, this ain’t it.”

The thing is, Your body?She always knows. Way before your brain’s ready to admit it.

Alignment isn’t a buzzword — it’s survival.It’s learning to listen out for the quiet yes and the loud no.To feel what drains you and what lights you the hell up like Harrods at Christmas.It’s ease that feels like truth. Flow, not force.

You don’t chase alignment — you listen for it. Start with the small stuff. Clock what feels good. Protect your peace like it’s your PIN number. Midlife has zero tolerance for performative living. We’re here for peace, purpose, and a proper night’s kip - 8 hours now adays.

I’m learning. Slowly.

I’ve got walkie-talkie energy with the universe now — I speak, she responds. Sometimes by sitting me down with a "let’s try this again, babe" moment.20-year-old me would've rolled her eyes like “hippy-dippy nonsense.”40-something me? F**K YEAH the hippies were onto something.

So I’m leaning into the pause. Embracing the reroute.Trust me, as a creature of habit with serious control issues, this ain’t easy. But I’m trying.

Speaking of joy…You know what gives me unfiltered serotonin? Not Vinted. Not Depop nor Ebay Not some over-curated, overpriced vintage bougie shop BS.

I’m talking about proper charity shops.The old-school joints. OXFAM, ALL ABOARD, etc those ones.The ones you hit first thing in the morning, rubbing shoulders with Nana Joyce and her pink rinse, both of you eyeing the same vintage fur hat.

The kind where your mum dragged you around post church on a Sunday, bribing you with Ribena.The thrill of the hunt. The rush when you bag a look for £4.This ain’t new to some of us — we’re the children of Jumbo Sale warriors.We were raised in the thrift trenches.School halls, church basements, community centres — tables piled high, your auntie giving you side-eye if you dared walk past the jeans without checking for Levi’s.

Even back in Nigeria, I remember the “bend down boutiques” in Aswani and Balogun markets which I went to with my aunties — rummaging for gold among chaos.For most of my childhood in lagos, idea of buying new clothes from a shop was Alien concept.

If it wasn’t made by “Tailor Le Rant” the Tailor or seamstress your family had on call and lived down the road, it came from the market.

Then came the Oxford Street Saturdays — my first taste of solo shopping.Piggy bank emptied, coins counted, me and my cousins and friends hitting up Topshop, Miss Selfridge and Tammy Girl like we were on a mission. Those were the glory days of the high street — and they’re long gone.

These days I try to shop with intention.Slow. Mindful.But let me not lie — ZARA, that devil shop, still has me in a chokehold.

It’s like that toxic ex you know ain’t good for you, but the minute you see them looking fine, you forget your worth.That’s me, arms full of denim , satin shirts and fake leather trousers every damn season that I don’t need.

This week, I heard this phrase:Positive Energy Activates Constant Elevation.And it stuck. Say it with your chest.I’m choosing positivity. Not the fake kind. The grounded kind.The kind where I give myself grace.And, more importantly, extend it to others.Because let’s be real — between the cost of living, perimenopause, and Piers Morgan still being on TV — we’re all tired. Tender.One wrong word can wound. One kind one can heal.Use yours wisely.

Me? I’m trying to be of service. Sharing where I can.Sometimes for free — because not everything needs an invoice.Sometimes people just need to know someone sees them. That’s enough.

The Sugababes.

My cousins in my head.Suga, spice, sass and everything niceeee.

I went to see them this week and when I tell you… HARMONIES TIGHTER THAN MY JEANS AFTER CHRISTMAS DINNER.

The first time I saw them on Top of the Pops, I was 17. They were 15. At the time, I was auditioning for every song-and-dance gig listed in The Stage. Had delusions of being the next Shola Ama — despite my voice being strictly “karaoke after tequila.”I figured I didn’t need to sing-sang, just sing enough. Spice Girls did it!

Then they opened their mouths and saaang.I was done. Cousins in my head. Protective big sis mode activated.

Keisha. Mutya. Siobhán are some of the best singers from the uk in the last 20 years hands down. The OG lineup. They were always vocalists first - period!They went through it — breakups, breakdowns, industry BS — and still found their way back to each other.

25 years later. Their first ever arena tour.And BABBEEEEE — London showed up.

I was out of my seat, gun fingers in the air from the first note of Overload.I was bogle-ing like I was back in 10 rooms or Mayfair club in 2001.

When Stronger came on…Whew.I cried.The lyrics hit different now.Perimenopausal me felt them in my bones.

Delay isn’t denial. that’s all I could conjure up to say as I watched the girls perform It’s divine timing with a side of stubborn faith.

So if you’re feeling offbeat, out of sync, or just a little bit lost —Trust your body. Trust your rhythm.Your people, your purpose, your bed — they’ll always find their way back to you.

Sweet dreams, rebels.xo

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Spring has a way of ripping us out of our fog and daring us to feel something again, doesn’t it? One minute, you’re ravaged by doubts, and the occasional existential crisis. The next, you’re standing outside, letting the sun flirt with your skin at a polite 18 degrees, and something inside you beginning to click.

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Maybe it’s the flowers forcing their way out of cold ground. Maybe it’s the sheer audacity of nature to keep blooming after everything. Maybe it’s just that deep, feral urge to shake things up again. Whatever it is, spring finds us, dusts us off, and drags us into the light—whether we’re ready or not.

So, I am are trying a-thing. Maybe because all week I tried to write in my usual newsletter style and my head kept coming back to the same few lines, I decided to go with it.

Here’s something I wrote, called Spring Awakening, Bruised but Unbreakable. It’s about those messy, glorious shifts that yank us out of the darkness and fling us into the light. The bruises don’t vanish—they’re part of the bloom and that’s the beauty of it.

Spring awakening, Bruised but Unbreakable

The sun, a golden glimmer and its 6:20's pmHeating up my skin at a modest 18 degrees.Flowers bloom, people daring to dream again in colors anew,Echoing my ascent from my doom and gloom.

In winter's grip, purpose seemed something other people found but not I,Questions circled, “am I walking in my purpose?” swirling in my mind.April's breath brings gratitude's gentle nudge,Magnifying paths where doubts once trudged.

Family's embrace, an unyielding fortress,My life partner's faith in me is soothing.In their love, a reflection of God’s love,My reminder to cherish life's woven seams.

Peaks and valleys sketch the journey's chart,Mood's tides ebb and flow, a complex art.Yet with each dawn, gratitude's light does grow,Guiding steps through highs and the inevitable lows.

Shared laughter with old friends, reminiscing life that has flown by,Stirring my soul, inspiring my weary spirit to fly.In recollections, simple joys are found,A testament to bonds that time has bound.

The sunshine is accompanied by hope and gratitude's embrace,The luminated path reveals a promising space.Focusing on blessings, both great and small,Helping me through the journey, the process, the pain builds character in us all.

PS: What's pulling you out of the gloom these days? Hit reply and share your own springtime awakenings—or the latest way you’re choosing to rise, bruises and all. Because if we’ve learned anything, it’s that midlife is way too short for staying small.

With words, chaos, and a little bit of mayhem,Arieta

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Lately, I’ve been leaning all the way in to the healing power of music. Not the trendy stuff that clogs up your algorithm, but the real stuff—the kind that moves through your bones and gently reminds you who you used to be, who you are now, and sometimes, who you’re still becoming.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

It’s been doing what therapy sometimes can’t—holding space for me. Wrapping me in nostalgic vibes, soft echoes of simpler, easier times.

Earlier this month, we lost a few giants. Roy Ayers. Angie Stone. Ms Roberta Flack. Legends. The kind who didn’t just make music—they made medicine.

When I heard the news, I did what we all do when words fail—I hit play.

Baba Roy (yes, he deserved elder status) left us with a catalogue that spans lifetimes. Listening back to one of his final interviews on Questlove Supreme, it struck me—he was a rebel through and through. Visionary, collaborative, fearless. Always five steps ahead, vibrating on a different frequency. A real cosmic conductor.

“Everybody Loves the Sunshine” isn’t just one of my favourite songs—it’s a time portal. I’m instantly back in my childhood. Making daisy chains, cartwheeling through the grass, shoving tissue into my bra top like I was grown, even though I was still racing to extra tutorials after school. Parentified and pretending. Music made it safe to dream.

Then came Mary J. Blige. Her My Life album? That was scripture. Especially when she sampled “Sunshine.” Baba Roy himself said it was his favourite flip, and I get why. Mary poured her whole chest into every word, every note dripping with heartbreak and hope. La di da da daaa... You know the one.

A Tribe Called Quest also gave “Sunshine” its flowers with Bonita Applebum. That was my gateway drug to hip-hop. Real hip-hop. New York hip-hop. The golden age. When lyrics meant something and beats hugged your spine. The Low End Theory? Still untouchable.

It was ’94/’95 and I was deep in identity formation mode. The music? It was shaping me.

Ms Roberta Flack came to me on VHS. My mum recorded a show—might’ve been a concert—and we watched it on repeat like it was gospel. “Killing Me Softly” didn’t hit just yet. That came later. At 8 years old, I was obsessed with her duet with Peabo Bryson—“Tonight I Celebrate My Love for You.” I didn’t know what they were on about, but I knew their voices were doing something to my little soul.

By ’96, The Score dropped, and “Killing Me Softly” was reborn. Soul, hip-hop, reggae all in one glorious swirl. Ms Lauryn’s vocals, Wyclef’s one time, the beat that slapped but still held you close. I’d just come back to London after school in Nigeria, and that song became a reclaiming of self. It was on repeat repeat.

Let’s talk Angie Stone. “Miss You” was the heartbreak anthem I didn’t know I needed until I did. By 20, life had already handed me a couple of bruised peaches in the love department. Her voice? Like honey on wounds. That whole album had gems, but I was too busy side-eyeing her for still talking about D’Angelo. (Yes, I judged her. No, I wasn’t emotionally mature yet.)

Truth is, artists like Roy, Angie, and Roberta gave us legacy. Blueprint. Culture. That type of talent? Rare now. We live in a world where dreams barely get a chance to stretch before being torn apart. You drop something half-baked, there’s no time to put it back in the oven—you’re just done. Burnt. Canceled. Forgotten.

Today’s music scene feels like speed dating with algorithms. Oversaturated. Attention spans? Tragic. It's all about virality, not value. Likes over longevity. Platforms like Spotify and TikTok are double-edged swords—they open the door and then shove you down the stairs. Artist development? A myth. Artist burnout? A rite of passage.

The industry used to let you grow. Now it expects you fully cooked and perfectly plated, with no crumbs.

But music—real music—is still the healer. It hits where words can’t reach. It comforts, revives, reminds. Whether it’s the hook of a classic or the first few seconds of a new jam, you know when it’s good. It lifts you. It holds you.

Me? I can tell if I like a song within seconds. If it doesn’t move me, I move on. Which is why Drill and Drain don’t make the cut. No shade. Just… not for me. I know I’m not the target market. That said, they’re still branches off the Hip-Hop tree, and Hip-Hop? That’s my religion. My way of life.

Ms Badu said it best: “Hip-Hop is the healer.” And I believe her.

Music is a divine gift. A sacred balm. Sometimes the only thing keeping the pieces together.

No wonder ABBA sang thank you for it. No wonder Erykah made her love letter to hip-hop.

Last week, I found an old note I wrote the night before I turned 40—“40 Things I Wish I Knew Before Turning 40.”Whew. The audacity of my pre-40 optimism.

Even now, it reads like part diary, part therapy. Some lessons still linger, others hit different now. Truth is, life after 40 isn’t a plateau. It’s a remix. New verses. Older beats. Wiser lyrics.

So, in honour of this musical musing and midlife mayhem, here are a few gems from the list—because some things, no one tells you:

40 Things I Wish I Knew Before Turning 40 (aka This Ain’t Your Mama’s Midlife)

* Sag your pants if you want. “Age-appropriate” is a scam.

* Friday nights still slap, but your hangover now lasts three to five business days.

* More trips to the GP. Not just for sexy-time stuff.

* Yes, that’s grey hair… down there.

* Your bed is wherever your head rests. Floor, sofa, train. Sleep is sleep.

* Hairlines thin. Edges retreat. Accept it.

* Your ears start playing tricks on you.

* You don’t do rudeness. Not even a little.

* Butterflies aren’t always part of love. Sometimes, it’s just peace.

* It’s not you—it’s definitely them.

* Not having it all figured out? That’s normal.

* You are enough. Period.

* Chase fulfillment, not applause.

* Life isn’t black and white—it’s all messy greys.

* Be mindful of what you consume. Spiritually and literally.

* Periods still hurt. Mood swings now come with extra spice.

* Embarrassment? Who? Me? Never met her.

* Late-night snacks = waistline warfare.

* Sleep is medicine.

* Supplements are not optional.

* Everything aches. Deal with it.

* You’re the wise elder now. Scary, huh?

* People around you start passing. You think about your own time.

* Crying is just a new Tuesday.

* Your circle shrinks, but it deepens.

* Money isn’t everything. Really.

* Move your body. Your mind will thank you.

* Jealousy is dust. Let it go.

* De-clutter to breathe better.

* You can thrive anywhere. Not just London.

* The eye must travel. Wander often.

* Shut up sometimes. Listen more.

* Say what you mean. Always.

* Words matter. Use yours wisely.

* Invest in small things. Especially joy.

* Love is messy. Show up anyway.

* Be great at one thing. Then sprinkle in the rest.

* You can change. Reinvent. Reclaim. Repeat.

* Give freely. That’s the real flex.

* Above all else: WEAR SUNSCREEN!

If you’ve made it this far, put on your favourite track. Let it hold you. Let it remind you of who you are, were, and still hope to be.

Now for some easy listening as you ease into the weekend, give these a listen. We may not have it all figured out, but we’ve got good music.And that, my peopleeeessss, is enough. May Roy, Roberta and Angie forever rest in peace.

Love

Ari x

P.S Do not forget to Like, share, leave a comment, restack and subscribe if you haven’t. I really appreciate all your support. If you feel that you could afford to pay to read my work, please do.

* Roy Ayers:

* Mary J. Blige:

* A Tribe Called Quest:

* Roberta Flack:

* Lauryn Hill / The Fugees:

* Angie Stone:

* Erykah Badu:

* ABBA (because duh):

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

I recently took one of those cognitive assessment tests for a job, and let me tell you, the existential crisis it triggered was chef’s kiss. It had a list of adjectives to describe myself in both personal and professional settings. The discrepancy between Work Me and Home Me was giving full-blown double life.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

In my personal life, I see myself as  happy go lucky, sometimes anxiety riddled, protective, and fun. But in the workplace? Apparently, I’m ambitious, intense, and maybe a little…overbearing? Can I be both? Or does one cancel out the other? And if so, who the hell am I really? Like 2 sides of the same coin - doesn’t this make me whole?hmmm…

Just this morning, a contact of mine whom I have known for a while said to me -” I am not sure who Arieta is” I mean I don't think most people do. That winded me a little…You spend years carving out a space in the world, leaving breadcrumbs of your identity—your work, your values, your damn essence—only for someone to come along and go, “Hmm, who even are you?” Excuse me? Did I not just launch global brand campaigns, build communities, and negotiate with pop culture icons? Did I not painstakingly curate my career, my presence, my brand? I guess not. People are well aware of what I do, just not who I am, because for a long time, I closely aligned who I was with what I did.

Perception is a tricky little beast. What we think we’re putting out into the world isn’t always what people are receiving. Sometimes, despite all our efforts, some folks just don’t get it. Maybe they weren’t paying attention. Maybe they weren’t the right audience. Or maybe, just maybe, we evolve so much that the version of us that exists in people’s minds is a ghost of who we were, not a reflection of who we are. Now this is a BARRRRRR!!!

So what now? Do I embark on an existential PR campaign to make sure everyone knows who Arieta is? Or do I take a step back and realise that maybe it’s time to redefine how I show up? Either way, I refuse to accept that my presence has been a whisper when I have been out here making goddamn noise. F**k that! I believe I have shown up as my authentic self in most situations so this conversation has kinda left me In a bit of a tizzzzz.

Gif from @Giphy 

Hindsight is a Scam

Hindsight is a scam, though. The fine print of life really should come with a disclaimer: Warning: Lessons will only be revealed after maximum suffering has been endured. I mean, why can’t wisdom come via express shipping instead of the slow, painful, soul-crushing route like Royal Mail? Why can’t it be Evri? Or even UPS or DHL?

There are so many things I wish I had known when I was younger. So many decisions that could have been different. So many detours I could have avoided. But no—apparently, we have to go through the nonsense, the heartbreak, the mess, before the universe decides to hand over the lesson. The wait for wisdom is brutal. And Life? Life be Lifing with a vengeance.

Sometimes, I just want to hit the fast-forward button and skip to the part where I already know what I need to know, where I don’t have to stumble through mistakes just to get to the part where I nod sagely and  have my eureka moments. But no. Instead, we get the joy of learning through pain, regret, and the occasional WTF moment that makes us question every choice we’ve ever made. I digress.

I Am Not My Hair… But It Can Kill Me

Relaxers or synthetic hair extensions—pick your poison.

Reports are coming out left, right, and center about how the very products Black women use to maintain our hair are literally poisoning us. It’s not just relaxers anymore. Now synthetic extensions used to style our hair—aka the protective styles—are being called out for their cancer-causing potential. I read an amazing piece by Nesrine Malik in The Guardian this week, and I am still SHOOKETH!

This is some real-life, dystopian horror. The Black hair industry is a billion-dollar global empire, yet Black people barely own a fraction of it. We are the consumers, not the beneficiaries, and yet we find out the products we rely on are actively harming us? Just like Johnson & Johnson baby powder, almost everything seems to be designed to kill us—albeit slowly and painfully, without us knowing. WOW or as we say in nigeria, NA WA OOOOO

I mean, if stress doesn’t get us, it’s some other cancer-causing s**t. And honestly? If I had known this a few years ago, I probably wouldn’t have even bothered quitting smoking. If the Big C is lurking in the shadows anyway—God forbid—at least with cigarettes, I knew what I was signing up for. Now, I have to process the fact that even my protective hairstyles might be a death sentence? What kind of madness is this?

Can we talk about the real villain here? Yup—capitalism. The Black hair industry is worth billions, but how much of that money actually goes to Black people? How many of those brands are Black-owned? We are out here spending our hard-earned money on products that have been marketed to us as essential to our beauty, only to find out they might be leading us to an early grave.

Between the chemicals in our hair care, the stress of just existing in a world that polices our bodies and our choices, and the relentless onslaught of things trying to kill us, it’s honestly exhausting. Can we catch a f*****g break?  I know I speak for a lot of Black women when I say: WE. ARE. TIRED.

I suffer from traction alopecia, which I discovered in my 30s after years of bleaching, braiding, and experimenting with different styles. My edges never fully recovered—gaps where there used to be hair, a scalp that tells the story of every trend I tried to keep up with. If Mary J. Blige was golden blonde this week, so was I. But now, to find out that even the so-called safer options—braids, twists, wigs—might be putting us at risk too?HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW—if we’re still alive to see it.

Meghan Markle: The Woman Who Won’t Be Your Princess

Speaking of Black women who can’t catch a break—can the UK press please get a new hobby? Meghan Markle’s every move is scrutinised with a level of obsession that should be reserved for tracking meteor showers or decoding the Da Vinci Code.

She didn’t want to be a royal, she left, and yet she remains a tabloid fixture. They dissect what she eats, wears, and even where she s***s. For what?!

The media's treatment of Meghan is next-level bullying. The coded racism, the relentless attacks—it’s a public witch hunt but  the UK tabloids love to claim she’s a "diva" or "difficult," what they actually mean is: She dared to have boundaries and say no.

I am so proud that the real family drama didn’t come from her Black side? Her white father and half-sister have been out here selling stories, fueling the media machine, and embarrassing themselves on an international scale. Meanwhile, her mother, Doria, has remained composed and dignified through it all. 

The single mother who raised her, the one who brought her up just maintains a composure that should be studied.

Even reputable outlets like The Guardian are hopping on the hate train. “We watched Meghan’s Netflix show so you don’t have to”? Oh, please. The hypocrisy is unreal and so is the need for clickbait.

Every other day, some C-list has-been or royal correspondent with too much time on their hands pipes up to insult her. Why? Because she didn’t want to be your f*****g princess.

She is not Kate. She doesn’t want to be Kate. So leave her alone.

And don’t even get me started on this mess surrounding Harry’s visa application being released to the press. Just like with his mother, if anything happens to him, the UK media will have blood on their hands—again.

Honestly, the UK press needs to go frolic in some grass and “do one”

Have a great weekend,

Ari . x

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Trump isn’t in his regular 46th president of the United states era — oh no no no!! he’s in his Champagne-for-the-oligarchs, foot-on-the-neck-for-everyone-else era. The kind of era where the only currency that matters is loyalty pledges, and the vibe is less awkward has-been and more aspiring overlord who’s tired of pretending democracy was ever the point. Dude is openly selling US citizenships for mullahhhh!! Wonders shall never end… Is THIS America or Nigeria? LOLLLLLLZZZZ…

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It’s giving “openly auditioning for permanent power”, like a washed-up 90’s Popstar demanding a Vegas residency,... .except the residency is the entire country. 

And the terrifying part? There’s an audience for it — a whole stadium of people chanting, ready to buy the MAGA merch, and absolutely unfazed by the fact the whole thing smells a lot like racism, elitism and fascism.

The Ted Turner CNN Breaking News era trained us GEN XERS well. We grew up watching the greatest hits of collapsing regimes, complete with fire-sale economics, frantic late-night deals, and the final helicopter dash to some villa in a country with no extradition treaties. Dictators left to ride out in the sunset like the hero In old western movies.

But Trump? When his time comes… HE WON’T be packing a go-bag. This man has no plans to go gently into that Mar-a-Lago night. We have seen this before , as with most dictators, they stay in power for however long they feels like, because why bother with rules when you can just rewrite them mid-game? Any great African dictator who knows their worth will tell you he is one of them.

This Trump-ian era, he’s brought the full circus:  a gang of uneducated, scared and conspiracy-pilled senators  and an entourage that looks like the cast of the apprentice rejected for being too unhinged.

The plan? Burn the whole damn house down — and charge admission for the bonfire.

Because in the so-called land of the free, turns out there’s nothing people love more than a white man in a bad suit, promising to make everything 'great' again while actively setting it on fire.

What a time to be alive — or at least, whatever this is we’re all doing.

Hmmmmm….This Ain’t Our Fight

There’s a specific type of secondhand embarrassment that makes you physically recoil — the kind where you instinctively mute the video because the cringe is just too loud. That’s exactly how I felt watching Trump and his band of uglies, small-boy’d President Zelensky.

The sheer disrespect.

They treated him like the help — all awkward grins and desperate attempts to stay composed while Trump and his cronies made it painfully clear that Ukraine wasn’t an ally, but some 2nd class beggar. They are strong handling the dude to give away their natural resources…. No matter if there is a legitimate deal between the US and Ukraine, the latter party will come out in deficit.

For all the cringe, something about it felt oddly familiar — like a rerun of a show I’d been forced to watch my whole life.

Because for anyone raised with even a passing awareness of African geopolitics, this was textbook.

The patronising tone.

The performative photo ops.

The condescending body language that said, “We own you now.”The whole thing had the distinct scent of post-colonial nonsense, the kind usually reserved for African or African Diaspora leaders invited to Western capitals to beg for aid while stealing all our minerals and resources being treated like they snuck in through the back door.

I felt sorry for him.

It was so bad, I had to shake my head, and whisper to the screen, “Damn, Zelensky — I am so sorry. No one, especially you — a battle-worn president literally fighting for your country’s survival — should have to endure this level of public hazing.”

Because that’s exactly what it was — less a diplomatic meeting and more a frat party gone wrong like in the movies.Trump as the pledge master and a gang of badly dressed nincompoops in ill-fitting suits snickering behind him, and poor Zelensky forced to stand there, and take all that s**t.

It was the kind of performance that reeks of insecurity and Ignorance with a loud, lumbering exercise in power dynamics where the goal wasn’t diplomacy — it was humiliation.

Which brings me to the larger point that’s been simmering in my midlife chest for a while now — BLACK PEOPLE, we need to sit this one out brethren….

Listen, war is hell. Nobody sane is rooting for civilians to suffer. But we need to be honest about something:

If you roll back to the opening days of this war, you’ll remember that when Black and brown students — literal human beings — tried to flee the country alongside everyone else, they were told to get to the back of the line. If they were allowed to board at all. Meanwhile, there were heartwarming viral stories about Ukrainians rescuing their cats and dogs, while Black and South Asian students were standing in the cold, wondering why their basic humanity had suddenly expired at the border.

It was so bad that countries like Nigeria, Ghana, and India had to step in to organise emergency evacuations because Ukrainian officials were too busy prioritising fluffy poodles over living, breathing people with melanin.

So you’ll forgive me if my midlife emotional bandwidth is currently on low power mode when it comes to performative solidarity with Ukraine. And before you say why have you got to bring “race” into this already sad situation, I didn’t - it just reared its ugly head when humanity needed to prevail.

Right now My heart is with places like Palestine, the Congo and Sudan, where the humanitarian crisis has been unfolding for so long it barely registers as news anymore — and where the silence is louder than my peri-menopausal night sweats. 

Now, to my Black American cousins — I love you, truly I do.

But this Trump mess? This is your own personal poltergeist.

80% of Black women clocked the danger from day one, my smart sisters voted accordingly. But too many of you black men, especially the "but my taxes" contingent, decided to roll the MAGA dice.

Well, the gun’s gone off, the bill has arrived, and unfortunately, we cannot Venmo you our outrage from across the pond.

And let’s be clear — the whole world is paying for this nonsense.Those trade wars?Those random tariffs making everything from plantain(PLAANTYNEEE not PLANTINNN) to petrol cost more?That’s MAGA’s global legacy — and trust me, it’s not cute.

Also — and I say this with love — you can keep Elon Musk. We, the African delegation (both Black and white), do not want him. Return to sender.

The Healing Power of Friendship (and Good Bread)

On a lighter note, I had dinner with three of my ride-or-dies recently and caught up with my bestie from uni, and it felt like plugging my soul into a fast charger.

That Sex and the City brunch energy hits different in midlife — fewer photos, more real talk, belly laughs that make you snort, and the kind of safe space where you can lay your whole messy life on the table between bites of roast chicken, fries and sips of sparkling water as i’m off the booze for now.

My birthday’s coming up, and the older I get, the more sentimental I become. Life is fleeting — and I feel that in my bones now.

Heartbreak, disappointment, loss — they shape us, but they don’t have to define us.

I read somewhere that unprocessed trauma can make you sick. I Believe this

So here’s to feeling it all, ugly crying when needed, and then choosing to believe in good things again.

Because if midlife has taught me anything, it’s this — you’re never too old for a plot twist.

I’m off to go put some laundry in the washing machine,

Enjoy the weekend,

Ari x

P.S Images from La Monde Newspaper, Unsplash, Google and Tenor Gifs. They aint mineeeee!!!!!

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

I’ve learned that not every call needs an immediate answer and not every text demands a quick reply. It’s a deliberate act of self-care in this peri-menopausal chapter of my life. There was a time when I’d react instantly to every ping—churning out responses like I was streaming content on demand, as if I were Netflix’s hottest new release. But that frantic pace just fueled my anxiety, so I’ve discovered the sweet relief of letting things be. AHHH Sweet li- hifeeee FRANK OCEAN voice 

My new strategy is simple: make myself so scarce that anyone who is used to taking my time for granted will truly feel the absence. And this isn’t a vendetta against anyone—it’s all about protecting my energy. I’m no longer an endless on-demand service; I’m more like a limited-edition drop. Like supreme gear that had millennials in a choke hold, when you want a piece of me, you might have to wait.

Between convincing myself that this break in projects isn’t a sign of failure and realising that my small talk reserves are dangerously low, I’m learning to turn inward. I need to spend time figuring out what’s off and how I can fix it—how I can fix me. Otherwise, I end up feeling like a helium balloon, drifting aimlessly and overwhelmed.

I used to be the go-to person for instant fixes and creative ideas. Even if no one sent for me, I would be there somewhere in the background shooting my hand up in the air like a “know it all “ school girl who wanted the teacher to pick her to answer a question. But now, I’ve learned that I need to secure my own life jacket before I can throw one to others. 

Those air safety rules have a point, for years my African brain couldn’t articulate why one wouldnt help their child before they helped themselves as the air stewards advised but theres no drawing from an empty well.   Sure, some people just want my company but truth is, if the energy aint reciprocal,or if its just take take that, then please Miss me like brandy, chaka , gladys and Tamia.  SIDE BAR - if you don’t get this reference, my substack musings aint for you hoooo..

The other day, I caught myself staring at my reflection—taking in every line, wrinkle, and under-eye bag, each a battle scar of life. Age comes for all of us, even those we consider “lucky.” I constantly wonder where I went wrong, why I’m stuck while others seem to be zooming ahead, and what choices landed me here. The questions multiply, but the answers are few.

I’ve listened to countless podcasts, attended lecture after lecture on pivoting, and tried every trick in the book. Yet sometimes, it feels like I’m sinking in quicksand—the harder I struggle, the deeper I get pulled in. And my mind? Picture a battlefield where every thought shouts, “Try this!” or “Maybe that!” It’s not exactly the soothing harmony of thoughts, it’s pure, chaotic noise.

I refuse to believe that at 46, I’m all washed up. I’m still here, still fighting, and still figuring things out—one missed call at a time. F**K the system and the ageist, sexist and racist horse it rode in on. I am a creative being, i am smart and i am intelligent - just still figuring it all out and that’s ok. 

Speaking of things being sexist and racist, can we now stop with all the kerfuffle around International women's day? It is a farce if you ask me, one big SCAM. I am a woman 365 days ( sometimes 366) days a year and for 1 day a year  - we get celebrated? And even at that, the intersectionalities that come with being a woman are never addressed, so for one day - we should all unite when not female goes through or are looked at through the same lens… Get the f**k outta here with that BS. It is laughable.

Before you bite my head off -majority of women Ain't Trying to Help Nobody Outside Their Circle and that’s FACTS!!

Words like sisterhood and empowerment are thrown around , but when it comes down to it—outside of our immediate social circles—most women aren't exactly out here building each other up. And that's not just my perception; it's been my LIVED reality since my career started.

I can count on one hand the number of female bosses I've had who weren’t threatened by me, who actually supported me rather than subtly (or overtly) working against me. The same goes for colleagues. Meanwhile, I’ve had more male bosses champion my growth without feeling the need to undercut me. And I know I'm not the only one who sees this pattern. I mean i wasnt the sexiest woman in the room - ive dressed for me for as long as ive dressed myself and ive been told - my style can be “man repelling” ( anyone remember LEANDRA MEDINE AND MAN REPELLER BLOG??) but my hardwork was acknowledged, I never once experienced any sexist behaviour personally.

This is why International Women's Day and all the performative pink-washed empowerment campaigns don't resonate with me. They’re built on an ideal that just doesn’t reflect reality. Women aren’t naturally inclined to support other women—we are, more often than not, each other’s biggest competitors. And honestly, I think this goes way back to evolutionary psychology: in caveman times, women had to compete for resources, security, and status. That competitive instinct hasn’t magically disappeared.

If you think I'm just being cynical, science has your back on this one. Research reveals that women’s sometimes less-than-supportive behavior isn’t merely a figment of our collective imagination. For instance, studies have documented the “Queen Bee Syndrome,” where women in leadership positions distance themselves—or even actively block the advancement of—their female peers to avoid backlash, as noted by Derks, Ellemers, and van Laar (2007) .

As if that wasn’t enough, research on intrasexual competition indicates that women often resort to indirect aggression—think gossip, social exclusion, and subtle undermining—instead of direct confrontation, creating an environment where genuine support is hard to come by, as highlighted by Crick and Grotpeter (1995) 

Every major issue I’ve faced in my adult life—whether at work, in friendships, or the tax man or just in social settings—has involved another woman. And I know I’m not alone in this. How many of you have experienced that sinking realisation that the person throwing a wrench in your career, your confidence, or your plans was another woman? I rest my case.. Court adjourned - we all aint ready to have this conversation.

To my oyinbo sisters, this one's for you - you guys love to romanticise the suffragettes, but let’s cut through the skewed nostalgia: those women weren’t exactly campaigning for every single woman- No mam —they were fighting for their own, you guys and left many women of colour at the door.

Up until the 90’s most feminist movements did not give a rat arse about women of colour. Soz to kill the illusion - now let the scales drop from your eyes. That same brand of selective feminism is still kicking around. Modern-day empowerment can sometimes feel like a VIP club where the gatekeepers, often the same white women preaching inclusivity, decide who gets a seat at the table. 

Research on intersectionality, like Kimberlé Crenshaw’s groundbreaking work (Titled "Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence Against Women of Color.") , shows that ignoring the diverse experiences of all women only serves to reinforce old power dynamics, a point echoed by Bell Hooks with her work "Feminism is for Everybody: Passionate Politics," which was published in 2000, just 5 years ago. 

Yes things have changed and the dial has been moved but there is still a huge amount of work to be done.

I experienced this firsthand when I was let go from my last job and ended up on a panel with three white women—while they claimed not to be intimidated by me, I swear I had them on the defensive! It’s a pattern as predictable as an 80’s hit laced with synth, synth and more synth, and though this stung bad, i can now laugh at the absurdity while pushing for real change.

Before you think it or ask it - AM i perfect? Hell NO!! I am a judgerrrrr- Call me Judge Jud”ari” - 

I am the Judge, Jury and executioner in most cases. I must admit, I am a walking contradiction most of the time, but   strive every day to lift up and support my fellow women because, let’s face it, genuine support is rare. 

I’m lucky to have a few ride-or-die souls in my corner—true sisters who stand by me no matter what.  Big up yourselves b*****s.. LOL!!!

On a much lighter note - before i mic drop - can we discuss these “cores’ or “Tok’s” as these Gen Z’s call them

Too many trends, too little time—seriously, blink and there’s a new "core" to keep up with. In the past year alone, TikTok’s gone from one "tok" to another, like a never-ending playlist of bizarre aesthetics. Vanilla core, Mobwife core, Fetish core… Scandi core? What even is that? 

And don’t get me started on “Brat” core. Like, can we just let these kids *be* already? Why does *everything* need to be labeled with a trendy core? Every day it’s a new fad, each one taking over before I can fully process it-( Its giving “I AM SO OLD” lol!!)while the algorithm just keeps feeding us new content like we're all part of some social media circus. Actually come to think of it, we are. 

My current favorite? Messy core. Wait, what? Since when is chaotic, "I haven’t cleaned my room in a week" a fashion statement? Honestly, I feel like these poor kids just can’t catch a break.

(Image sourced from Architectural digest 2024)

 It's tough to find authenticity when the whole world is running race after race to become *someone else*. How can they even *be* themselves when they’re constantly chasing the next big trend.  Someone please take me back to simpler times? Where is DR Emment brown and Marty McFly when you need them? Oh i know, they're Back to the future somewhere.

Love,

Ari x 

P.S I AM SO SO HAPPY FOR MY GAL RIH RIH - Too happy infact and waiting on R9 like ……

P.P.P.S F**K THE SYSTEM

All gifs from

https://giphy.com and

https://tenor.com

There’s something about walking side by side that makes difficult conversations easier. Maybe it’s the rhythm of our steps, the lack of forced eye contact, or the fresh air. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to form a perfect sentence before I blurt something out. Thoughts tumble out as my feet move forward, and there’s no awkward silence—only the sound of gravel underfoot.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

It has also made it clearer where we are not on the same journey. My husband, being Swedish, grew up in a culture where therapy is normalised. He has been to therapy, is comfortable with it, and references it in his life. Me? I grew up in a world where therapy was something other people did—certainly not strong, resilient African women like myself. We were taught to grit our teeth and keep moving. Trauma? Just another bump in the road. Therapy? Not even part of the vocabulary.

I didn’t question this until the pandemic, when I nearly lost my mind. I turned to BetterHelp, but even then, I refused to speak to anyone who wasn’t a Black African woman. Not because non-Black therapists are bad at their jobs, but because I needed someone who understood the invisible weight I carry—the expectations, the cultural coding, the unspoken grief of generations. Someone who wouldn't ask me to explain why I feel responsible for everyone around me or why I struggle to prioritise myself.

Being a parentified child hardwired me to be the caretaker, the fixer, the one who holds everything together. The middle child who had to fight for attention, the one who always knew what everyone else needed before they even said it. But what happens when no one teaches you to articulate your own needs? You grow up being the loudest person in the room and yet the loneliest. You know a lot of people, but not a lot of people know you.

Take, for example, the time I was in a car accident. My first thought? Not my own well-being, but how I couldn’t tell my husband or family because I didn’t want to worry them. I blurted it out to my sister who is my confidante a few days later  but It wasn’t until over a week had passed during one of our Sunday walks, that I finally mentioned it. My husband stopped in his tracks, mouth agape.

“Wait… you were in a car accident?”

I nodded, brushing it off. “Yeah, but I’m fine.”

His anger was immediate. “Anything could have happened to you, and you didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me to worry?”

And in that moment, I realised how deeply ingrained it is in me to swallow my own experiences to protect others.

This is where my communication style comes into play. I’ve spent a lifetime oscillating between passive communication—where I prioritise others' feelings over my own—and indirect communication, using hints and actions rather than outright statements. My instinct is to keep quiet, downplay my experiences, and avoid burdening others, even when my own needs go unmet. But walking has helped bridge that gap. It’s easier to say “I feel overwhelmed” when I don’t have to sit across from someone, waiting for a response. It’s easier to admit “I don’t know how to process this” when my body is in motion, proving that I am still moving forward, even when my mind is stuck.

Promenade Therapy has reminded me that communication isn’t just about being articulate or strong—it’s about being honest. And sometimes, honesty feels less like a confession and more like a step forward, one foot in front of the other.

This month, I’ve been deeply disappointed by a family member. Anyone who knows me knows how close-knit my family is, which makes this all the more painful. I feel so let down that I have NO WORDS for this person. When family betrays your trust—especially a sibling—it’s a hurt like no other.

It’s taking everything in me not to step in and fix the situation, to let them sit in the mess they created, a mess that could have been avoided if they had just listened—to me, to others—a few months ago. As a parentified adult who spent years raising siblings, this is gut-wrenching.

“The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.” – African Proverb

This proverb speaks volumes. Family, like the axe, may move on, unaware or indifferent to the wounds they leave behind. But the one who is hurt—like the tree—carries the scars long after.

As much as it pains me, I’ve had to take a step back. I refuse to be used any longer. We all have our own burdens to bear, and while love and support are part of family life, I am no longer available to clean up anyone’s mess. I’m not even available to listen. Like Davido’s smash hit—I’M UNAVAILABLE. DEM NO DEY SEE ME.

But let’s be real—it still hurts. FUCCKKKKKK!!!

So here’s my question: When, if ever, do you stop taking responsibility for your family? Especially a younger sibling? I used to say “never.” But when you’re drowning in your own life issues, sometimes, you have no choice but to face your own work first.

On a much lighter note—fashion has always been my thing! And while I no longer attend Fashion Week (let’s be real, the invites aren’t exactly rolling in these days), I still keep up with all things fashion, especially during awards season. This is the time when my favorite style icons hit the red carpet and show us what real FASWHANNN is all about!

Let’s talk about Colman Domingo—my GOD, what a FYYNNNEEEEEEEE man! WOW. His stylists are going HAM this season, and every red carpet look has been nothing short of SLAYAGE. He’s one of those rare, fully-formed men who just gets fashion. He doesn’t just wear clothes; he WEARS them. And that excites me. Did you see his Versace Moment at the BAFTAs? Chef’s kiss. I cannot WAIT to see what he pulls out for the Oscars.

Then there’s Cynthia Erivo—another one who never misses. Let’s be honest, most British stars don’t really bring it to these award shows, but Cynthia? From head to toe (including the nails), she’s always serving EPICNESS.

Now, I love a stylish person, but a BLACK stylish person? That overly excites me. And when you take it a step further to a stylish African?? BABYYYYY, you will have me GAGGED. There’s something about seeing yourself reflected in a killer ensemble—it’s why I tune in every year to the MET Gala, knowing that Rihanna will be bringing the heat. She is my benchmark. And this year with the theme being “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style,” which is said to be an expression of Black dandyism.  Sure, Beyoncé will look lovely, but when it comes to fashion fashion? It’s Rih, and of course, my baby girl Zendaya—they never miss!

With a few award shows still ahead (Oscars, SAG Awards, NAACP Awards), the first half of the year is always a thrill for me—watching these actors step out in their finest. Bring on the LEWKSSS!

Navigating midlife hasn’t been easy for me—it truly feels like when it rains, it pours. Just when I think I’m getting the hang of something, life throws another curveball my way. That old saying, "what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger," is no longer in my vocabulary, because this season of life has stretched me to my absolute core. There was even a fleeting moment after my accident when I thought about how all my problems would simply disappear if I wasn’t here. But the truth is—I want to be here.

Life is a rollercoaster, and these days, I’m clutching my rosary the way I used to clutch my pearls—tighter than ever. But in the spirit of looking on the bright side, at least I’m managing my hot flashes and flushes a whole lot better. Small wins, right?

Sending love,

Ari x

P.S the image of the car collision is AI generated and not the actual car I was in.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

This is my first podcast on this platform so be gentle with me. xoxo