The Grandmothers They Never Saw Coming | Redefining Aging with Power

They expected us to shrink. To disappear into soft chairs and quiet corners. To fade politely into titles like Grandma, Nanna, Nana— and retire, never to raise our voices again.

But I was born in the 1960s. I’ve survived too much silence to live in anyone’s shadow. I don’t knit. I don’t fade, and I don’t retire. I build and rebuild. I remember my grandmother applying her “Dark & Lovely” hair dye, not because she loved it, but because she feared what that grey might suggest: Aged. Less-than. Over.

Though she was beautiful, she was never allowed to shine—never permitted to be her radiant self. She worked hard but never got to stand in the spotlight. She was just a workhorse. Another used and abused body for colonial sake. Her softness kept in the shade, buried.

That softness is something I reclaimed for her—and for myself.

I buried the silence. I burned the shame. I am Woman, hear me roar!

We’ve laid down the blueprint they handed us—full of limits and whispers—and rewrote the rules, burying seeds into new soil. This is a funeral for the myth of invisibility—shaken, shattered, and gone. A resurrection of voice, sensuality, presence, and joy.A new generation of women. A new generation of grandmothers.

We are the grandmothers who wear red lipstick and lace, locs and leather. We are the grandmothers who start businesses and fall in love. We raise boundaries the way we once raised children—firmly and with heart. We may take naps, but not orders.

Some of us have greys. Some of us dye them red. And some of us sit in our crown and glow.

We are not here to be contained. We are not asking to be returned to tradition to make a false narrative of grandmothers great again.

What we are saying clearly is: This is our generation, our legacy, and we are living it out loud and proud.

So today, we bury the lie that aging is erasure. And in its stead, we plant this truth in its place:

We are the grandmothers they—and perhaps you—never saw coming.

This image represents the symbolic burial of who society told us we had to be. It's time for a new generation of grandmothers to rise.