Sassy, Scarce, Sick and tired of being sick and tired yet Unapologetically Me!

Promenade Therapy: Midlife Messes, Family Drama and Knowing When to Walk Away"

Every Sunday for the last few months, my husband and I have taken long walks—sometimes two or three hours—through parks, nature reserves, or just around our little town. We talk about everything and nothing: life, work, the household, how we feel, what we’re reading, our plans for the week ahead. We’ve named it ‘Promenade Therapy,’ though it turns out we didn’t invent the concept. Walking and talking has long been a known form of therapy, but for us, it has been a quiet revelation—a lifeline in a world where we are constantly busy, sometimes just for the sake of being busy.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 ProverbThis proverb speaks volumes. Family, like the axe, may

"Mid-Life Dating: Send Help, Good Lighting… and Maybe a New Approach?"

In time for Valentine’s Day, I’m sending big LOVE and support to everyone who LOVES love but, for some reason, doesn’t have it right now. Though I’m married and in LOVE—I FEEL YOU, and I’m with you. Don’t give up hope… maybe just switch it up a little?This is my first podcast on this platform so be gentle with me. xoxo This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit arietawho.substack.com/subscribe