Brooke Shields Is Not Allowed to Get Old: An Exclusive Excerpt

The first time it hit me that I had reached “a certain age” was while strolling through the streets of downtown New York with my daughters. Over the years I’ve become used to being recognized on the street, but this time was different: the looks weren’t cast in my direction, but at the two beauties by my side. I had every single feeling, all at once. What are you doing ogling my babies I will cut you but also aren’t they gorgeous but also, wait, no one’s gazing at me? When did that happen? Am I over? Protectiveness, pride, melancholy—it all smacked me up- side the head in one quintessential New York minute.
 
Maybe it took seeing myself through the eyes of other people to fully understand that, in fact, I was entering a new era of life. I mean, I was aware that some things were changing. I get tired now in a way I never did before. I literally can’t read the fine print, and I hate it. I used to get mad at my mom for always misplacing her reading glasses, and now it’s me saying “Grier, honey, have you seen my readers?” I like doing needlepoint and puzzles, which admittedly feels a bit geriatric. Am I in my mah jongg era?? I need 2.5s for these granny activities!
 
And yes, sometimes I put on a pair of pants that once fit, and think, God, this used to be so much easier. Or I watch my kids, who can sleep until noon without stirring at the garbage trucks or sirens outside, and think, Ah, youth. There was a time when I could go to bed without taking a pill or being up for hours in the middle of the night, what was that like? And though these shockingly beautiful young women spend hours in front of the very mirrors I try to avoid, they still don’t realize how fresh and perky and unaffected by gravity their bodies are—just like we didn’t at their age. (I mean, the butt and the boobs! How did I not appreciate that when I had it?) They complain that they hate their legs, whereas my knees are now practically lower than my calves. How is that even a thing? We are always chasing, never appreciating, and what runs through my mind is, ugh, where is the justice?? Why are we forever criticizing ourselves and our bodies while seeking ridiculous perfection? Why do we never see how unique and special we are? And why, when we finally take the pressure off or count our blessings or just enjoy who we are, is it practically too late?
 
But while I don’t feel as invincible as I did in my youth, I also don’t feel fifty-nine. When I was a kid, fifty-nine seemed so OLD, but it sure doesn’t feel old to me now! When I say my age out loud, I know it may sound old to some people, but I truly don’t feel, in any way, aged. Aging is a journey full of contradictions, especially in America. It’s humbling and surprising and empowering and daunting and liberating. In plenty of cultures, older people are revered. In Korea, the sixtieth and seventieth birthdays are considered major life events, marked by parties and feasts. In Native American communities, elders are often referred to as “wisdom-keepers”—they’re considered community leaders. In India, elders have the final word in family disputes. In the Henchy-Shields household, on the other hand, this elder is constantly told “Mom, you just don’t get it!”
 
In fact, a March 2023 cover story of the American Psychological Association’s Monitor on Psychology described ageism in America as “one of the last socially acceptable prejudices.” Brands trip over themselves to capture the coveted eighteen-to-thirty-four demographic, even though surveys have found it’s women over forty who have the most purchasing power: we have accumulated wealth, and we’re making 85 percent of the household-buying decisions. The numbers for women over fifty are even more staggering: We control a net worth of $19 trillion, and spend 2.5 times that of the average person. Women in their forties and fifties are treated like we’re invisible, even though we’re one of the fastest-growing demographics in the country. (One in four Americans is a woman over forty.) We are ignored by brands, and when we are targeted, it’s for wrinkle cream or menopause supplements. Talk about shortsighted.
 
Generally speaking, at fifty-nine, I feel more confident than I ever have. I’m more comfortable in my skin and have stopped comparing myself to this ideal or worrying about that expectation. But I’ll admit that even as I’m experiencing this newfound sense of satisfaction, I have to remind myself, sometimes daily, that I am good enough. The old negative tapes are lying in wait in the Walkman (remember those!?), ready for me to press play at any moment. But I also realize that if I don’t wear makeup or the “right” jeans size and someone has a problem with it, that’s on them. And yes, I continue to exercise and take care of my skin, but I think of it now as a privilege, because it makes me feel better. Do I sometimes wish that all my bits had remained higher and perkier? Or that I had the same skin that appeared on the cover of Life magazine in 1983? Of course I do! Who doesn’t miss the gifts of youth? But this is a body—and soul—that has carried me through a lot, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I think I deserve some credit for this life well-lived. We do all this work and get through hard times and suddenly you have a line on your face, and that one little wrinkle carries more weight than decades of accomplishments.
 
I’ll tell you, it took me a long time to have the guts to say that I deserved a bit more respect. Something began to shift in me around age forty. I started to own myself and my narrative in a new way. I’m not sure what it was that finally clicked, though becoming a mother probably had something to do with it. What I do know is that gaining that deeper sense of identity allowed me to speak up when others tried to diminish me. It’s allowed me to look within and identify patterns and break cycles. It’s allowed me to take on new risks and challenges. I know who I am and what I have to offer, and I’ve stopped hoping or trying to be different, or something that I’m not.