Why I Am Finally Done Shrinking

For as long as I can remember, I have been told I am “too much.”

It is a curious phrase, isn’t it? It is the favorite weapon of the insecure—a linguistic cage designed to make the vibrant feel like they are an inconvenience. If I wore my hair a certain way—voluminous, wild, vibrant—I was told it was “inappropriate” for a woman of my age. They wanted a tidy, managed aesthetic. They wanted me smoothed down, tucked away, and muted. But my hair is naturally defiant, wavy, and full of life. I love it big. I love styling it with a deliberate, rebellious joy. I’ve stopped trying to flatten myself to appease a standard that was designed to make me disappear.

If I wore my jewelry with the kind of boldness that made me feel like me, I was “desperate for attention.” The reality? I am reclaiming my shine. They looked at the four earrings lining each side of my ears, the sparkle of my nose ring, and the hidden rebellion of my belly ring—which I once removed in a futile attempt to pacify their gaze—and they saw a distraction. I look in the mirror now and see a constellation of my own making. I am putting the jewelry back in, not because I need to be seen, but because I refuse to be un-adorned. Each piece is a deliberate act of decoration, a refusal to be understated. I will wear exactly what I want to wear—bright, bold, and unapologetic—because when I look in the mirror, I’m not looking for their approval. I’m looking for the woman who knows exactly who she is.

The Script: The Trap of the “Appropriate” 55-Year-Old

Society has a very specific, suffocating script for a woman at 55. It is a script written in beige, edited for “appropriateness,” and designed to guide us toward a graceful, quiet exit from the stage of being seen.

They expect the 55-year-old woman to be “seasoned”—a polite code for “muted.” They want the hair smoothed, the volume sacrificed for a “sensible” cut. They want the palette to shift toward neutrals because they view my love for bright, cheerful clothing as “trying too hard.” They see my saturated colors and my refusal to hide behind shapeless fabrics as a rebellion, when in truth, it is simply me living in alignment with my soul.

They wanted me to be a background character in my own life, fading into the wallpaper so as not to offend anyone who is still trying to force their own way into the spotlight.

And the body? The goalposts were always moving. If I was too curvy, I was “too much”—a glutton for space. If I was too skinny, I was “frail” or “vain.” They had a critique for every iteration of my existence, a label for every pound gained or lost, as if my body were a public utility rather than my own temple. They wanted me to be a woman who drinks lukewarm water and eats “light,” not because I want to, but because it is the “responsible” way to manage a body that has lived for over five decades. They hated my hunger for life, just as they hated that I loved the sun too much—as if catching the golden rays of the Arizona desert were a crime against their gray, indoor sensibilities. They called me “self-absorbed” because I dared to gaze at myself with kindness instead of the shame they projected onto me.

The Architecture of a Life: Home as an Engine Room

Then, there is the home. They expect a 55-year-old couple’s house in Tucson to be “cozy”—which is a synonym for “static.” The local script for the empty-nester is predictable: a muted, beige-on-beige interior, cluttered with the sediment of the past, filled with “sensible” dust-collecting knick-knacks, and devoid of any real, pulsing energy. They want it to be a waiting room for the end of life, a place where you simply exist until the next season passes.

They look at me and they expect a home that blends into the desert landscape—all sand-tones and silence. They expect the “downsized” aesthetic, where you strip away the personality that made you you because, at 55, you’re supposed to stop creating and start simply “maintaining.”

But I am not waiting. I am living. And my home? It is currently in the beautiful, chaotic process of becoming.

I am tearing up the script of the “beige waiting room” and replacing it with a sanctuary that vibrates with my own frequency. I am reclaiming my space as a proper Witch’s home—a place that honors the wildness of my spirit. I am weaving together the elements that make my soul sing: Highland cow figurines that capture that sturdy, earthy defiance; dragons that guard the threshold; fairies that dance in the corners of my imagination; and a host of gnomes to keep watch over the hearth.

I am filling these rooms with the living presence of plants that breathe with me, and hummingbirds that remind me of the fleeting, brilliant beauty of the desert. I am layering in my crystals—each one a conduit for the light—and building an engine room where technology and magic coexist.

It is not “static” and it is certainly not a mausoleum. My home is a work in progress, a living reflection of the “Bright Life, Deep Roots” I am cultivating here in Tucson. I am curating a space that feels like a temple, not a storage unit for memories I’m supposed to have outgrown. I am bringing in the technology, the organization, and the beauty that makes me feel like a creator, not a curator of antiques. I am building a home that does not just hold my body, but fuels my purpose.

The Architecture of Excellence: Precision as Self-Love

Even my work ethic—the same drive that allows me to excel as an Associate Technical Customer Support Advisor—was framed as a character flaw. In a world of mediocrity, precision is a threat.

I love the logic of troubleshooting. I love the technical systems, the clarity of a solved problem, and the hard-won satisfaction of being excellent at what I do. With a 91% QA rating, I don’t just show up; I master the craft. Labeling me a “know-it-all” or an “overachiever” wasn’t a critique of my output; it was a desperate attempt to shame me for having standards. They wanted me to be a “workhorse,” someone who stayed in the shadows and did the labor without the shine. They wanted me to be humble in my expertise. But I’ve learned that brilliance is not an accident. My work ethic is a reflection of my self-respect.

I do not see a disconnect between the woman who curates a crystalline home and the advisor who optimizes a technical workflow. Both are expressions of the same truth: Order is a form of self-love. Whether I am configuring security protocols in Wordfence or arranging my desk for maximum efficiency, I am practicing the art of mastery.

The Ritual of the Coronation: My Daily Expressions

My life is a collage of the things that bring me joy, and I have stopped asking permission for any of them.

When I sit down with my diamond art, I am not just placing beads; I am meditating on focus and color. When I work with ceramics, I am grounding myself in the earth, shaping something beautiful with my own hands. My writing is the bridge between my internal world and the external; it is where I anchor my thoughts and process my growth.

Even my beauty routine is a defiant act of happiness. My makeup is bright, cheerful, and full of life—a palette of joy that starts my day. I curate my home with decor that sings, and I fill my hours with the books, movies, and music that move me. I don’t consume media to pass the time; I consume it to nourish my curiosity.

And then there is Arizona. My love for this land—the rugged beauty of the desert, the history of Tombstone—is not just geographical; it is spiritual. There is a grit and a history in this landscape that matches my own. I feel a profound connection to the wild, sun-drenched spirit of the Southwest. Being here, witnessing the light move across the mountains, reminds me that I, too, am part of this landscape: enduring, vibrant, and utterly unique.

Getting dressed in the morning has become my ritual of sovereignty. When I stand before my mirror, I am not just putting on clothes; I am putting on armor. I feel the weight of my gold jewelry against my skin—a reminder of my own value, untarnished by the opinions of others. I place my earrings into all four holes on each side, I re-pierce the skin that was told to be bare, and I reclaim the piercings that are part of my story. Every piece of jewelry I choose, every shade of rose gold that catches the light, is a deliberate declaration: I am here, I am seen, and I am the architect of this presence.

This is not vanity. Vanity is looking outward for validation; this is looking inward for empowerment. It is the visual equivalent of an affirmation. When I walk through my day, I am carrying the “Vividly Rae” brand on my skin, in my stride, and in the clarity of my voice.

The Weaponization of “Toxic” Joy

But the most insidious weapon they used was the accusation of “toxic positivity.”

Let’s dismantle that lie. They call your voice “loud” because they are terrified of the truth you are speaking. They call your joy “toxic” to discredit your resilience, because your ability to remain radiant in the face of their gloom highlights their choice to stay miserable. True joy isn’t “toxic”; it is a radical act of self-preservation.

The people who cry “toxic” are the ones who have traded their fire for the safety of a lukewarm existence. They call my joy “toxic” because it is disruptive. If I can be 55 and choose to be iridescent—to dress in bright colors, to create, to thrive in a high-stakes technical role, and to love my life—then their argument that “life is just supposed to be a slow, quiet fade” collapses.

My joy is not an avoidance of reality; it is a confrontation with it. I have walked through the dark, and I have come out the other side. My joy is the ability to walk through a world that wants me small and shattered, and to say, “I will be gold instead.” If that is “toxic” to their small, beige lives? Then I suppose the poison is, in fact, my power.

Thresholds and Hekate: The Liminal Space

I stand now at the threshold. As someone deeply connected to the energy of Hekate, I recognize this moment as a sacred transition—a liminal space where the old, “muted” version of me has been left at the crossroads.

Hekate is the keeper of thresholds, the goddess who stands between the known and the unknown. For years, I allowed others to define the boundaries of my threshold. I stayed within the lines they drew, even when those lines were choking the life out of my spirit. But the liminal is a place of becoming.

My husband, Ronnie, is the witness to this transformation. He sees the “Real Me.” He knows that when my home sparkles, when my earrings shine, and when I speak with the clarity of a woman who knows her worth, I am not being “haughty.” I am simply living in the truth of who I am.

The Becoming: A Vivid Reality

They were never afraid that I was “too much.” They were terrified that I was finally becoming enough for myself.

They didn’t care about my hair; they cared that I had the confidence they abandoned. They didn’t care about my home; they were enraged by my ability to bring order to my internal world. They needed me to be a muted, grayscale version of a woman because that version was non-threatening.

I am not “too much.” I am just finally, vividly, enough.

I am stepping across the threshold of the liminal. I am the woman who wears her crown every day. I am the woman who embodies the depth of Tyrian purple, who speaks with a voice that rings like crystal against gold, and who finds beauty in every detail of her life—from the diamond art on her desk to the vast horizons of the Arizona desert. They wanted me to be a background character in a grayscale film. I chose to be the director of my own technicolor, jewel-toned reality. I am not just walking through life; I am carving a path through the limestone and the heat, leaving my own vibrant markers in the dust. My history is not something I hide; it is the foundation upon which I build this new, unapologetic architecture of the soul.

I am Vividly Rae. Bright Life, Deep Roots.