Being vs. Performing: A Permission Slip for all the 'good girls'

I am on the precipice of 57... like, literally. 

Tomorrow is my birthday, and even though it’s hard to fathom that number, growing older is a privilege. But getting older? Well, actually, I’m down with that one too because, as it turns out, we do actually get wiser.

When the “Big Five-Oh” was on the horizon, I remember thinking, “Hey! Hormones! At least I won’t be cold all the time (Yeah. Not how that works, LOL), and I’ll finally stop giving a f*ck about what other people think!

Spoiler Alert: I did not, in fact, wake up on my 50th birthday any warmer or not giving a f*ck.

But now, seven years later, something IS shifting. And while it hasn't been the magical, overnight transformation I was promised, this more subtle evolution is surprisingly gratifying.

We hosted a small gathering of family for the Passover seder this week. A few days before, one of our guests texted asking if I’d be upset if they and another guest left early to make a hockey game – the first of their season.

“Old” Carla would have agonized before responding. Forget about sitting with the question first. I would have immediately jumped to their opinion of me. Will they think I’m a bitch if I say that I would be upset? What's the best way to word my response so it doesn’t sound mean or shrew-like? Am I being unreasonable? I feel bad. I don’t want to be ‘that person.’

That version of Carla would most likely have conceded against her judgment just to ‘keep the peace’ and be a good kid – sending a pleasant ‘don’t worry about it,’ emoji-laden reply, which undoubtedly would've been followed up with endless rumination and unspoken resentment.

Exhausting.

But the Carla of today?

She was swift. Direct (with love). Intentional. Unapologetic.

She (I) replied: 

“Not upset, exactly, but kinda sad/disappointed…We’re a small group and your absence will be felt. By all means bring your equipment if we happen to finish in time. I just don’t want to feel rushed.”

And you know what? After I sent it, I put my phone down and the earth continued spinning on its axis.

But the really pleasant surprise? Not my response time or choice of words. But rather, the lack of guilt, rumination and second-guessing.

The only thing I experienced after hitting send?

Peace.

Do you know how AMAZING that felt?

How LIBERATING?

Having spent so much of my life performing the role of ‘good girl’ to please others, this was a revelation.

As someone who has twisted herself into the nicest, sweetest, loveliest to engage with everyone from the nasty clerk behind the customer service desk to the parent of a kid who just pushed mine off the swing — it was an awakening. One rooted in a distinction I'd never really named: the difference between being and performing.

And given the story of Passover is one of freedom from oppression, and belief against all reason, it’s not lost on me that this kind of clarity and ‘proof of concept’ comes from taking bold, brave action even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

Now, here’s something else that came across my radar and fits neatly into theme. 

Running out of f*cks isn't just an attitude shift.

It's not just wisdom of the ages or finally being “over it.”

It actually has to do with something at the cellular level in our brains.

Turns out, as we age, our brains go through something called synaptic pruning – basically, your brain starts trimming away neural pathways it doesn't need anymore. Think of it as a neurological Marie Kondo situation: (if that sounds familiar, it’s because we've been here before): 

Keep what serves you, thank the rest for its service, and let it go.

LET. IT. GO. 

Not to be confused with “Let my people go!” Oh, c’mon…I couldn’t NOT go there 😜

And guess which pathways tend to get pruned first? The ones dedicated to the vigilant work of people-pleasing. The ones scanning every room you enter, noticing every reaction, measuring every move, gesture and spoken word for maximum approval and likability.

Your brain is literally letting go of the wiring that kept you performing.

But it doesn't stop there.

As estrogen shifts during perimenopause and beyond, so does that deep, chemical pull to prioritize everyone else's comfort over your own. You're not becoming "hormonal" in the way people mean it dismissively. You're becoming less chemically compelled to shrink yourself in every interaction.

And – this is the part that really got me – research shows that as we get older, our brains actually become less reactive to social judgment. The areas that used to light up when someone disapproved of you? They start to quiet down. We become, on a neurological level, less influenced by other people's opinions of us.

Wait. Was that sound I just heard a collective sigh of relief?

Now, as good as this all sounds, let's call out the elephant in the room. This kind of liberation doesn't come without a shadow.

Because even as I notice these shifts – even as I feel more grounded and confident in my own voice – there's something vaguely familiar lingering around. 

Fear. 

A fear that sounds like: Are you actually ok with this? Wait, this isn’t really you. 

Because women like us? We were built on being liked.

We were the good girls. The conscientious students. The reliable employees. The thoughtful neighbors. The ones who always brought the thing, remembered the thing, showed up for the thing, smoothed over the thing. We got gold stars for being easy. Pleasant. Accommodating.

And that positive feedback loop? It's powerful. When your entire identity has been shaped by being the person everyone can count on to make things comfortable, the idea of disrupting that feels genuinely dangerous.

You start to wonder: Am I going to become “that woman?” Unfiltered. Difficult. Unlikeable. (Gasp!)

That fear? I know her well. She's been whispering in my ear for years.

And, excuse my language, she’s full of shit.

She’s the one that wants to keep you small. She’s the one who says to make nice with all the people because then they’ll like you. And you’ll belong. And you’ll be safe.

But when you realize that voice is there to protect you – well, a younger version of you that needed protection – the grip loosens and you can reshape the narrative to support the person you’re becoming. 

We're not losing ourselves. We are getting a well-deserved system upgrade.

The question I keep coming back to – the one I now use as a pressure test in almost every interaction – is this (feel free to borrow): Am I performing right now? Who am I actually performing for? And why?

Not as self-judgment. Not as another thing to beat myself up about. But with genuine curiosity. Almost tenderness. 

Because that question is where the fear ends and permission begins.

Permission to be honest. Permission to take up space. Permission to stop earning your place in every room you walk into.

So yes, our brains are helping us. The chemistry is shifting in our favor. And thank G-d for that, truly.

But I don't want to let us off the hook entirely, because here's what I believe: the brain can open the door, but we still have to walk through it.

That moment with the text? My brain may have made it easier for me to respond honestly. But I still had to choose it. I still had to feel the old pull – the one that wanted me to soften, to concede, to make it okay – and decide, consciously, courageously, to do something different.

That's the practice.

Awareness first. Then choice:

Notice the moment → Feel the old script start to fire up → And then ask yourself: 

Is this how I actually want to respond, or is this just the old program running?

Every single time you choose your truth – being over performing – you're not just having a good day. You're rewiring. You're building new neural pathways right alongside the chemical changes that are already happening.

This isn’t dramatic, mountaintop transformation we’re talking about. It’s a text message where you say what you mean. It’s a customer service call where you firmly stand your ground. A regular Thursday afternoon where you're not ruminating and second-guessing.

And here's something that lights a little extra fire under me: the years keep going. They just do. And I don't want to be sitting at 60, or 70 or 90 (G-d willing!), wishing I'd started trusting myself sooner.

If you read any of this nodding, if you've had your own version of that text exchange, where the honest thing came out and you braced for guilt that just...never arrived, I'd love to hear about it. 

Hit reply. Tell me. Those stories fuel me more than you know.

And if a part of you keeps circling back to the idea that there's a version of you underneath all that performing – one who's been waiting very patiently for you to stop apologizing for her existence – that's not a crisis.

That's a signal.

No pressure. Just possibility.

Happy Passover. Happy Easter. Happy spring.

And happy almost-birthday to me 🎂 🥳!