MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM Podcast

The Alignment Issue

Autumn is here—and the trees are all getting bare. I guess I have to get used to the dark mornings again. Coupled with the ongoing craziness in the world, it’s set to be another winter of discontent.Or is it? Look, I’m Gen X—we invented ironic detachment as a survival mechanism—but even I have to admit this year has kicked my ass. My personal annus horribilis, if we’re being fancy about it. The kind of year where autumn feels less like a cute metaphor and more like an actual mood: everything falling apart in vibrant, crunchy, photogenic decay. MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. As October draws to a close and we enter the last two months of the year, I seem to be feeling less stressed than I have been for most of 2025. For once, I’m actually looking forward to spending cosy evenings indoors, all hygge with my husband, plus our winter walks and talks. Who knew? Here’s what I’m clinging to as we slide toward winter: seasons don’t stop. They’re the original rollercoaster, and unlike the disasters of this year, they’re at least reliable. Winter will be cold and dark and probably involve too much self-reflection over copious amounts of coffee and G&Ts—but, and this is the part I’m tattooing on my brain—spring always comes back. It has to. It’s contractually obligated. So yes, I’m in my midlife autumn, nursing my wounds and watching things fall away. But I’m also that stubborn weed that refuses to believe this is how the story ends. Winter can do its worst. I’ve got my layers, my hygge game strong, and the unshakeable Gen X conviction that after you’ve hit bottom, the only direction left—as YAZZZZ sang—“is up.” Spring is coming, and when it does, I’m going to be insufferably smug about having survived. The Myth of Balance (and Why It’s Overrated) Let’s talk about that sacred cow of modern life: work–life balance. It’s outdated. Over-marketed. A big, shiny lie. Balance implies calm, symmetry, and control—three things absolutely no one has in 2025. We’re not balancing; we’re juggling flaming swords on a unicycle while trying to look emotionally regulated. We’re stirring pasta with one hand, answering Slack messages with the other, and calling it “mindfulness.” We’re doom-scrolling at bedtime and calling it “staying informed.” We’re running on fumes and calling it “discipline.” Balance, as we’ve been sold it, is a fantasy. A productivity-porn fever dream that whispers: If you just optimise better, plan better, wake at 5am, batch-cook on Sundays, colour-code your Google calendar, meditate for exactly 12 minutes—you’ll finally find harmony. BULL S**T , FA FA FA FOULLLL! Life isn’t a spreadsheet, and you are not a project that needs better management. The Stoics knew this long before hustle culture and LinkedIn thought leaders.They didn’t chase balance—they sought equanimity. Yes - I am in it - my oracle phase- but indulge me for a minute. That quiet steadiness that comes not from controlling everything (impossible), but from mastering your response to it (deeply possible). The goal isn’t to make your life symmetrical—it’s to make it sincere.To build a life that feels like one cohesive story instead of a series of competing chapters where Work You, Home You, and Social Media You are all beefing with each other. Shout out to Ryan Holiday—his books Stillness is the Key and Courage is Calling, along with his Daily Stoic newsletters, have been a serious source of enlightenment. When your work aligns with your values, when your boundaries actually support your wellbeing, when you stop treating peace like a weekend activity or a vacation you have to earn—you stop juggling and start living. Balance is the illusion of control.Integration is the practice of acceptance.And acceptance, my loves, is where real peace begins. It’s not about having it all.It’s about knowing what “all” even means for you. So instead of asking, “How do I balance it all?” try asking: What deserves my energy today? Not what screams the loudest.Not what guilt tells you.Not what the algorithm says you should be doing.What actually deserves you? That question changes everythingggggg The Prince of Misalignment If you ever forget what misalignment looks like—don’t worry. The universe provides examples daily. Twelve million pounds and a dead accuser later, and any decent person in the UK is still asking: Will Andrew Mountbatten Windsor aka Andy Windsor ever face real accountability? Let’s be clear about what we’re looking at here: a man whose excuses—“no recollection,” “I was at Pizza Express in Woking,” “I don’t sweat”—sound like rejected scripts from The Office. SIDEBAR: Shout out to Emily Maitlis, because I genuinely don’t know how she conducted that interview with a straight face. The woman deserves a BAFTA for maintaining composure while someone tried to alibi himself with a chain restaurant. The real insult has been the tax-paying British public footing the bill for his protection and his silence. His security detail. His legal settlements. His carefully managed public invisibility. Now thanks to Kingyyy - this will be no more. All while ordinary people are choosing between heating and eating, between electricity and therapy, between dignity and survival. It’s misalignment on a royal scale: privilege pretending to be innocent.Reputation propped up by taxpayer pounds. Accountability buried under ermine and entitlement. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here facing consequences for our actions—losing jobs for being late, getting fined for missed payments, having our reputations destroyed for far less. This comes as no surprise really—in my opinion, power of any sort corrupts, and crowns corrode faster than most. I’m a closeted royalist—anyone who knows me knows I loved and respected the late Queen. I’ve got some time for King Charles, none for William, but ALL DAY for Harry. However, at the end of the day, royals are human beings—not special, not chosen by divine right, not exempt from basic decency. Nope. They’re arse-wiping, snot-cleaning, regular Joe Bloggs like you and me. Let that sink in. The only difference? When we mess up, we face consequences. When they mess up, we pay for the cover-up.Meanwhile, HMRC will still be looking for people to pay back their Covid loans. smh. The Antidote: Grace Wales Bonner at Hermès And then—grace. Literally. Grace Wales Bonner, the newly appointed Creative Director of Hermès’s women’s universe. Let me say that again, slower, so we can all feel the weight of it:A Black British woman is now leading one of the most revered, quietly powerful luxury houses on earth. Hermès isn’t just a brand—it’s a 187-year-old French institution that’s historically moved with the speed of hand-stitched leather. This is a house that has built its entire identity on heritage, craft, and an almost monastic devotion to tradition. Into that rarefied space walks Grace Wales Bonner. Not as a token. Not as a headline. But as the woman who earned her seat at the table through decades of uncompromising, visionary work. This isn’t a diversity headline—though the media will try to frame it that way.This is a cultural correction. The result of consistent, soul-rooted work finally being recognised by an industry that has historically gate kept Black excellence while appropriating Black culture. For generations, Black designers have been the uncredited architects of cool—setting trends that white designers got awards for. The fashion industry has long had a parasitic relationship with Blackness: it wants our aesthetics, our cultural references, our cool—but rarely our leadership. Grace Wales Bonner has been building toward this moment her entire career—one stitch, one reference, one deeply researched collection at a time. She fused European tailoring with Afro-Atlantic spirituality, rewrote the language of modern luxury, and pulled from James Baldwin, Harlem Renaissance photography, Caribbean diaspora, and West African textiles—not as costume, but as conversation. She didn’t chase virality. She didn’t pander to the algorithm. She built a legacy—with intention, intellect, and integrity. That’s what alignment looks like. That’s purpose rewarded. The world is finally starting to understand that Black creativity isn’t a trend to mine—it’s a tradition to honour. Grace Wales Bonner at Hermès is proof that excellence, when rooted in authenticity, becomes undeniable.Even to institutions built on gatekeeping. Autumn teaches us what to shed.Winter teaches us what to survive.Spring reminds us why it was all worth it. If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Comment, Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have considered moving up to paid on my substack as your girl would appreciate the coins. Hit me up in the comments, Love, Ari x MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. 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 [https://arietawho.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Virtue in the Age of Viral Outrage

In an age where everyone’s got a “take,” being decent is starting to feel… radical.So let’s talk about virtue — that quiet, untrendy little thing that refuses to die, even in a world addicted to outrage. MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. OF COURSEEE!! there are so many things to be outraged about but If you ask me, I think there’s a lot of outrage about the wrong things. In a world where it isn’t cool to be seen as going against the grain, it will take a lot of courage for one to be virtuous in 2025. The Courage to Look Foolish The ancient philosopher Epictetus once said: “If you wish to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid.” Translation? Sometimes doing the right thing makes you look dumb. To be virtuous or virtue isn’t trending on TikTok.It doesn’t clap back, subtweet, self-promote, or drop a hot take for likes.It’s showing up — quietly, consistently.Choosing empathy over ego.Choosing silence over spectacle.Doing what’s right when no one’s watching — and especially when no one’s clapping. In a world obsessed with optics, that kind of behaviour feels almost rebellious.Virtue today is countercultural.It’s not sexy. Not shareable. Definitely not sponsored. Doing right rarely feels like victory. It feels ordinary. Invisible, even.Yet over time, it builds something no money, follower count, or hyper-glossed filter can buy: peace. In 2025? Peace is rarer than a good Wi-Fi signal in Zone 2 — and infinitely more luxurious. Culture Check: To Greta, To Meghan… and (sigh) To Kemi Language evolves. So do we. Once upon a time, to Beckham meant to bend it.To Kardashian meant to contour — both your face and your moral compass. But in this era of midlife rebellion, it’s time to update the dictionary. To Greta (v.)To rebel with purpose.To call out the madness.To plant both feet on solid ground while everyone else performs compliance. “I’m feeling a little Greta today.”Translation? Too seasoned to fake it. Too tired to stay quiet. To Meghan (v.)To master the art of quiet revenge — with a side of grace. “She pulled a Meghan,” we whisper, admiring the woman who wins without a press release.That’s not pettiness. That’s strategy. That’s a PhD in peace. To Kemi (v.) — use sparingly.Definition: A middle-aged Black woman who’s misplaced her Black sensibilities somewhere between Parliament and performative politics.Exhibit A: We see you, sis. But we don’t claim you.On behalf of the Midlife Nigerian-British Ladies Association, London Chapter — we’d like to respectfully leave the WhatsApp group.With love, light… and mostly shade. Midlife Reckoning: Gatekeepers at the Gate Let’s have a word, Gen X. We can’t all be gatekeepers when the gate’s hanging off its hinges and the keys are lost in a group email.Too many of us are still playing the “one-in, one-out” game — clutching our hard-won seats like scarcity is a virtue. We make noise on International Women’s Day, then hoard the mic for the rest of the year.Time to evolve. The Millennials and Gen Z girlie dem? They collaborate.They build. They DM each other — not for gossip, but for growth. Real power isn’t about keeping others out.It’s about knowing your worth and creating space without fear of disappearing. Midlife isn’t about proving yourself anymore.It’s about owning your stage — and knowing exactly when to step aside. You don’t need to overschedule or overperform to be seen.You are the résumé. You are the reference.You’ve already earned your seat. Be Greta when the truth needs a spine.Pull a Meghan when grace needs a face.And when life starts to feel like a badly run UN session?Log off. Pour something strong. Exit with quiet dignity. Save this one for your next meltdown, existential crisis, or WhatsApp group implosion.And if it hits home, pass it on — because someone out there is learning, like the rest of us, that sometimes… The loudest move you can make is silence. If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Comment, Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have considered moving up to paid on my substack as your girl would appreciate the coins. Hit me up in the comments, Love, Ari x 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 [https://arietawho.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

One Voice, Many Protests: Far Right, Migrants, Mayhem & BLM.

MMM40. Can you believe it? We actually made it to 40 musings. 🎉 When I started this, I thought I’d maybe squeeze out 10 before running out of steam (or out of patience). Yet here we are — 40 newsletters later, still laughing at the madness, raging at the nonsense, and dancing through the mayhem in sensible shoes. But let me start with a confession. I get paid to market other people’s brilliance, but when it comes to marketing myself? I get shy! Confusion sets in - what do people want to see - my imposter syndrome voice gets louder and louder. Meanwhile my Clients get shiny decks and polished strategies; I get half-finished drafts and voice notes labelled “post later” that never see the light of day. Funny, but not funny. Maybe it’s peri-brain, maybe it’s procrastination… either way, it’s done. That era is over. From here on out, it’s one voice. My voice. Unapologetic. Midlife. Unfiltered. MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Fam, let me start with a confession. I get paid to market for others, but when it comes to marketing myself? Suddenly I’m the cobbler with no shoes, tiptoeing barefoot through my own ideas. My clients get campaigns, strategies, polished decks; I get voice notes, half-finished drafts, and the eternal excuse: “I’ll post it later.” - later rarely comes. That ends now. This — this evolution of myself— isn’t about shinier fonts or a slicker logo. It’s about finally owning my voice across every channel. No more split personalities: strategist here, soft-life auntie there, sarcastic truth-teller everywhere else. Exhausting. Diluting. Done. From here on out, it’s one voice. My voice. Unapologetic. Midlife. Unfiltered. Honestly, the timing couldn’t be better. Because the world feels permanently stuck in protest mode. We’ve got chaos on London’s streets, migrants still treated like suspects, corporations queuing up for their annual Black History Month photo ops, Nigeria blowing out 65 candles while corruption eats the cake, and Gen Z vaping their way into popcorn lungs. So really, what’s the point of me whispering when the world’s already shouting? London Protest: What Are We Doing? Last weekend, London’s streets turned into a theatre of slogans — placards waving, chants ricocheting, racism bold enough to strut without shame. I was / am disgusted. Far-right mobs make my skin crawl. Racism has no place in British society. Full stop. Yet there it was, bold and unashamed. What’s worse? The silence that followed. No media uproar. No reckoning. White supremacy brushed off like background noise. Let’s be clear: migrants are not the problem. The real problem sits higher up — an elite hoarding wealth, dodging taxes, and distracting the masses with “the other.” And without migrants? Britain would collapse in days. * The NHS would fold — 1 in 6 staff are migrants, 30% of doctors trained abroad. * The economy would sag — migrants contribute more in taxes than they take in benefits. * Culture would flatline — no Afrobeats, no curry houses, no Stormzy. * Even football would limp — Marcus Rashford, Bukayo Saka, Cole Plamer. Gone. This isn’t new. The Windrush generation answered Britain’s call, only to be treated as trespassers. Kids of migrants in the 80s were taught to shrink: walk behind, avoid eye contact, code-switch to survive. Fast forward to 2025, and we’re still here. Racism bold in the streets, institutions pretending not to see. Migrant Realities That protest energy flows straight into the migrant struggle. We bring the recipes, the rhythm, the free labour, the NHS shifts, the cultural sauce — and still get treated like uninvited guests at the very party we built. Britain has selective memory. Post-war rebuilding? They called, and Windrush answered. NHS on its knees? Migrants staffed the wards. Fruit to be picked, labs to be led, tech to be launched? Same story. Who shows up? Migrants. Every single time. Without us, this island folds quicker than a cheap bra in the wash. The buses wouldn’t run. The hospitals wouldn’t heal. The music would be silent. Dinner? Tragically tasteless and beige. So when someone says “go back where you came from,” I just laugh Black History Month (UK): Receipts, Not Hashtags October is creeping in, and so are the predictable corporate moves: hashtags, stock images, and polished #BLM statements from brands that dont really care and are just ticking off CSR / DEI initiatives if they still have them. I’ve been here before. In a former job role, I poured my soul into a Black History Month newsletter about racism, erasure, code-switching. People nodded. Then October ended, hashtags faded, and business as usual waltzed back in. That’s the cycle: performative allyship, seasonal diversity, and silence. I said this then and ill say this now, the rush for brands, businesses and investors all of a sudden showing support to the black during the height of BLM would fall off a cliff, and it did/ it has. A grassroots social media movement is calling for Black consumers, particularly Black women, to boycott non-Black-owned beauty and hair care retailers starting September 1st. Organisers and influencers are calling for a nationwide boycott, encouraging black consumers to stop purchasing beauty and hair care products that are not black -owned. The movement gained momentum after TikTok creator @delwboy posted a video that quickly went viral, sparking a powerful conversation about the economics of the Black haircare industry. Key Goals of this boycott are to redirect spending from major retailers and non-Black-owned brands to Black-owned beauty businesses and to Demonstrate the economic power of Black consumers in the beauty industry The movement emphasiSes that after many years of black women carrying the hair industry on their backs, WE finally decided to take their economic power back. Black women spend six times more on hair than white women — £88 million in the UK alone. That’s power. That’s leverage. Yet we’re still sidelined, copied, and sold toxic products with a smile. That’s why this September’s boycott matters. It’s not just about products. It’s about dignity. We are tired of tokenism. Tired of Black founders being pressured into scaling too fast. Tired of brilliant brands shuttering while corporations steal our ideas. Sidebar: go listen to Emma Grede’s Aspire podcast episode with Diarrha N’Diaye of Ami Colé. Powerful stuff. If BLM means anything, it’s this: receipts over rhetoric. Buy Black. Year-round. Amplify, invest, sustain. Don’t cheer resilience while pulling the rug out. Nigerian Independence Day Nigeria turns 65. Old enough for a senior railcard, still too young for decent governance. As part of the diaspora, I carry both pride and frustration. Nigerians are giants: Afrobeats, Nollywood, Chimamanda, Burna Boy, IAMISIGO reshaping fashion. In the UK, we’re doctors, nurses, teachers, lawyers, athletes, artists. From Anthony Joshua in the ring to Bukayo Saka on the pitch, we don’t just participate — we excel. Britain is richer, sharper, bolder because of us. And yet, home breaks hearts. Oil, talent, brilliance — squandered by corruption. Displaced people with a country. Nigerians scatter not because we don’t love home, but because home hasn’t loved us back. Still, hope refuses to die. End SARS 2019 showed a fearless generation — tear-gassed, beaten, silenced, but unbowed. Maybe, like Nepal, Gen Z will take the reins and finally rewrite the story. One Voice, Moving Forward So here we are at the end of my musings for now, No more mixed messages just my unfiltered mix of s***s,giggles, thought provoking topics - topped up with humor , some gossip and vulnerability. So if you’re here for soft life and vibes only, this might not be your stop. But if you’re here for messy truths, cultural clapbacks, and midlife rebellion — welcome home. Strap in. The mayhem’s just warming up. Now I want to hear from you. What do you want to see dismantled, celebrated, or dragged into the light? Hit reply, share this with your people, and let’s grow this movement of midlife women who are sick and tired of being sick and tired with a lot to say. If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Comment, Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have considered moving up to paid on my substack as your girl would appreciate the coins. Thanks for reading MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Hit me up in the comments, Love, Ari x 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 [https://arietawho.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Shoot the People, Face the Future, Cry Like a Clown

Shoot the People: Hope, Truth & the Weight of Our Silence Autumn lurks at the moment. The days are officially shorter, darkness creeping in before 8pm. Only a few weeks ago it was still light. I don’t mind the chillier mornings though — they feel honest somehow. In the these crazy times, honesty matters. I choose to be on the side of REAL TRUTH.Not the curated kind. Not the spin-doctored “both sides” kind. But the messy, uncomfortable, bone-deep truth that demands we support the oppressed and call out injustice wherever it shows its face. That’s the bare minimum of being human. MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Which brings me to Misan Harriman’s exhibition The Purpose of Light at the Hope 93 gallery, and the documentary Shoot the People at the BFI Southbank. The documentary is produced by Andy Mundy- Castle who is also of the Nigerian diaspora - when i found this out - i had a huge smile on my face.  I’ve known Misan over 20 years — back when we were post-teens in the Nigerian diaspora, moving through the same London circles. He was a “city” boy: polite but obnoxious, flashy. Looking back now is almost comical, because the growth is astronomical. A decade ago he was outside London Fashion Week snapping street style. Then came Covid. Then George Floyd. something in Misan began to bubble — in his work — cracked open. Misan’s lens doesn’t just capture moments. It refuses to let the world look away. He has archived protest, grief, unrest, resistance. Vulnerability and defiance, frozen in time. A few years ago, at a march for Congo or Palestine (too many marches, really), Misan raised his camera and caught me mid-resistance. That photograph now hangs in his exhibition. For me, it’s proof: I showed up, I raised my voice, I refused silence. Most of all - I am PROUD to be featured as part of Harriman’s work - it is a moment of pride for me,  this kid from Misan’s home state of Delta in Nigeria. Misan is an activist as much as an artist. He disregards comfort and safety to bear witness, to become a custodian of our collective trauma as Black and brown people. It takes courage. Whenever we speak, I worry for his mental health. The vitriol he receives online is relentless. Yet he says: “I do this because I must”, HOW POWERFUL IS THAT???? That kind of empathy and love — for people, for justice, for history — is rare. I’m glad to be alive in a time when people like Misan exist and insist. HE MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS. I could barely hold back tears when I introduced myself to his amazing wife - the bible says he who finds a good wife, finds a good thing - in this woman i swear he found a gem.  If you haven’t yet, go to the Hope 93 gallery in London. See The Purpose of Light and then pop down to BFI Southbank and  Watch Shoot the People. Both of these works are powerful time capsules, reminders, and warnings of the times we are in. As we say in itsekiri ERE MISAN - ERE!! Misan Harriman [https://substack.com/profile/142231723-misan-harriman] Michaela Coel: The Face, The Force, The Future What does Michaela Coel mean to me — an African diaspora kid of a certain generation? EVERYTHING. This woman is a GIANT to the culture. The epitome of DIY. The blueprint. The “I’ll build it myself, and you’ll just have to catch up” energy that redefines possibility. So when I see her on the cover of Vogue, it isn’t just fashion. It’s cultural affirmation. A loud, unfiltered reminder that we’ve been shaping and remixing culture all along. To call her only a “writer,” “actor,” or “director” is an injustice. She is: * A cultural guardian of Black girl culture. * A muse — Grace Jones for Gen Z. * A face for the ages: Queen Elizabeth of Toro, Iman, and something entirely her own. Those angular features. Cheeks like blades. Lips like sculpture. Skin that commands light without apology. She is beauty, but also disruption. She has walked through fire. Survived a rape early in her career — transmuting that pain into I May Destroy You, one of the most powerful series of our time. That wasn’t just art. That was alchemy. She’s a Spike Lee of sorts — but for Black Britishness. For the diaspora stitched together by Wi-Fi and memory. Michaela is more than a moment. She is the moment. A living bridge. For some of us, she’s a mirror. For younger ones, she’s a portal, Micheala is Not just a cover girl. A cultural giant. Tears of a Clown: Success Tax, Pennies & Perimenopause in the Valley Do you ever get tired of being tired?Like bone-deep tired. The kind that makes you want to pack it all in and just… stop. I’m in that season. Bills overdue, direct debits bouncing like afrobeats, pennies left to my name. I’m not writing this for pity (I hate pity). This is truth: I feel embarrassed, afraid, uncertain. And pretending otherwise is exhausting. I call it the Success Tax. The price you pay for refusing to stay down. Every time life knocks you flat, you get back up. Over and over. UP UP UP. Like a jack-in-the-box nobody ordered. Dean Graziosi said: “Success won’t come chasing you down — you’ve got to chase it.” Some days I think that’s me: chasing success in slippers while it runs ahead in Nike Pegasus. Then perimenopause gatecrashes the race. Hormones turn every problem into a catastrophe. Anxiety sneaks in at 2am. Depression mutters “you’re not enough.” Mood swings flip me from zen to “burn it all down” before the kettle boils. A bounced debit becomes a referendum on my worth. A late text reply feels like exile. Sometimes I cry because my nails look wack, i forgot to get salt from the shops even though i was out a few times or when i think the  laundry  basket looked at me funny. It is out of control!!! They say it’s darkest before dawn. But must I hit rock bottom for light to come? Some days I feel like 2025 mugged me and left me on the pavement. The peri-mental spiral is real: muttering turns into full-blown conversations with myself. Bargaining, consoling, scolding… then laughing at the absurdity. Tears of a clown. The silence from friends stings. Everyone’s battling their own storms, I get it. But when your hormones are rioting, even a small sting feels like a wasp nest. Yet — I am lucky to have family and  a husband who has been my rock. The ones who doesn’t flinch when I unravel. That kind of love, steady when everything else shakes, is a wealth no bank can measure. So yes, I’m afraid. Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I’m broke. And yes, my hormones are dragging me like a malfunctioning self-drive car. But I’m still here. Still standing. Maybe survival looks like this: ugly, unfiltered, overthinking everything… but still here. As usual, If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have consider moving up to paid as your girl would appreciate the coins. Hit me up in the comments, Love, Ari x  MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. 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 [https://arietawho.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

AUGUST 2025 UNFILTERED: Culture, Hip Hop, and Hard Truths

At this stage in my life, some jobs are just jobs — pay check in hand and we're good. Others are cultural pilgrimages in disguise, the kind where you're lugging garment bags through train stations and cobbled streets, answering WhatsApps at 2 a.m., and trying to draft a convincing email to an all-European team how an African brand deep in ancestral technologies and practices needs to be regarded and respected — even if the brand is showing for the first time in Scandinavia. Working with IAMISIGO for Copenhagen Fashion Week wasn't just Comms and brand strategy — it was a living, breathing act of cultural preservation wrapped in hand-beaten metal resistance. Bubu Ogisi, the creative director of IAMISIGO, doesn't "make clothes" in the pedestrian sense. She channels history and stitches memory, and turns textile traditions into wearable manifestos. My job? Make sure the world got it — without watering it down for the Western gaze. CPHFW is many things: sustainable, structured, and very Scandinavian in its punctuality. Lagos? Lagos is organised chaos with a pulse. I was somewhere between translator, hype woman, and air traffic controller — making sure BUBU’s wishes for the show were conveyed as deeply African, fiercely modern, unapologetically itself… while still starting within the allotted slot. Well, 20-minute slot in this case — the traditional 15 minutes wouldn't work for us. Perfection cannot be rushed. The moment I almost cried — not from stress, but from watching the first full run-through. Goosebumps. Lump in throat. Full cinematic cliché. Watching Bubu take the applause she deserved — a full-on moment for me. I was beaming with pride. The magic wasn't just in the clothes — though those were something else entirely — but in the room. It was models walking with the weight of heritage and the lightness of art. It was knowing that somewhere between Lagos, Accra, Kampala and Copenhagen, between the ancestral and the futuristic, we'd built a bridge. After years in fashion, shows can start to blur. This one won't. It will live in my memory not because it was perfect, but because it was true. In an industry addicted to reinvention, truth is still the most radical thing you can put on a runway. The post-show high lasted 36 hours. The post-show foot pain lasted a week. I'd do it all over again tomorrow — sign me up. Hip Hop at 46: Still Paying My Dues I'm 46 and still a child of hip hop. Not in the "stuck in the 90s" way — though, let's be honest, my internal soundtrack is still heavy on Nas, Lauryn, and Biggie — but because hip hop shaped the rhythm of how I move through the world. It isn't just music. It's a lens, a language, a life skill. I talk about hip hop like it's a living, breathing being — because for me, it always has been. It walked me through awkward teens, ambitious twenties, reckless thirties, and now these unapologetic midlife years. Reggie Yates recently wrote about RESET THEORY — "Forever young, or refusing to grow up?" His words hit. The culture has to evolve. Rappers have to age, and hopefully their sound with them. Yet some older cats insist on rapping about things that, at their age, just feel… gross, to be honest. How can you be almost 50 and still rapping about b*****s and hoes? The tables have turned at this point — if you are almost 50 and still rapping on this subject matter, guess what? You are the b***h. You are the ho! Life totally fucked you. Hip hop in 2025 is messy. Industry plants everywhere. Gentrification on steroids. But I'm not done riding for it. Not by a long shot. Thankfully, a few of my favs are evolving the craft like fine wine. We've got grown-folks rap thriving: Jay-Z pushing 60 and still dropping verses that send kids scrambling to Chat GPT to decipher. Nas in his renaissance. Missy Elliott out-innovating your favourite twenty-something producer. CLIPSE — yes, CLIPSE — back with an album that's both nostalgic and future-facing. Malice and Pusha T sound sharper than ever, reminding us maturity doesn't mean mellowing out; it can mean cutting deeper. "Let God Sort 'Em Out" is basically my new mantra. The way we consume music has changed. Streams, playlists, algorithms telling us what we "might like." Efficient, yes. Fleeting, also yes. Back in the day, an album drop was an event. You lived with it. Read the liner notes. Argued about favourite tracks in person, not just in comment threads. Now? Your favourite artist's single can vanish down your feed before you've even memorised the hook. For me, hip hop still demands presence. It's the one genre that makes me stop mid-task and listen. Never background noise — always front and center, syncing to my own heartbeat. Hip hop is why I walk into a room like I belong there. Why I side-eye anyone clapping on the wrong beat. Why I can sit in a Copenhagen Fashion Week boardroom one day, negotiating deals worth thousands of pounds, and still lose my mind over a perfectly timed DJ track drop the next. It's not nostalgia. Not a phase. It's a lifetime membership. In 2025, I'm still paying my dues — in full, with interest. Thank God for Kendrick — in him I trust. Back to my life: I'm making s**t work the best I can. I realize I'm not alone trying to unravel my life — shed old things and become my new self. The tea is, nobody tells you becoming yourself at midlife feels like breaking in a new pair of Docs — stiff, awkward, rubbing in places you didn't know could blister. Life right now feels like a construction site. Dusty, noisy, and full of mess. I feel so unprepared for this shift — it's like I'm trying to land a plane with no manual. This has been my life the last few years. Walking into my being now means bumping into all the old versions of myself — the people-pleaser, the hustler, the one who said yes before she even knew what the ask was. Growing pains are real. Bodies rewrite their own rules without permission. Just when you think you've cracked the code, there's another life plot twist that shows up unannounced. The beauty of midlife is that it strips you down to essence. I have been laid bare. MY YANSH is open.. No more rehearsals. No more pretending. Your own voice gets louder than the noise. You learn that peace is a flex, boundaries are love letters, and "no" is a full sentence. For me, walking into my being feels both scary and exciting. Like stepping on stage with no script but finally trusting I can freestyle my way through. Midlife isn't the end of youth. It's the start of truth. So I'm lacing up my boots, blisters and all. Let’s talk about Serena Williams — the woman who could probably bench press a small car while serving aces — is now hawking weight loss drugs. Because nothing screams "athletic excellence" quite like trading your racket for a prescription bottle. Somebody wake me up when septemeber ends like the green day songggggg.. what da helly?????? Let me paint you the picture: Serena Williams, spokesperson for health company Ro (purveyors of those trendy GLP-1 medications), sharing her "positive experience" with weight loss drugs. Oh, and plot twist — her husband Alexis Ohanian just happens to be an investor and board member. Wonders ehhh!!!!- they shall never cease. This is the woman who redefined what powerful looked like. Who made thighs-that-could-crush-watermelons aspirational. Who carried an entire sport on her incredibly strong back while reminding us that bodies were built for domination, not decoration. She turned muscle into mainstream and proved that champions come in all shapes, today, she's telling us the real victory is on the scale. The irony is deliciously bitter: she built her legacy proving that strong was beautiful, that power was gorgeous, If SERENA— has to bow down to the skinny industrial complex, what hope do us mere mortals have? Maybe this is midlife's cruelest lesson: no matter how many trophies you've won, how many millions you've earned, or how many times you've proven yourself unstoppable, the body shame machine will eventually come knocking apparently, it's very persuasive when it brings investment opportunities. Though I proudly wear my REBEL badge and try my damnedest not to conform to society's beauty standards, I'd be lying if I said Kate Moss's infamous 90s mantra didn't whisper seductively in my ear sometimes: "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Hate to admit it, but that quote has some staying power. Here's what really gets me though: these celebrities peddle weight loss solutions to us regular folk, but they've got teams of people managing every aspect of their lives. Personal trainers, nutritionists, chefs, probably someone whose entire job is monitoring side effects and adjusting dosages. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here Googling "normal GLP-1/ Ozempic side effects and reactions" at 2 AM and hoping for the best. SMH. o Sharon Chuter — A Trailblazer Gone Too Soon The beauty world just lost one of its fiercest visionaries. Sharon Chuter, founder of Uoma Beauty, passed away at just 38 on August 14, 2025 — a stunning loss that leaves a void far larger than any palette could fill. Born in Nigeria and forged in the corporate corridors of L'Oréal and LVMH, Chuter launched Uoma Beauty in 2019 to do more than sell makeup. She set out to redefine beauty itself. The brand burst onto the scene with a bold statement: a 51-shade foundations. She wasn't competing with Fenty — she was reaffirming, reclaiming what beauty could and should stand for. But Sharon Chuter didn't stop at products. She founded the Pull Up for Change initiative — and its clarion call, #PullUpOrShutUp — in 2020. She demanded transparency: show us your diversity numbers, or get lost in the noise. In 2021, she elevated her activism with Make It BLACK, a campaign flipping the narrative on the word "black" — pushing brands to relabel packaging in black, and funneling the proceeds back to Black entrepreneurs. Sharon Chuter stepped off the CEO stage in 2023 after a breakdown of health — a wake-up call that came with the weight of 134-hour work weeks and zero sleep. She lost 10 kg in a week, sparking fears of cancer. Thankfully, that nightmare wasn't real, but it cost her the job. She walked away from the boardroom, hoping for real rest, but the brand's assets were quietly sold behind her back during medical leave — can you just imagine… F**K THOSE PEEPS man.. everything she had worked so hard for just taken away just like that. Jeeezz! She was found at home, on a patio — the cause of death still under investigation. we need answers ooo, why are black female founders under attack? 1st we lose the brand AMI COLE and now we reading UOMA was stolen from Sharon and then she is found UNALIVE?? Losing Sharon Chuter feels different. I want to know how she died. I was lucky enough to meet her at the Glamour Woman of the Year awards in 2023, and her energy was infectious. In midlife, we're supposed to be easing off the accelerator, not flooring it — but Sharon proved that the real vice is complacency. She reminded us that representation isn't optional; it's revolutionary. My UOMA products (still unused) will become a memory for me. I refuse to buy anymore, knowing that the soul of the company left this earth already and she was not happy. Rest in peace Sharon, my fellow Naija sis — as we say back home: YOU TRY! On a final note, Summer 2025 has turned out to be one of my best summers yet - I got to do some incredible stuff , travel to a few different places and seen a lot of s**t! Most importantly I spent a lot of time with my nearest and dearest - and this has proved time and time again to be the best tonic for my woes. I am so blessed. As usual, If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have consider moving up to paid as your girl would appreciate the coins. Hit me up in the comments, Love, Ari x P.S There’s no better time than now for us to start the UOMA boycott. This is a public episode. 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