A woman commented on one of my posts recently:
“I’m a 74-year-young proud woman. I embrace every bit of those graceful years.”
And I smiled because I understood exactly what she meant.
She was proud.
Joyful.
Confident.
Unashamed of her age.
But tucked inside that beautiful declaration was something deeper. Something so normalized that most of us barely hear it anymore.
“74 years young.”
Not 74 years old.
Not simply 74.
Young.
And it made me pause.
Because nobody says their toddler is “2 years young.”
Nobody celebrates turning 21 by announcing they’re “21 years young.”
We only start attaching “young” to age once society begins teaching us that our actual age has become something that needs softening.
That is the conditioning.
Not aging itself.
We are not born fearing the word old. Children don’t whisper it. They don’t apologize for birthdays. Somewhere along the way, though, women especially are taught that aging is a quiet fall from value. That youth means beauty. Relevance. Desirability. Visibility.
And once that conditioning settles into the walls of our culture, language begins revealing it in subtle ways.
That’s where phrases like “74 years young” come from.
Not because women are ashamed, necessarily, but because many of us have been taught, consciously or unconsciously, that the word old needs modification before it feels socially acceptable.
“Years young” sounds positive on the surface, but beneath it sits an interesting question:
Why does age suddenly need a disclaimer once a woman reaches a certain number?
We reserve that language almost exclusively for older adults because society has quietly framed old as something unfortunate, while young remains the gold standard.
And for Black women specifically, this conversation carries extra layers.
Research has shown that melanin can provide some natural protection against UV-related skin aging, which is one reason many women of color may experience visible signs of aging differently. There is beauty in that. Real beauty.
But there is also cultural pressure wrapped around it.
Black women have historically lived beneath an exhausting microscope. Critiqued more harshly, aged more aggressively in public perception, and often expected to remain endlessly resilient, attractive, youthful, and unshakable all at once.
So, when we say phrases like “Black don’t crack,” I understand the pride inside it. I understand the celebration. In many ways, it became our way of saying:
“You told us we were less beautiful. Yet look at us.”
And honestly, there is power in that reclaiming.
But I also think it is worth asking ourselves a gentler question:
Why is looking younger still considered the ultimate compliment?
Why do we celebrate Black women for “not looking their age” instead of celebrating the fullness, wisdom, confidence, softness, discernment, and evolution that age itself can bring?
Because perhaps the goal was never to avoid looking old.
Perhaps the goal was to make old feel beautiful too.
This is not about policing language or shaming women for the words we use. Most of us inherited these phrases long before we ever questioned them.
This is about awareness.
About noticing how deeply society has conditioned women to distance ourselves from aging while simultaneously expecting us to survive it gracefully.
I believe freedom looks like a woman saying:
“I am 74 years old.”
With the same pride, a child says:
“I’m finally 10.”
No shrinking.
No softening.
No apology.
Just truth wrapped in dignity.
Because old is not the opposite of beauty.
Old is not the opposite of vibrant.
Old is not the opposite of worthy.
And maybe the real liberation for women is not learning how to stay young forever.
Maybe it is finally believing we never needed youth to be valuable in the first place.