The Unusual Subjects
In the quiet of late womanhood, even disinterest can become a doorway.
Recently, I’ve found myself saying out loud: I am middle aged.
And it has shocked the shit out of me.
Life, it seems, has been hurtling past at such a rapid rate that now, at almost 52, I realise more of it lies behind me than in front.
I ache. All the time. A recent back injury at work has put me out of commission for weeks.
I’ve been laid out. Put out to pasture.
In the past, I would’ve fought it—pushing my body to heal faster, unaware I was doing more harm by refusing rest.
But this time, I surrendered. I slept for hours. Let the painkillers wrap me in a kind of apathetic calm. And in that quiet, something stirred. A new awareness. A soft becoming.
There’s a stillness that comes with late womanhood.
Not silence—but spaciousness.
I no longer rush to be interested in everything. I don’t chase stories or drama the way I once did. And in that space, I’ve started to notice what I used to overlook: the forgotten, the rusted, the unremarkable.
They speak to me differently now.
I’ve found a fondness for small things. The things most people pass by.
I’ve found a fondness for small things.
The overlooked. The forgotten.
My wife and I recently took a short road trip—just twenty minutes out of town, into the Gold Coast hinterland to visit a small nursery. I hadn’t been out in weeks, except for trips to the doctor or osteopath. It felt good to be outside, surrounded by life again. Thousands of potted plants lined the wet concrete paths. I shuffled slowly, my natural gait stymied by pain, breathing in that distinct nursery scent—damp earth, sun-warmed plastic, green things.
On the way back, we spotted a beautifully rusted car that lured us toward the Gold Coast Car Museum. We weren’t expecting much, just a quick walk-through to support a local business. But the museum surprised us.
The restaurant itself was full of bird life. Cheeky butcherbirds stealing chips and scraps, the staff gently shooing them away with a wave and a laugh. It was lighthearted and alive, and we knew we’d be back.
Next door, the car museum waited. I asked the woman at the desk if I could take photos, and she said “yes, it was encouraged”.
Inside, it felt like stepping into another time.
We stayed for over an hour, marvelling at the beauty of these machines.
I’ve never been interested in cars. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a Ford and a Holden, a Bentley and a Chrysler. But there was something in the way the light hit their curves. The aging metal. The quiet dignity of things built to last.
Photographing something I had no attachment to opened up a new way of seeing.
I found joy in chasing light across surfaces I didn’t care about—and that act alone softened something inside me.
It unlocked a quiet truth: I’d felt forgotten. Cast aside. Used.
And yet—like those rusted machines—I still have so much to offer.
That realisation didn’t come as a loud epiphany. It arrived slowly, through the lens, as I followed shape and shadow.
I’m not approaching old age anymore—I’m entering something else entirely.
The crone age.
The age of unfiltered presence.
The age where I no longer ask for permission or forgiveness.
The crone doesn’t wait for permission.
She builds the space her soul can finally breathe in.
I’m here—inhabiting a space I’ve carved for myself, letting my soul breathe.
I’m sitting quietly.
I’m connecting deeply.
And in that stillness, the past is surfacing—bubbling up to be seen, acknowledged, and let go.
And what a gift, to no longer be held hostage by memory.
To let peace take its place.
Below you will see more images I captured that day.
All prints are available as a limited edition prints in shop.
Have you ever found a deep connection in something you’ve never had an interest in? Do you find beauty in old, worn objects? What draws your eye, the textures, the history, or something else? I’d love to hear from you!
Feel free to leave a comment.
Thank you so much for taking time to read this weeks newsletter. I truly appreciate each one of you & would love for us to connect, encourage, and lift each other up.
Until next week,
*squishy hugs*
Nicole Suzanne.
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