Never Ask a Woman Her Age – But Why Not?

We’ve been told for generations: Never ask a woman her age. It’s treated as an unbreakable social rule, lumped in with taboos like discussing salaries or showing up to a party empty-handed. But in 2025, why are we still framing the question around being old at all? Swapping it for "How young are you?" doesn’t fix the problem—it just goes from sounding condescending to sounding patronising.

So why the obsession with age in the first place? Where did this rule come from—was it always about politeness, or was it rooted in something deeper? And more importantly, why does it still linger in a world that claims to value progress over outdated norms? Time to dig deeper.

Who started this age-avoidance trend?

Let’s be clear: our grandmothers weren’t the ones whispering about age. This anxiety was sold to us—quite literally. By the mid-20th century, advertisers and Hollywood had struck gold by commodifying youth, particularly for women.

Skin potions pledged "timeless" faces. Hair dyes swore they'd roll back decades. Studios cast 30-year-old women as ingénues while their 50-year-old male co-stars played romantic leads without a second glance. The message was clear: Men mature. Women expire.

This wasn’t subtle conditioning—it was a bombardment. Billboards equated youth with worth. Magazine spreads framed aging as a crisis to manage. The lesson took root: a woman’s number wasn’t just private; it was perilous. To reveal it risked more than wrinkles—it meant surrendering desirability, influence, even cultural currency.

We weren’t born fearing age. We were taught to.

The strange dance around digits

It is 2025 and we still see it. I remember my mother-in-law once telling me — visibly miffed — about a woman at a wedding who had called her “Aunty.” Mind you, this wasn’t a cheeky teenager, but a grown woman. My MIL’s offence was instant. Not because the title was wrong, but because of what it implied — that she was now part of that “older” tribe. The wise but weathered. The respectable but not radiant. Apparently “Aunty” means aged.

And just recently, I watched a woman at a party freeze when asked how old her children were. Not because she guarded their privacy—but because her mind raced to calculate what her age would then imply. She was radiant, self-assured in every other way, yet there it was: that flicker of hesitation, the quick mental math, the polished deflection.

I wanted to tell her: Claim those years. Out loud. Every one of them is a triumph. Which would you erase? The year you aced your exams? Fell in love? Became a parent—or a grandparent? These aren’t burdens to hide; they’re milestones many never get to see. Age isn’t an apology. It’s proof.

Me? I wear it like a badge

As for me? I’ve never felt more myself than I do now. Sure, I colour my hair. Not because I want to hide the greys, but because I like the vibrancy. The rest? The knees that creak but still dance, the mind that’s sharper than ever, the hands that have held both joy and grief—they’re mine. Earned.

I’ve loved fiercely, lost deeply, raised children, built a career from the ground up, and launched a business on my own terms. Every challenge carved resilience into my bones. Now, stepping boldly into this next chapter, I carry muscles—physical and emotional—that my 30-year-old self couldn’t fathom. And that title I once might’ve whispered? Grandma. Now I proclaim it. It doesn’t just mark time; it crowns me.

Why would I shrink from that? Being a grandmother does make me older—but it also makes me more. More rooted. More needed. More Dibi. My hugs hold generations. My stories bridge past and future. This isn’t aging. It’s ascending.

Time to flip the script

Let’s stop treating age like a confession. It’s not an apology—it’s your epic. A living record of risks taken, storms weathered, and joy seized. Every wrinkle is a plot twist, every every experience a badge of honour. Why would we edit out proof we’ve lived?

So when they ask, stand tall. Declare it—not just the years, but the weight of them. You’re not aging; you’re collecting victories. And you’ll keep arriving exactly as you are: radiant, relentless, and radically unbothered by a calendar.

To anyone still sidestepping the question—hear this: You’re not a digit. You’re alchemy. But that number? It’s the spine of your story. And oh my... what a story it is.