Where Have All the Wise Women Gone?

The Disappearance of Elders in an Age that Fears Aging

Right Things, Wrong Places

We long for connection and support systems but we often find ourselves in the world of self-development, where we’re told that everything we need is within us—that we are enough, that our own presence is all we need. We believe it. And yet, the ache remains. Our need for others goes unmet.

We long for health and well-being, but we turn to the world of supplements—filling our cabinets with endless bottles. Still, the key to our whole health always seems to be just one more supplement away—usually the one being pushed on us a hundred times a day through social media ads.

We long for love and physical intimacy, but we end up in relationships where we compare traumas, weaponize healing language, and battle with who knows the latest psychological tactic to "win" over the other.

We long for self-confidence, but instead of building it within, we measure ourselves against millionaire influencers—trying to replicate their lifestyles, their 12-step skincare routines, their curated meals, and peculiar Pilates regimens. We compare limb to limb, face to face, to gauge the amount of self confidence we are allowed to claim.

We long for true friendship, but the only person we feel safe enough to talk to is our therapist or life coach that we pay a fortune to listen.

We long to be seen, heard, and understood, but instead of real connection, we track our worth through social media followers. And when something extraordinary actually happens—when our child runs for the first time, sings, or nails her ABCs—it can take us several minutes to think of just one person we could text a photo to.

And when we feel lost, when we need real wisdom and guidance, we often find ourselves in cult-like spaces or worshiping gurus.

So where have all the wise women gone?

And when our own inner wise self speaks, how will we recognize her voice—when we have no other wise women around us to help us interpret or reflect it back?

Art Work: Adar Eylon

What Happened to Our Elders?

Perhaps this ache is more pronounced for immigrants. When you move countries or continents, you inevitably lose your proximity to the elders—the grandmothers, the great-aunts and uncles, the matriarchs and mystics who held memory and meaning in their very being. On a bad day at work, or a soul-shaking day in a relationship, there’s no one to run to who holds the kind of wisdom that transcends time.

And even if you aren’t an immigrant, this world pulls us away from elders and into Instagram slogans and spiritual soundbites.

The gap between the living young and the truly elder generation is not only widening—it’s being devalued. We’re severing the line between youth and age, and we’re doing it with a smile and a syringe.

This became painfully clear to me while watching an interview with a world-famous, beloved actress. She’s in her late 50s now, a woman whose beauty has defined an era. Tall, thin, curly-haired, luminous—she is still breathtaking. In the interview, she spoke about this new chapter in her career: working with female writers, championing female directors, telling women’s stories. It was beautiful, benevolent. Her words held power.

But something about her presence felt… off.

It wasn’t just the way she looked, though that was part of it. Her face seemed unnaturally stretched—skin pulled tight in ways that defied anatomy. Where there was once a softness to her face, now there was tension, a sense that her cheeks had migrated too far back on her head. This wasn’t just cosmetic enhancement—it was a pursuit of absolute perfection. A denial of time.

What does it mean when even the wisest, most powerful women we admire can’t bear to look older? What happens to those of us who don’t have the money or access to maintain this illusion? Do we resign ourselves to feeling invisible, less-than, or undeserving? What do we teach our daughters about aging, when even our role models are allergic to it?

And most importantly, what are we missing?

I yearn for women with a thousand wrinkles and wild silver hair. Women whose deep eyes and soft bodies carry the memory of decades, of births and deaths and resurrections. Women whose presence alone calls us to be deeper humans. Women who have traveled the universe in dreams and in real life, and returned with stories.

The energy of elderhood. The sacred witness.

The Cost of Losing Our Elders

Without elders, life feels heavier.

Every heartbreak feels like the end because no one is there to remind us it's just the middle. We mother in isolation. We heal without a map. We age with dread instead of reverence. We confuse popularity for wisdom and end up scrolling for answers that should’ve been whispered to us by someone who had lived them.

Without the wise woman, we’re left to navigate transitions—grief, menopause, identity loss, purpose shifts—with Google searches and wellness trends. But the body doesn’t heal in pixels. It heals in presence. In storytelling. In being held by someone who sees through you, not just at you.

The Wisdom We Need

The wise woman doesn’t offer productivity tips or branding advice. She offers perspective. She teaches you how to wait. How to forgive. How to listen.

She reminds you that healing isn’t a race. That beauty has nothing to do with symmetry. That you are not broken just because you’re in pain.

She is the one who says, “You’ll survive this,” and you believe her—because she has.

Reclaiming the Circle

So what do we do in a world that has lost its elders?

We actively look for them, in our neighbourhoods, in our kids' schools, at our workplace, we read about them if we cannot find them in our circles. We put out a soul calling.

It is this yearning that causes us to search for Wild Wise Woman and find her. It is not as hard as one might first imagine, for the Wild Wise Woman is searching for us too. We are her young.

She would not compliment your discipline for staying small—she would remind you how strong your body is, how sacred. She would not praise your perfection—she would praise your freedom. She would say: A free woman eats. A free woman howls. A free woman is, in and of herself, the prize.

And there is so much more she would say, so much more we don’t know—because the cord connecting us to her has been cut.

But we can remember. We can reconnect. We can begin again.

The Woman I Hope to Become

I wish I could say this is the end of my need for perfection. It is not. The push to look perfect and be perfect is built into our very social systems and the food that is daily fed to our very minds.

But the woman I hope I become is one who has a resting place among wise, wild and in ever embrace of acceptance and love, when I need it, among many soul shelters, with an intention to let myself dream of becoming like an old tree, ancient in spirit, slow in wisdom, fierce in love. And I want to sit under one, too.

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