We get to unravel, sure—but only if we make it palatable. Pretty. Maybe even a little funny, as long as it’s packaged in a meme or softened by a smile. By midlife, we’ve become experts at falling apart politely, wrapped in grace and barely detectable discomfort. That’s the unspoken rule, isn’t it??
We’re told to keep it together. To age gracefully. To smile through the shifts and tighten the skin and dim the truth.
By 49, the unraveling wasn’t quiet—but it wasn’t sudden either. It began slowly, somewhere after 46, and this year, it’s finally starting to feel clearer. The painting helped. I painted my way through it.
This post began as an email to my collectors. I shared what it felt like to stand in the middle of my life, looking into the mirror and no longer seeing a version of myself I recognized.
The response was overwhelming—because every woman I know has felt this.
So I’m sharing it here, in full, for anyone who’s ever thought:
“Is this really it?”
“Where did I go?”
“Am I still allowed to take up space?”
The art that came from that slow unraveling—the rawness, the reclaiming—is now visible. You can see the work here. The Vault is open. Some pieces have already sold, and one was destroyed. What’s left is sculptural, raw, and unapologetically one-of-a-kind.
.But first, here’s what it’s really about:
The Email
Don’t call it a comeback. 🎶49 this month. Not new, not improved—just finally f***ing honest.
I didn’t plan to unravel at 49
Definitely not out loud.
But it happens, doesn’t it?
Somewhere between the bathroom mirror and the bedroom closet.
It starts with grabbing the soft skin of a perimenopause belly and missing the tightness of a body we didn’t appreciate when we had it.
When we catch an older woman’s face in the mirror—and think, “That can’t be me.”
No one tells you about that moment— when the reflection shifts and you realize you’ve become the woman you never thought you’d see looking back. You mourn the life you never let yourself have and fear her future.
I didn’t lose myself. I gave myself away—in bits and pieces.
Over years.Under the labels of “strong,” “accommodating,” “the one who gets it done.” Which, let’s be honest, is usually code for “the one who shuts up and carries it so no one else has to change.”
But I know I’m not the only one.
We women—mothers, daughters, business owners, caretakers— We’ve all done it. We give and give until we forget we were whole in the first place.
And at some point, we look up and don’t recognize the woman holding it all together.
So I started painting.
Not softly.
Not tastefully.
I sculpted power into canvas.
Built rebellion into brushstrokes.
I didn’t burn my life down.
I just stopped lighting myself on fire to keep everyone else warm.And no one died. They just got uncomfortable.
They whispered, “You’ve changed,” like that’s an insult—instead of the entire f***ing point.
Cake & Conspiracy was never just about a game. It was a reclamation. A heist—of space, identity, and power.
The Vault opened today without much fanfare.
A few pieces have already been claimed.
One was destroyed because it no longer reflected my truth… it was sappy, boring decor with no soul.
Half the forgery editions are gone.
What’s left?
The work that stands fully in the room— just like we do when we stop asking for permission.
The Vault is open until April 7.ACCESS THE VAULT HERE
The Invisible Woman Syndrome. It’s a well-documented phenomenon—middle-aged women, overlooked, undervalued, erased.But we’re not disappearing.
We just stopped being convenient for them so they stopped looking.It’s what power looks like when it’s no longer packaged to please.
Happy 49th birthday month to me and a quiet, powerful rebirth to you.
Stay Bougie. Stay Punk.
—Sara
You’re not alone in this. And you never were.
Thank you for being here—for seeing yourself in the work, and in the words.