By Ellie Rowland-Callanan
I was born in the UK on August 26th, 1985, when the #1 song was “Into the Groove” by Madonna, a woman to whom, as a child, I was often told I bore an uncanny resemblance. This year I am 40 years old. I feel fine about it. There is something about the big-zero birthdays which invites reflection.
The summer I turned 10, I was visiting family in Cleveland, Ohio in the U.S. For a British city kid, it was like being in a coming-of-age movie. Treehouses, the neighbor’s pool, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, hanging out with my cousins in our swimsuits in my great aunt’s basement/game room to escape 90+ degree heat. My Bristolian accent took on a Midwestern twang, and I returned, insufferable, romanticizing my Now and Then experience to anyone who would listen, earning the nickname “American Bitch” from my classmates.
Turning 20, I was at university, and to make the move from teen to adulthood, I decided to embark on a sexual act which I had thus far not performed—anal sex. The countdown to my birthday, when the deed was due, was undertaken via group chat between my housemates, our back and forth filling my long retail job days in a t-shirt printing shop with unexpected hilarity. This killed the boredom and slightly staved off my rapidly escalating petty theft habit of creating full novelty football kits for our five-a-side team.
On birthday eve, in a hot tub, the act was consummated. I reported back to my mates about my disappointment. It never did make it into regular rotation.
By contrast, turning 30 was perspective shifting. I’d spent 29 in a panic after years in a straight-passing relationship. I felt stuck, consigned to narrow-minded suburbs, desperate to be in London, more than just for work, and keen to explore my sexuality in a more vivid, queer life.
I worried about not earning enough, my relationship suffered, and my children were small. A slightly delayed quarter-life crisis ensued. By the time 30 actually arrived, I was in a Barcelona apartment with my spouse and kids, wondering wtf would happen now that my youth was over.
When I answered a furious rapping on the door, a naked sex worker came in, crying and speaking neither Spanish nor English. It transpired that she had been working with some young men in the apartment next door, who stole her clothes and refused to pay her. I lent her something to wear and made her tea as she waited for the police to escort her back in there for her stuff. The police were disappointing, calling her a bitch and asking why I’d invite someone such as her into my space with children present. Despite this, eventually she was able to collect her things and leave. I felt foolish to have been hung up on such an arbitrary occurrence as aging when this woman was trying to survive in a strange and hostile country and encountering such layers of misogyny. I think of her often.
This past decade has been pretty momentous. That year we finally moved to East London and my career took off, then evolved from communications into DEI and into psychotherapy. My children are in their teens, and my relationship is solid, a world away from a decade ago. I have my own private therapy practice where I work intersectionally with predominantly LGBTQ+ and sex worker clients and am active in my local community.
If that sounds like a highlight reel, I want to stress that it came with a great deal of challenging work, interpersonal struggles, and several incidences of burnout. Mental health is an ongoing consideration.
As I stare down the barrel of 40, I know what a privilege it is to age. My best friend didn’t make it that far, passing away from a preventable (if she was listened to) cancer just days after her 39th birthday.
In terms of my sexuality and gender, they feel and are able to be fluid. The actions of cis men can be at times offputting to me, and I sometimes question if I still desire them, but currently it’s a yes.
I’ve used bisexual as a self-identifier since I was around 16 and I probably won’t change that now, although there are more inclusive options available which better suit my actual attraction which encompasses many gender identities. My personal style has become less femme; a combination of gender queerness and neurodivergence seems to now cause an aversion to skirts, dresses, and pretty patterns. I like my fashion soft, monochromatic, and a touch butch.
Since my friend passed, I’ve gotten back into tattoos and find the decoration of my body with colorful art delivered by needle to be a mindful and affirming process. In my body I feel congruent, better equipped to deal with the dysmorphia which has plagued me in cycles. My spirit is free. Leaving the corporate world around 18 months ago helped with this.
I am married to the bi-curious man I have been with since our teens. I feel internalised biphobia as I write this and hope this space is safe enough that I might exist in it without being somehow not enough or too much. We are not currently open, and I do not have a bi bucket list for the next 10 years, beyond open communication and making space for intimacy which respects our individual queer identities. In the present, it works well.
I once imagined a future in which my late best friend and I lived in some sort of “gals who are pals” commune as we aged, harmoniously spooning nightly, and having other visitors to bang and/or help with DIY by invitation only.
In my mind, I feel open to what is ahead, aware of the futility of assumptions for the next ten years.
Ellie Rowland-Callanan is a queer, LGBTQ+ affirmative therapist and writer based in East London, UK.