In one of the approximately one hundred thousand WhatsApp groups of friends I belong to (and which have so many women, especially those in their later years), we spent quite a while discussing an Instagram post announcing that youth is no longer an age, but an energy. The headline is brilliant, and at first glance, I bought it wholeheartedly. I myself am fifty-six years old and I feel energetically young. And I think about it every Monday, because I like to start the week with a little madness: going to the gym for the seven o'clock weightlifting class. I've always been told I have a lot of energy, and as you can see, it hasn't diminished with age. My hands hurt more (osteoarthritis), I complain from time to time about my hip (that's the trochanteric bursitis trying to come back), I need a mouthguard to avoid straining my jaw at night, I take five hundred supplements to prevent it... However, I feel full of life. And I told myself that perhaps the post was right, and I do belong to what they now call the new young, he midlife expanding.

I recently experienced a shocking situation with a fellow panelist on a television talk show. A woman had come into the studio and explained that she belongs to an association of mothers with children with disabilities. I was surprised that it was an association only for mothers, and during a break, I approached her to find out why. When this colleague realized my intentions, he uttered an ironic, "Go ahead and harass her," which left me speechless.

A paranormal phenomenon occurs at the gym: in most of the group classes, the men disappear. Like that old legend from the eighties, the Bermuda Triangle, that space that swallowed airplanes, the classes swallow the male beings. And I'm not talking about Zumba classes, although that happens too. I'm talking about classes where women lift weights and make them go up and down (body pump) or we do boxing and martial arts punches (body combat), or we do arm and chest strength training while hanging from straps (TXR), activities that in the collective imagination wouldn't be considered "women's activities," but have become so. Then there are classes where women are present, but they are a minority, like yoga, Pilates, and classes to activate the body in general. And there is equality only in CrossFit classes. And where are the men at the gym? Massively, in the weight room, doing individual exercises and lifting waaaaaay heavier weights than in the classes.

I confess that I only joined the ranks of active feminists less than ten years ago. And that until then I'd never even set foot in an 8M demonstration. What's more, as a young woman, I disliked the most active feminist activists. I've always considered myself a feminist. I almost spontaneously combusted with indignation when my parents argued that household chores could be different depending on whether you were a man or a woman. But to be lumped together with the feminists who called for the manios of March 8th, so little mainstream (and now I know how necessary) of my youth, well, no. Time had to pass for me to understand that a defense mechanism had been activated in me, one that is triggered in many women, consciously or unconsciously: not wanting to be identified with the problems. With the badasAnd I fell for it too.

If anything defines me, it's that I'm a bread lover. I'm passionate about that wonderful bread from the good bakeries and ovens in my neighborhood. My goodness, what a gift from heaven. When I go shopping, I can't help but eat it before I get home. I take a big bite and enjoy it with a pleasure I can't hide. People often look at me. It's not normal for a woman to express so freely that she enjoys eating almost orgasmically. At the table, I also don't hide the pleasure I get from eating. That I like it. That I'm hungry and I finish my plate. That I spit it out. That I ask for bread so I don't leave a single drop of that delicious sauce.

I have absolutely no desire to be twenty again. When I was twenty, I looked in the mirror and didn't see myself. I only focused on everything about my body and personality that I wanted to change. And although I already had the determination that has saved my ass so many times, it wasn't as honed or as well-focused. I wasn't as brave as I am now either. And I experienced far more fears and insecurities. Fewer than at fifteen, but a whole lot more than now. I wasn't really sure what I could do with my life, and I still had to fully believe that what I sensed was possible (working as a screenwriter and trying to write a children's book someday) could actually be real.

Many women are used to feeling like they're more evil than a plague. And not for killing kittens, or for embezzling public funds. No, no, no. Simply for getting on the nerves of someone who cuts in line at the bakery (she's getting angry again, what does she think she's doing!), for pointing out that it's absurd to have bikinis for girls with tops (she's stirring up trouble again, what does she think she's doing! Let's forget about it and fix things, and from now on, the person who messed up will say it (unfriendly, cruel, conceited, arrogant, insensitive, what does she think she's doing!). For asking for a vacation, a leave of absence, or sick leave, or for someone to do the grocery shopping, or for them to stop harassing us (selfish, unsupportive, dramatic, what does she think she's doing!). Or for getting a divorce or making any major life change (look, what does she think she's doing!).

My indispensable friend Imma Sust posted a video on Instagram explaining that she wasn't having a good time due to some of the symptoms of menopause. The video received a lot of comments, and what surprised us most was the number of women who had been suffering from certain health issues for years and years and the resignation with which they lived with them. Both Sust and I sought good medical advice to navigate menopause well, and it was shocking to read so many women who normalized feeling unwell. But I recently realized that no matter what I do or say, I'm not immune to a certain normalization of physical pain either.

I can't get it out of my head an interview in this same newspaper I spoke with an expert on ageism, and she explained that she hides her birthdate because it harms her. She knows what she's talking about. Ageism, especially against women, discriminates against us in every area. But I'm shocked by the act of hiding one's age. I've spent the last few years championing maturity, and it pisses me off to see age become another kind of closet. I'm convinced that being 56 is a blessing—the experience, the maturity, the freedom—and I'm very happy about it. But I'm no one to judge another woman who hides her age because discrimination exists. If I were an actress, for example, I wouldn't talk about my age so casually.

It's October 2025. We're in the 21st century, and at this point in life, there are still those who aren't clear on what feminism is. I get asked this often. The other day at lunch, someone who had just met me, knowing about my career, asked me the question as if to say, "Let's see how you do it." I was surprised by the tone, but it wasn't the first time I'd found myself in a similar situation, and I know it won't be the last. And in some Instagram posts, I'm also asked to explain, like in this video Imma Sust and I shared about the feminist section we do on Wednesdays at The afternoons of Catalunya Ràdio ("The proper ladies' tutorial") and in the comments they wrote: "It needs to be explained so it's understood!" And from time to time they also ask me with genuine curiosity: "But what do you consider feminism to be?" And, honestly, I'm amazed.

I spend a weekend in good company away from home, just being, sharing, going to the theater, reading, watching series, walking, letting myself be cared for, and I realize I've rested like never before. And if I'd been home, it wouldn't have been that way. I can't help but do everything I have pending: non-urgent but necessary household chores, writing, accounting, getting ahead on preparing for a future short trip, calling, meeting up, catching up on so many things... Do, do, do. And even though I learn to stop and rest, I realize I do it, but not enough. That I always have an endless list of to-dos in my head and that it's been like that my whole life. I even use a to-do list app so I don't forget anything. And I always have the same fantasy: that one day I'll open the app and it'll be empty of to-dos. That I'll have done everything and I'll be able to lie on the couch and be like those people who can sleep in the blanket without the anxiety of thinking about everything left to do. But it's never like that, of course.

My mother is eighty-six years old and lives in a nursing home. She's been suffering from severe dementia for years, and the woman who read Tolstoy has become a three-year-old girl playing with a doll. She no longer remembers who she is. She no longer remembers who I am. She no longer remembers that I write, or that I appear on TV or the radio, and she can no longer boast about it because she no longer knows what "boast" means. She also no longer remembers what she thought of Anna Karenina, that it was absurd to fall in love with Count Vronsky, with the man she should have been. So much for the bad news.

Activity 1: Outing. Take photos of the countryside together. The location doesn't matter. You can choose one of your shared apartments or a room and make it look like a paradise island, or you can choose a paradise island. But share vacation days. You'll get extra points for every laugh you let out when Antoniu, on duty, tells you: "And you'll have to put up with it, so many women together all these days?" Take photos of yourselves drinking daiquiris with or without alcohol. Send them fifty-three times "by mistake" to all these narrow-minded Antoniuses. Don't apologize.

Introduction. Welcome to the club of those who defend that two plus two equals four. Most of us women belong to this club, and have for a long time. We're glad you're here. The more men there are who embrace the word feminist, but not to tie and look good, but de facto, there will be fewer who embrace the word sexist, to flirt and... whatever. So, go ahead, and now I could tell you, sit down and get comfortable, but no. No one here is yours, we have jobs, and as you've already seen, we didn't come here to be comfortable either. And you'll say, dude, and what's the club's advantage? Infinite. Not looking like Elon Musk. Or Donald Trump. Or Margaret Thatcher, or Ayuso, or Abascal. Or Koldo and Ábalos. Or Dani Alves. Or Errejón. Or Bertín Osborne. Or Rubiales. Or Saúl Gordillo. And also being more free. If that's not enough, go to the complementary activity you'll find at the end.

Activity 1: calligraphy. Take a blank sheet of paper. Copy the phrase: "If you're not a feminist, you're a sexist" a hundred times. The phrase isn't mine, it's from the late Itziar Castro. Copy it until it's integrated. No, dear, there's no middle ground. No. There's no middle ground. There's no middle ground, I tell you. Damn it. I know, it sounds awful when you say it like that. And you'd make me feel a little sorry for that puzzled expression on my face that clearly indicates you don't like the word. feminist nor the word sexist If it weren't for the fact that the macho thing about penis doesn't give me a drop.

Cristina is a screenwriter, playwright, and theater director who lives in the Guinardó neighborhood of Barcelona with her partner, Aniol, who works in the field of leisure education. Today I was invited to dinner with Beren and Adela, her children, aged ten and thirteen respectively. Cristina and I work together on the script team for As if it were yesterday, Although we have known each other since 2008 when we met while working at The heart of the city.

Activity 1. MindfulnessTake a mental vacation. Don't think about what they'll want for dinner today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after. Don't think about the school supply list that only you (ehem) have thought about. Don't think about whether you're thin or fat. Don't think about whether you should dye your hair white because it's more natural and there's no need to be ashamed, or whether you should leave it white so you can dye it, you creep. Don't think about whether you're too surly or too phlegmy. And don't think about how you want to kill them all every time they tell you you're too surly or too phlegmy. Don't think that the great girl you see reflected in the mirror should calm down, pretend, pretend she's not so happy or so angry, or so happy about this and so angry about that. Don't think about which face is best to express the neutral midpoint between being happy and angry in the right way so that no one (male) feels upset. Don't think about what you're going to wear today because you have to go to that place with those stupid, Neanderthal freaks. Don't think about whether your tight skirt shows your G-string and what they'll say and what you're going to do and what the fuck it all is. Don't think about whether the outfit you're wearing makes you look like a nun and what they'll say and what you're going to do and what the fuck it all is. Don't think you should go more extreme, more discreet, more daring, more invisible.

Activity 1. The beach. Do topless. Try it if you've never done it before. Seriously. Do it even if you think your breasts are saggy, small, flat, fat, ugly. The day you do it, you'll see that once you've taken off your bikini top, oh, what a coincidence, many women follow you. You'll feel like a union leader, but a good one, not one of those union leaders who don't see the point of striking on March 8th... Besides, in many public pools, it was prohibited to do so. topless until recently and it's quite funny to see the scared faces of so many users when you do.

Activity 1. Relaxation. Take a vacation. Really. If you're going with someone, especially if it's your male partner and you've been mentally overwhelmed for the past few months because he's been playing dumb and Finnish and you've put everything on your shoulders, dedicate yourself to supervising where you're going, period. And if you don't like the suggestion, stare at him, say, "I don't like it, I want to go to such and such a place, look it up, and tell me."

A few weeks ago I attended the Xona Show, a theatrical performance by Marta Pontnou and Laura Fa in support of powerful women with a sense of humor. And I did it wearing a stunning gold dress. My back was bare, and instead of wearing one of those bras that look like they were designed by NASA to hide them, or sticking adhesive circles on my breasts, I chose to wear nothing. And of course, my nipples were visible, which for many people is terrible, terrible. Absolutely terrible. But there, surrounded by powerful and wonderful women, I was not at all shy about declaring that in my world, unashamed nipples (which is to say, all of them) are welcome. Everyone thought it was perfect, and we started talking about the absurdity of hiding nipples and preventing them from showing under clothing. Some of these women admitted that under their T-shirts and tight bodysuits, they wore adhesive strips that only serve to cover the nipples, and that it made no sense at all. Nipples are part of our body, of our anatomy, and masking them under stickers, stiff fabrics, and other traps just to hide them sends the message that those inches of skin are absolutely undignified.