Image: Frank Ockenfels/AMC/SFD Media

The women of Mad Men still haunt us, intrigue us, infuriate us—and mirror us. Even now, a decade later.

While The Sopranos gave us gangsters and Game of Thrones gave us dragons, Mad Men gave us something far more dangerous: Women who dared to want more. They worked in offices, not war zones—but their battles were just as brutal.

They were complex—flawed, rebellious, submissive. Real. They reminded us of our mothers, many of whom came of age in the decade the show covered, from 1960-1970. More importantly, they reminded us of ourselves.

While women have made strides in the workplace—and society—since then, as they say in advertising, “Some things never change.”

Image: Justina Mintz/AMC – Betty (January Jones) Season 7 – Episode 10

We all know these women. At times, we’ve been them ourselves.

Betty (January Jones), the first wife of the show’s anti-hero, Don Draper, was a gorgeous blonde ice princess with Grace Kelly poise. Her husband was her whole world, and when she could no longer deny his chronic infidelities, it was like a grenade had been tossed into her picture-perfect home.

When Betty reached her breaking point and lashed out at Don over his cheating—“I’m just telling you I know”—it was a rare moment of total honesty for a woman whose life was built around appearances.

Viewers often saw a shallow woman whose only currency was her looks. And a cold mom—few could forget that touchstone moment when her young daughter put a dry cleaning bag over her head and Betty yelled at her, not for doing something dangerous, but for leaving her dress on the floor.

But while it’s easy to criticize Betty for her vanity, anyone who has ever known the pain of a cheating spouse could relate on a deeply emotional level. When she lost her dream marriage, she lost the essence of who she was. Watching Betty struggling, paralyzed, unable even to change out of her party dress after she confronts Don—feels eerily familiar. It’s every woman after her first big heartbreak. We’ve comforted friends who have gone through this, and we’ve been comforted ourselves.

Image: Michael Yarish/AMC – Joan (Christina Hendricks) Season 7B – Episode 10

We’ve all known a Joan (Christina Hendricks)—the super-sexy, smart office manager at Don’s ad agency—and envied her. Her smoldering bombshell looks ensure she’ll never lack for male attention—“My mother raised me to be admired,” she says in one episode—but it also means she’ll never be taken seriously, as a potential wife or as a real asset to the firm.

After her marriage to a vain, incompetent doctor falls apart, she finds herself alone and relying on the very mother who drives her crazy to help raise her son. When she tries a go-for-broke gambit to secure a partnership stake at the ad agency—sleeping with a vile client—it’s a pyrrhic victory. She played the game, gave in, and still lost.

Like Joan, many of us still have to choose between being admired and being respected. We’ve been blamed for our sexuality while simultaneously still expected to trade our bodies for access, and this discomfort plays out on the screen as beauty and brains collide in a world that’s all too familiar.

Image: James Minchin III/AMC – Peggy (Elisabeth Moss) Season 7B – Episode 8

Young, eager, and more independent than either Betty or Joan, Peggy (Elisabeth Moss) isn’t afraid to compete professionally with the men, at times at the price of her personal life. Her ambition and her ideas often propelled Don and the agency forward.

The rule-follower who tried to have it all, one pitch at a time, led to her meteoric rise through the ranks, sure. But was the solitude worth the seat at the table? Single throughout the series, Peggy portrays every woman who trades cocktails for conference rooms, who looks for validation from coworkers in a way that’s lacking in their personal life, and who is still quietly doing the heavy lift for men—for less credit.

Image: Courtesy of AMC – Peggy (Elisabeth Moss) Season 7B – Episode 7B

Watching these women, you realize that today, we’re only supposed to yearn for workplace success. These days, we’re told success is simple. Ditch the man, do it all. But the tradeoffs? We’re not supposed to talk about those. If the guy gives you trouble, dump him; have kids on your own, raise them on your own—it’s all supposed to be simple. But it’s not—as I found out with my own mom.

A single mother, she was a secretary and a legendarily fast typist in the early ‘60s in Manhattan, who became a successful editor by the end of the decade. But all she ever said to me about work was to brush up on my typing speed. If I felt slighted by not being invited to a meeting with an important visitor to the office or if I expressed frustration at having to rush home to take care of my child, she shrugged it off.

But when we watched Mad Men together, after she was long retired, she began talking to me in a different way than she ever had before.

She was expected to be a Betty. She had her Joan moments too, juggling me and her job. And like Peggy, her closest bonds came from work. It was these relationships that were the most nurturing for her. She cared intensely about her work, often bringing it home with her.

What really changed between us as we watched the show’s finale was that she told me about her struggles. About keeping away from a boss who sexually harassed her friends, about women disappearing to give birth or having dangerous, illegal abortions. About feeling pain when she wasn’t invited to meet important people. And about her pride at being good at her job, which was especially hard for her to own.

I’ve since learned I’m not alone. Mad Men sparked conversations between mothers and daughters that had long been off limits. The show didn’t just reflect our mothers’ generation—it helped us see our own lives in sharper focus. It gave language to struggles we hadn’t always been able to name. That’s why we still talk about them. We love them. We love to hate them. Because they weren’t just characters on a screen. They were us, in pencil skirts and pearls. They still are.

Mad Men never hit harder than when it reflected something we’d felt but never said out loud. In one of its most unforgettable scenes, Don gives a pitch for the Kodak carousel, a device that lets users project one slide after another. “This device isn’t a spaceship,” he says. “It’s a time machine. It goes backwards, and forwards … it takes us to a place where we ache to go again.”

We don’t long for the sexism—but we deserve the honesty.

The post Why the Women of Mad Men Still Matter: Power Moves and Pencil Skirts appeared first on PROVOKEDmagazine.

Image: Sara Maese

I always thought retirement would feel like a celebration. A party at Avra, a Cartier watch I bought for myself, and a dirty martini before noon—served icy cold and unapologetic, just how I like it. I spent 15 years in the trenches building my last business. Just me, a laptop, and way too many late nights squinting at spreadsheets. I hung out my shingle as an Educational Consultant, taught myself what I didn’t know (which was a lot), and somehow built a brand that reached families all over the world.

But here’s the part I can’t dress up—I loved the work. Not in the vague, “it was fulfilling” way printed in retirement brochures, but in the real high-stakes, heart-on-the-line way. I helped teenagers realize their dreams. I helped anxious parents breathe as I held their hands through the complexities and unfair rules of elite college admissions. I made a difference, and I knew it.

Fifteen years, a global pandemic, the Varsity Blues scandal, and the kind of burnout that makes your bones ache—and I was done. Or so I thought. I turned 60 and decided it was time. Time to sell the business. Time to stop offering emergency essay edits at 11:47 p.m. Time to stop solving crises that weren’t mine to carry.

I pictured myself sleeping in. Reading paperbacks in the afternoon. Learning how to make a decent shakshuka.

But instead of relief, I felt something else creeping in. Guilt. Heavy and quiet, like a fog that followed me around my house.

That’s when I met Pamela Balas on Facebook, in one of those women-over-50 groups where someone is always asking about what not to wear or walking solo across Portugal. Someone had posted, “What are you doing after retirement?” A gob-smacking 5,000 women replied. I read every single comment like it was a lifeline. There were travel plans and Marie Kondo’d closets—but alongside all that, there were grimmer comments. Guilt. Confusion. The kind of grief you don’t post about.

Pamela’s comment stood out. It was smart and honest in a way that made me sit up straighter. I reached out. We talked. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was failing retirement—I felt like I was acknowledging my own truth.

You think it’ll feel like freedom. But I kept thinking … what about all the families? All the students? I wasn’t just running a business. I was helping kids land in the right schools, receive financial aid, prep for interviews, find their way. That work pulled at me, even after I walked away. It still does.

Pamela felt it too. She spent decades in public education as a teacher, reading specialist, and principal. Her whole professional identity was built on being needed. In charge. Useful. When she retired, she didn’t fall apart. She opened a neighborhood coffee shop and kept moving. But the guilt found her later.

“It wasn’t until we sold the coffee shop, five years after I left my principalship, that I started feeling it,” she told me. “I missed the curriculum conversations. I missed being in it. It caught me off guard.”

At first, she still got calls. People asking for her advice, wanting her opinion. She always helped. But after every call, she’d hang up and feel the nagging ache. That flicker of being on the outside looking in. “I was used to being needed,” she said. “And then—it just stopped.”

Her story mirrored mine. The letting go wasn’t about time—it was about identity. Mine. You don’t just drop off decades of purpose like a bag of clothes at Goodwill. You carry it with you, even though you try damn hard not to.

For so many of us, work isn’t just what we do. It’s who we are. We build our lives around being useful and reliable. We don’t just tolerate the chaos—we sort of worship it. Women especially are wired to be the steady one. The go-to when things start to unravel.

So when the calendar clears, and the phone goes quiet, it doesn’t just feel empty. It feels like a bad dream where no one’s looking for you anymore.

And let’s be honest … retirement guilt isn’t just emotional, it’s cultural. We live in a world that says if you’re not busy, you’re not valuable. If you’re not producing something, you’re wasting potential. That’s what pulls at you—the sense that you’ve become invisible by doing the one thing you were told to look forward to.

Not every profession feels this equally. But here’s where it hits hardest:

Educators. Teachers, professors, administrators—anyone who’s spent a career shaping the next generation. You don’t clock out of that kind of relationship.

Healthcare workers. Doctors, nurses, caregivers—when your job has literally kept people alive, stepping back can feel like betrayal, or worse, irresponsible.

First responders and military. Roles where identity, mission, and responsibility are all tangled together. The exit ramp doesn’t feel clean.

Clergy and social workers. When your purpose is helping others stay upright, who helps when you stop?

Entrepreneurs and small business owners. Especially those of us who built something from nothing. We didn’t just create a job. We created an identity. Letting go of it feels like erasing part of ourselves.

This isn’t just a transition. It’s an existential shift.

Pamela felt it in waves. “When I retired, it wasn’t just about leaving the job,” she said. “It was stepping away from a whole network. Students, teachers, parents. Even the regulars at our coffee shop.” The guilt didn’t hit right away. It came later—after the applause stopped. When the inbox stayed empty and her name stopped coming up in meetings. That’s when the hard questions started whispering: Did I leave too soon? Did I give up too much?

Eventually, she found her way forward. But it didn’t happen by accident. It took intention. And it took guts.

These aren’t solutions, but they might help. Here are some of the ideas I clung to when the bottom dropped out.

Reinvention Isn’t a Buzzword. It’s a Lifeline.

Build a Bridge, Not a Void

Keep Sharing What You Know

Accept the Identity Shift—Then Actively Shape It

You Don’t Need a Permission Slip

Let What Pulls at You Be Something New

When I started PROVOKED, I thought I needed a sign. Some stamp of approval. A voice outside of me saying, “Go ahead. It’s your turn now.” I did the classic version of retirement—it lasted four years. And for me, that was a good run. But then the pull came back. Not to build what I had before but to build something different. To rebrand my life on my terms, with fresh grit and an intoxicating energy.

Here’s the truth.

You don’t have to earn the right to rest. You already did.

If you’re standing at the edge of what comes next, holding guilt in one hand and freedom in the other—put the guilt down. Let what’s pulling at you be something new. Something beautiful. Something entirely yours.

And if this hits close to home, I’d love to hear your story—or what’s still pulling at you.

The post Retirement Guilt Is Real: Why It Hurts So Much—and What to Do About It appeared first on PROVOKED by susan.

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How long have you been scrolling before landing here? Have you been ignoring family members and avoiding the dishes in the sink while slumping in comfy sweats, praying your phone battery survives just one more TikTok? If your right thumb has a cramp from relentless scrolling, or you clicked “What happens when you eat kimchi every day?” with no cares in the world—congrats, you might have Brain Rot.

In 2024, Oxford University Press declared Brain Rot its Word of the Year. Yes, I know it’s two words. But “Euphemism of the Year” doesn’t hit the same. Our friends at Oxford define Brain Rot as “the impact of consuming excessive amounts of low-quality online content, especially on social media.” Fitting, isn’t it? I appreciate the irony—which my editor (that’s me) pointed out—that it’s quite meta to be writing about Brain Rot from online content in an online magazine … a bit like the Chick-fil-A ads with cows begging “Eat Mor Chikin.” I can only hope this article rises above the low-nutrient abyss. Let me know in the comments. Seriously, I need validation.

Is Brain Rot here to stay or just another trend of the year, doomed to be on the bookshelf of history alongside Brat Summer and Social Distancing? While the term may not last long enough to be discussed at next year’s Thanksgiving table, the concept underlying Brain Rot has been a permanent feature of our communication. Brain Rot sounds like a 2024 headline, but it’s not new. Not even close. Over 150 years ago, Thoreau warned in Walden about society’s obsession with oversimplifying complex ideas. Fast-forward, and psychologists Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky gave us “thinking fast and slow”—their term for how we process information. Thinking fast is our default: reactive, simplified, easy. Thinking slow? Exhausting, deliberate, and hard. Nobody goes there willingly.

So maybe the word of the year isn’t a trend. Perhaps it’s baked into our nature.

Is Brain Rot unique to 2024, or is it just repackaging old news in a new wrapper? Let’s time-travel to my youth. Media like Reader’s Digest served up tidy summaries of complex topics—a kind of pre-internet Brain Rot. Quaint variety shows like Carol Burnett and Hee-Haw delivered spoon-fed content as easily digestible as your mom’s green Jell-O mold. But at least you had to physically turn the TV on and off. These were an easy replacement for more cognitively challenging media of a bygone era: reading Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice by candlelight.

Today? The algorithm does the work. Stand by for a deluge of semi-related and equally vapid content. The algorithm will see you now. It knows you clicked on “Three New Ways to Buckle Your Bra in 2024” or “Socks with Sandals: My Father’s Descent into Fashion Hell.” Next thing you know, you’re caught in a tsunami of barely related, mind-numbing content cancelling out any cognitive gains from finishing Saturday’s New York Times’ crossword. And resistance is futile.

Brain rot has a more insidious form—when the information blasted at us through the Nerf Gun of social media tells us what to feel and think about important issues that don’t have easy answers. The AI world is likely set to exacerbate the Brain Rot as the AI learns more about what engages you and creates new content tailored to deliver that warm breeze of confirmation bias. Algorithms feed us carefully curated content, “Yes, dear reader, you’re absolutely right,” the AI whispers. And just like that, you’re on the Slip ‘N Slide straight to the corner of the internet where everyone agrees with you. At best, it’s subtle manipulation. At worst, it’s the slow, quiet death of free thinking.

Back in the Middle Ages of my life—circa 1991, when Husband still had hair—we called it time-suck. You’d zone out watching Family Feud, forget to pick up the kids, and realize dinner was still in the freezer. Although these time-suck activities were one-way broadcasts from Sally Jessy’s mouth to your ears, they were a precursor of today’s social media algorithms on infinite scroll—with the same performance metric: How much time did you watch the show and its product placements and advertisements, and how did the purveyors of media monetize your eyeballs?

The dangerous difference? Today’s Brain Rot is endless, interactive, and monetized. Remember: If you’re not paying for the product, you are the product.

Is Brain Rot generational or gendered? I think the doom scrolling and excessive screen time hit women harder. Many women seek refuge and a break from their relentless schedules. Some are obsessed with influencers or their Cool Women Facebook groups, simultaneously chasing the perfect wrinkle cream. Meanwhile, I’m over here battling Pottery Barn urges courtesy of Friends’ infamous Apothecary Table episode (paid product placement, anyone?). A quick scan of Husband’s weekend habits says his Brain Rot is real too, but it just has different letters: NFL, NBA, MLB, NHL. But his screen time doesn’t come close to mine.

And our kids? They like to think they’ve invented everything—including Brain Rot. They gorge on social media with a stamina I can only admire.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Maybe I’ve nudged you to think slowly about Brain Rot—how it creeps in, how it distracts, why it is the word of the year, and what it costs. If so, let me know in the comments. And if not? Well, here’s a cute cat video for your troubles.

Photo Credit: NON SEQUITUR © Wiley Ink, Inc.. Dist. By ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

The post Brain Rot: Word of the Year or Scrolling Yourself Stupid? appeared first on PROVOKEDmagazine.

Image: Bev Grant/Getty Images

What’s with all the panic texts and doom scrolling? Aren’t we the same generation that marched for Women’s Lib and hurled mops, high heels, and bras into a freedom trash can? So why are we now clutching our pearls like everything’s falling apart?

Let’s break this down because your anxiety isn’t just about you. It’s contagious. It’s infecting your kids, your grandkids, and probably your book club. It’s time to unpack this and figure out how to stop passing all this worry on to the next generation.

Your anxiety has roots, and they’re buried in the Silent Generation—the stoic, tight-lipped women who raised you. (I realize that’s a generalization, but lean into this with me for a moment.) These were the ladies who survived wars, ration books, and the crushing weight of “duty.” They didn’t talk about their feelings; they ironed them into crisp pleats and kept their emotions—and a whole lot of other things—to themselves.

My mom carried a constant undercurrent of tension. My dad worked unconventional hours, leaving her to juggle homemaking, child-rearing, and managing her own survival. She shouldered her responsibilities heavily, with frustration often bubbling to the surface. Her lows were sharp and, at times, hurtful. She didn’t show much love or empathy outwardly; she was stuck in survival mode. While I didn’t inherit her anger issues, I certainly picked up some adjacent neuroses that I now telescope onto my own kids, particularly my daughter.

Growing up during the Cold War didn’t help. Anxiety was baked into my childhood. Duck-and-cover drills, endless what-ifs, and existential dread about whether I’d even live to finish Little House on the Prairie left a mark. By high school, everything—from driver’s ed to attending a concert with friends—was riddled with a thousand questions. It’s no wonder I avoid making an unprotected left turn.

I was on TikTok recently and watched a millennial lament about how her Boomer mother’s anxiety had completely amped up her own anxiety as a new mom. I watched the video and thought, “OMG. Am I doing this to my daughter?” While she doesn’t yet have children, I’m self-aware (most of the time) enough to realize that I occasionally try to “remote-control” her life.

Scrolling Reddit boards, I see that Boomer moms often get labeled as judgmental, passive-aggressive nags who struggle with boundaries. Ladies, this isn’t a good look.

I started informally tracking my conversations with my daughter to better understand my complicity. The verdict? I sound like this far too often:

• “Make sure you check ______________!”

• “Be careful you don’t ______________!”

• “Why did you ______________?”

Woof. How negative do I sound? It’s a wonder—and a testament to her patience—that she hasn’t just canceled me yet. Stepping back, I sound like a complete lunatic—or, at best, a real pain in the ass. But I don’t think this comes from mistrust, as many millennials believe.

When I nag the hell out of my daughter and play 20 questions before any trip, my concern has far less to do with mistrust and everything to do with my overreaching—borderline neurotic—need to keep her safe. Remember: I catastrophize.

I wonder if this is a mother-daughter thing, or do mothers of sons experience it too? I know I don’t grill my son anywhere near as much as I do my daughter. What’s wrong with me? I hear myself say out loud, “Come on, Susan, WTF?”

Anxiety isn’t just a Boomer trait; it’s an heirloom we’ve unintentionally passed down. Helicopter parenting? Check. Guilt-tripping our 30-something for not calling enough? Check. Obsessively texting them headlines about interest rates, the dangers of plastic cutting boards, and the fact that cancers are on the rise among 30 year olds? Triple check. It’s not intentional, but we’re training the next generation to be as anxious as we are.

Remember the 1970s? Bell bottoms, Gloria Steinem, and the glorious promise that we could “have it all”? Yeah, that promise came with a price tag: perfectionism. We were told to smash glass ceilings, keep a perfect home, have a thriving career, and raise kids who’d get into Ivy League schools. Boom. I managed to check all those boxes. But at what cost? Was I career-focused enough? Mom enough? Sexy enough? Feminist enough? Strong enough? Tough enough? Enough enough? The pressure to perform at 110% percent in every damn area of our life hasn’t been particularly easy or liberating. Xanax, anyone?

If the Silent Generation gave us stoicism, feminism gave us perfectionism, and consumerism delivered the anxiety trifecta. Boomers were the first generation spoon-fed glossy ads and catalogs promising that happiness could be bought. Yuppie reporting for duty. A flashy car, a bigger house, a carat-plus diamond ring—because nothing says “I love you” like lifelong debt. Keeping up with the Joneses morphed into keeping up with the Kardashians. Social media feeds the anxiety at every turn.

Oh, and then there’s the R-word. Retirement. I’m not too fond of that word because it sounds like we’ve been shipped off to a knitting circle in Boca Raton. After decades of being defined by our job title, our role as a mom, or whatever social badges we’ve collected, we’re now staring into the abyss of “Who am I if I’m not doing something?”

The world is moving faster than ever. Post-pandemic pressures, economic fears, and constant bad news make it easy to cling to old habits of catastrophizing. But this moment also gives us a chance to pause, reflect, and redefine what aging looks like. Let’s break the cycle.

Here’s the thing: Your anxiety isn’t inevitable. It’s a deeply ingrained habit, sure, but a habit nonetheless. And habits can be broken. Want to stop freaking out over everything, especially your adult children’s life choices? Start with these truths:

• You don’t control the world. Newsflash: Worrying doesn’t prevent disasters. It just robs you of joy.

• Let your kids live their lives. They don’t need your running commentary on the housing market or their Tinder choices.

Take a step back.

Reclaim joy.

Remember hobbies?

Friends?

Learn how to self-soothe.

Anxiety thrives in the vacuum of purpose, so fill it with stuff that makes you happy. Model calmness. Want to help your kids and grandkids? Show them how to navigate uncertainty with grace instead of a meltdown.

You’ve done the career thing, the parenting thing, the activist thing. Now, it’s time to do you. Anxiety doesn’t have to be your legacy. Let’s turn this around.

Reclaim your joy. Trust your kids. And when anxiety creeps in, ask yourself: “Is this the hill I want to die on?” Probably not. So, choose calm. Choose trust. I sure as hell am going to try.

And remember: You’ve got this, and so do they.

Have your kids ever called you out for being “that mom”? Did they have a point, or did you brush it off?

The post Why Are Boomer Moms So Damn Anxious? appeared first on PROVOKEDmagazine.

Image: Roman R / ShutterStock

Winter, Moscow, 2001. The room is smoky and cold. I push my chips all in. After knocking out nearly 100 professional poker players, I’ve made it to the final table. I’ve been patiently waiting for the right hand to make my move, watching my chip stack dwindle to almost nothing. It’s now or never. I glance across the table at him. He checks his cards, fidgets with his chips, and calls my bet. At that moment, I know I’ve got him.

Professional poker isn’t about luck; it’s about control. I should know. I played professional poker.

For women, poker offers something uniquely subversive. It’s a space where assumptions are currency, and being underestimated will provide an advantage. It’s a test of patience, a masterclass in reading people, and, yes, a tool for women who’ve spent their lives underestimated. Let them think you’re just there for the cocktails. And when you take all their chips, they won’t see it coming.

Poker isn’t just a game—it’s a test of mental strength, discipline, and a lesson in calculated risk. It teaches you to manage your nerves, bet big, and—most importantly—know when to fold. Poker has taught me so much about navigating life and my relationships.

In my early 40s, I found myself living in Moscow, Russia, untethered and trying to navigate life after leaving a high-stakes Disney career. The expat wife scene offered little more than dull small talk about cars, drivers, and school schedules—none of which lit me up. I needed something sharper—something that felt alive.

Enter Poker John, an Aussie who hosted private poker games in smoky, velvet-walled rooms filled with vodka-swilling expats and sharp Russian players. I felt out of place the moment I walked into that world, which was precisely why I stayed. What started as a distraction became a calling. I wasn’t just playing; I was winning. And every time a man at the table underestimated me, I let him.

Poker isn’t about the cards but the person across the table. And most of the time, those players are men. A raised eyebrow, a hesitation, a swirl of a drink—it all matters.

Since birth, women have been trained to read men and their behaviors. Experts at decoding non-verbal cues, we pick up on subtleties, notice patterns, and hear what goes unsaid. Over time, we’ve cultivated emotional intelligence that outpaces men’s, sharpening our ability to regulate emotions (most of the time), navigate relationships, and remain self-aware. We’ve seen enough to know what matters and are no longer here for the BS. This isn’t some easy-to-get skillset—it’s hard-earned wisdom acquired through decades of showing up and reading between the lines. As we lean into it, these skills become crucial assets.

In poker, the best hands are the ones you don’t play. Think about how this might play out in life? I might play three hands per hour during four hours of game time. That’s a lot of waiting. Waiting is the move no one respects until it’s too late. Desperate to act and prove themselves, men never see the slow play coming.

Patience isn’t passive; it’s strategic. It’s about timing—knowing when to fold, watch, and strike. Poker taught me that waiting isn’t wasting time; it’s building power.

Lena Evans, a world champion poker player, calls poker a “sport of the mind.” Like me, she left a high-powered career for what began as a fun distraction. Today, she’s a top-tier player and an advocate for women in poker, proving that patience isn’t just a virtue—it’s an edge.

By all accounts, poker is a man’s world. The cigar smoke, the chest-thumping bravado, and the secret handshake are all designed to make women feel unwelcome. But here’s the kicker: Men think that all that swagger gives them an edge. It doesn’t. It’s what makes them easy to take down.

The game itself doesn’t discriminate between women and men, but the patriarchy running the show sure does. Women make up less than six percent of poker players, which stinks of the same exclusion we see in boardrooms and leadership roles. The boy’s club still decides who gets a seat at the table, whether it’s poker or power. And the irony? The very traits men wear like armor—aggression, cockiness, ego—are the ones that make them sloppy players.

Women? We observe. We calculate. Men swing big and loud, puffing themselves up with bluffs and bluster. Studies show that men bluff more often, but women? We know when to own the silence. That’s why, when women do sit at the table, we don’t just play—we thrive.

For me, poker wasn’t just about the cards; it was about claiming a seat where no one expected me. Every time I cashed in against someone who underestimated me, it wasn’t just a victory—it was proof. The dynamics shift the moment you stop waiting for permission to belong.

Every poker hand is a gamble, but it’s never accidental. Poker is math, psychology, and observation—not luck. It’s about making the best move with incomplete information.

Sometimes, you have no choice but to guess and accept the consequences without hating yourself. You must think clearly about your choices—pass, check, raise, or go all in. I learned to embrace risk in Moscow and my new life. Whether I’m bluffing at the table or making a life decision, I calculate the odds, trust my gut, and go all in when the moment feels right. Risks aren’t reckless when they’re deliberate.

Active listening is an underrated skill, especially in a world that can’t stop talking. We love to fill silences with chatter, racing to make our points without pausing to hear what’s said. In a world that can’t stop talking, poker taught me to shut up and listen—not just to words but to pauses, tone, and what’s left unsaid.

It’s catching subtle shifts at the table: a glance that lingers too long or a hesitant bet. The less you talk, the more you learn. Silence isn’t passive—it’s influence.

The most brutal move in poker and life is walking away. Folding a hand can feel like a failure, but it’s often the smartest play. There have been hands I loved—pairs of aces or kings—that I had to let go. The cards didn’t work for me. Just like some relationships or business, knowing when to cut your losses is a winning strategy. Walking away isn’t weakness; it’s wisdom.

Ladies, it’s time to trade in your mahjong tiles and bingo cards—poker is calling. Gather your girls, pop some Prosecco, and schedule a poker night. Why? Because poker is a mental boot camp disguised as fun.

If you don’t know where to start, check out Erin Lydon and her team at Poker Power. They’re on a mission to teach one million women to play poker, offering lessons in confidence, strategy, and empowerment.

For me, poker became a sport. Like all professional sports, playing at an elite level didn’t happen overnight—it took hundreds of hours of practice and plenty of hard losses. But the payoff? A life lesson in patience, calculated risk-taking, and unapologetic self-belief.

Would I play professionally again? Who knows. Life is full of tables, and the real skill isn’t just playing the cards you’re dealt—it’s choosing where to sit.

And when I do sit down, I’m all in.

What “seat at the table” have you been waiting for? And what’s stopping you from taking it?

The post All In: What Playing Professional Poker Taught Me About Life appeared first on PROVOKEDmagazine.

Image: SFD Media LLC

Why do we gravitate toward the simple when life feels overwhelmingly complex? Perhaps it’s because the simple reminds us of what’s essential. Take Winnie the Pooh and Wordle—two cultural phenomena that, at first glance, couldn’t be more different. One is a storybook bear navigating honey pots and friendships; the other, a five-letter word puzzle testing your wits over coffee. Yet, both tap into something profoundly universal: our need for grounding rituals, shared experiences, and the pursuit of small, satisfying wins.

But here’s the twist: Neither of these creations was designed for the kind of virality they’ve achieved. In A.A. Milne’s time, the word “viral” referred strictly to diseases—certainly not a cultural benchmark. Milne wasn’t angling for fame when he wrote Winnie the Pooh. He was crafting stories for his son, pure and simple. And though Josh Wardle, a century later, lived in a world where virality was a known phenomenon, his creation of Wordle wasn’t a bid for mass appeal. It was a love token for his partner, Palak, during the pandemic.

So how did these quiet, heartfelt gestures become global sensations? And in a world where virality now drives so much creative intent, does their origin story hold a mirror to our own need for validation?

“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart,” Pooh once said. It’s a truth that echoes in both his story and Wordle’s.

In 1926, Milne wrote Winnie the Pooh as an ode to his son’s childhood—stories steeped in love and whimsy, inspired by stuffed animals and quiet moments in the English countryside. Fast forward to 2021, when Wardle created Wordle for Palak as a daily puzzle to bring her joy during lockdown. Neither Milne nor Wardle envisioned their creations reaching beyond their intended audiences, and perhaps that’s why they resonate so deeply.

There’s something refreshing, even radical, about creating for the sake of connection rather than applause. Can we still do that? Or has the pressure to go viral rewired our motives?

How’s that for a clickbait title? No, I’m not actually going to unpack the patriarchy here, though inevitable academic studies do try. Some claim Kanga, the sole female character in Milne’s stories, represents domestic servitude under male hegemony—other’s accuse Owl of mansplaining!

But even if these suggestions feel overblown, they tap into something worth exploring. Both Pooh’s stories and Wordle have a simplicity that resonates deeply with women of a certain age—those of us juggling careers, caregiving, and the incessant demands of everyday life. In these spaces, where meaning is found during quiet moments and rituals reign, we reclaim time for ourselves.

Pooh’s stories unfold with gentle predictability: exploring the Hundred Acre Wood, solving small dilemmas, leaning on friends. Similarly, Wordle offers a steady rhythm: coffee, puzzle, results, repeat. Yet even these rituals, quiet as they are, now carry the weight of sharing.

Is it enough to solve the puzzle, or do we only feel satisfied once we’ve posted the results? For women, who often bear the social labor of connection, this pressure to perform even during our downtime can feel oddly familiar. Does solving Wordle become less about personal enjoyment and more about participating in a digital ritual of validation?

Statistically, some studies show that two out of three Wordle players in the U.S. are women, and over a third of U.S. people over age 35 have played it and like it. In a study by YourDictionary, women were slightly better than men at completing the five-letter puzzle. Neither of these stats mean much to me, but what does is the once-a-day feature of the puzzle. Losing does not compel me to mash the “play again” button in a recursive attempt to win just one time before I quit. Rather, it puts us (or at least the three women I asked) in a state of a mindful present, where each day’s puzzle stands on its own and today’s loss will be forgotten tomorrow in the mists of time (although the NYT attempts to appeal to the more competitive among us by reporting our “current streak.”)

In the same way, our friends in the Hundred Acre Wood find closure in each of life’s chapters. Whether dreaming of Heffalumps that never actually steal their honey, or Woozle footprints that turn out to be their own, Pooh and his friends don’t have recurring villains or unresolved ambiguous conflicts. This is exactly the opposite of the frequently male-centric “hero’s journey” in Joseph Campbell’s framing of literature; rather, a small problem turns out to be a non-problem and by the end of the chapter they can move on. Try reading one chapter of Winnie the Pooh or House at Pooh Corner, put down the book, and read another chapter in any order the next day. Yesterday’s problem, like yesterday’s Wordle, doesn’t affect me today.

Milne and Wardle operated from a place of purpose, not performance. For Milne, there was no concept of “going viral”; the idea that one’s work could ripple across the globe in seconds would have been inconceivable. For Wardle, virality was very much part of the zeitgeist, but he wasn’t chasing it. In fact, the game’s original name—Mr. Bugs’ Wordy Nugz—is proof enough that mass appeal wasn’t on his radar. The goal wasn’t fame but joy. Pure, simple, and specific.

Compare that to today, when virality feels like the holy grail of creative output. How many of us create something with the hope that it “blows up,” that it’s shared, liked, and validated by strangers? And how often does that pressure dilute the authenticity of what we make?

Milne and Wardle remind us that sometimes, the best things are born when we’re not trying to impress anyone. What might you create if no one but one person were meant to see it?

What truly binds Winnie the Pooh and Wordle is their ability to connect us. Pooh’s adventures are grounded in friendship and community, while Wordle creates its own kind of digital following. Families debate strategies, coworkers share scores, and strangers bond over shared triumphs.

But let’s push this further: Are these small moments of connection enough? Or have they become placeholders for deeper, more meaningful relationships? My son and I exchange Wordle strategies (his opener: RAISE, mine: SLATE), just one of the many ways we connect—but it makes me wonder: How often do we let small rituals like this carry the weight of deeper connections?

And then there’s the social pressure of connection. Sure, most of us are content to share our scores with friends or family, but imagine trying to crack Wordle in Matt Damon’s group chat. It’s said that Ben Affleck couldn’t cut it under Damon’s high-stakes Wordle rules. Can we talk about how even a friendly puzzle can morph into a competitive blood sport? “Oh bother,” indeed.

Socrates and Confucius alike praised simplicity as the path to wisdom. Pooh and Wordle are modern echoes of that wisdom, stripping life down to its essentials: connection, presence, and joy. But in our rush to complicate, monetize, and share everything, have we lost the ability to embrace the quiet and unadorned?

Both Pooh and Wordle started as small, unassuming creations and became larger than life. Milne’s bedtime stories morphed into a Disney empire. Wordle, a private love letter, became a New York Times acquisition. But with that growth comes a question: When something created for one becomes consumed by millions, does it lose some of its magic?

At their core, Pooh and Wordle show us that meaning doesn’t have to be grand. It can be as small as a bear searching for honey or a green square lighting up your screen. They remind us that the profound often hides in the humble—and that the joy of creation, connection, and ritual can endure beyond trends.

But here’s the real question: Are we ready to stop chasing virality long enough to notice?

Do you have daily rituals that ground you? Or has the constant demand for productivity and performance erased them? And when was the last time you let something small and simple be enough?

The post What Do Wordle and Winnie the Pooh Have in Common? appeared first on PROVOKEDmagazine.

Image: Lev Radin / ShutterStock

Pamela Anderson and I have two things in common: blonde hair and ample curves. But while she was running into the ocean carrying a red rescue buoy, I was designing submarines for the U.S. Navy.

I was 29 when Anderson bounced down the beach as “CJ Parker” on Baywatch. Her overdrawn lips and iconic red swimsuit were plastered everywhere, from magazine covers to posters. She embodied the ultimate blonde bombshell stereotype— unapologetically sexy, worshipped for her looks, seen but rarely taken seriously. Yet here I am, decades later, with an unexpected new admiration for her. And apparently, I’m not alone.

Those slow-motion beach runs never had me cheering. In my early 30s, I mentally filed her away under every stereotype I was fighting so hard to break. Looking down on her didn’t exactly make me proud—but I can’t deny it gave me an odd sense of relief. And, maybe, a hint of jealousy, too.

At the time, I was in a completely different world. I was trying to establish credibility as an engineer in a male-dominated space. I felt I had to distance myself from images like hers to be taken seriously—away from creepy bosses and inappropriate comments. Dumb blonde jokes, objectifying stares, and assumptions that I was more of a body than a mind? Her iconic status didn’t make things easier, so I mentally canceled her. I never watched Baywatch or followed the media circus around her. I felt little sympathy for her messy public life, from the infamous sex tape scandal to her romantic missteps and questionable taste in men. I wanted to separate myself from her as fast and as far as I could.

Looking back, I see that Anderson wasn’t the only woman I dismissed. It was almost a reflex: If a woman leaned into her femininity and beauty, I assumed she had sacrificed her brains for ambition. For those of us striving to prove ourselves as “serious” women, femininity felt like a liability.

I’d earned my engineering degree and survived a military college to claim an earned seat at the table. Why would I admire a woman who, in my mind, epitomized everything I didn’t want to be? It was easy to look down on women like Anderson. If you weren’t showing up like us, buttoned-up—literally—you didn’t deserve a second thought. Unfair? Probably. Apparently, my inner feminist solidarity hadn’t kicked in yet.

I thought I was better because I had chosen a “serious” path—a career that demanded intellect. I wanted to be recognized as an equal to our male counterparts, as a woman whose accomplishments couldn’t be questioned. Anything that fit the blonde bombshell archetype made our path to credibility harder. I was threatened by women who leaned into their glamour as if it invalidated everything I’d worked so hard to earn. But the truth? I was young, insecure, and eager to prove myself. I couldn’t see that my dismissive judgments contributed to the pressures all women are working to escape.

Now, with decades behind me and a lot more confidence and self-reflection, I see the complexity Anderson must have faced. I didn’t consider that maybe her struggle was as real as mine—just in a completely different arena. Her challenges were real, but I was too busy judging her to see them. She was out there in the public eye, pursuing her craft and maintaining the best she could while struggling with the same need for respect and autonomy I was searching for. Today, I admire her because I see her strength in a way I couldn’t then.

Here’s where Anderson really surprised me: She came back in a way I never expected. While I was dismissing her, she quietly fought her own battles. Today, she’s an advocate for animal rights, mental health, and environmental causes—embracing issues that matter to her and unapologetically living her truth. The Pamela Anderson I see today? She’s an example of resilience, rewriting her own story and flipping the narrative without asking for anyone’s approval but her own.

And watching her now, I have to admit I’m a fan. In a world obsessed with anti-aging, Anderson is showing us what it means to live and age authentically, and I’m here for it. If she can reinvent herself, finding grace and strength after all those public battles, then the rest of us can too.

Anderson has redefined herself at 57. Watching her rewrite her story has made me realize that self-awareness and the courage to change are within reach for anyone. My admiration for her now really stems from the power of transformation itself. I’ve reinvented myself countless times over the last 40 years, so I know it takes guts and resilience.

Anderson’s authenticity and transparency—her embrace of a “no makeup” look and belief that chasing age is futile—make her a champion of aging with grace and truth. She shows us what it looks like to reclaim your story, to rewrite your own ending without anyone’s permission. It’s as if someone sprinkled Pixie dust over her; she has this fearless glow that’s undeniably attractive and deeply admirable.

Each of us can create our personal version of that Pixie dust—providing us the self-awareness that we, too, have the power to let go, embrace change, and surprise ourselves at any age. Anderson has shown us what it looks like to reclaim your story and your life and rewrite the ending without anyone’s permission but yours.

Maybe I’m really talking to my younger self here, saying It’s okay to admire beauty and ambition when they come in the same package. I judged her unfairly, but now I see I was battling my own insecurities at a time when female empowerment had not reached the workplace.

Anderson’s journey reminds us that we have the agency to be more than a stereotype—to let go of the opinions that once defined us, age confidently, and walk away from others’ expectations. What a powerful shift, to recognize that we can change our stories as she has done—even if it takes years.

What does “authentic aging” mean to you, and how do you see it represented (or not) in today’s media? Pamela Anderson believes that “chasing age is futile.” How do you feel about the pressures of anti-aging culture? Do you think it’s possible to embrace aging while remaining relevant?

The post From Judgement to Crush? My Unexpected Admiration for Pamela Anderson appeared first on PROVOKEDmagazine.