In Praise of Older Women: To the Women Who Refuse to Back Down

The Fierce Resolve of Women in Their 60s, 70s, and 80s—Not a Memory of Activism, But Its Beating Heart Today.

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A note before we begin…

One of the greatest joys in my life right now is writing. It allows me to express myself creatively and intellectually, to wrestle with the world as it is—and imagine what it could be. But more than the writing itself, what has brought me the deepest satisfaction is the connection with you, the readers.

Whether in the public comments or in the private chat (available to paid subscribers), the exchanges we've had have been rich, thoughtful, and deeply human. You've shared your stories, your questions, your grief, your humor, your fears, and your hopes. And each time, I’ve come away not only more informed, but more inspired.

While this community spans generations and continents, I’ve noticed a throughline: many of you have been engaged, concerned citizens for decades. You were marching, writing, organizing, and resisting long before I was old enough to understand what any of it meant. Many of you have been in this fight since the 1960s and 70s—and you’re still at it.

This letter was written with you in mind.

Thank you for being here.

—Mersault

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Dear Friends, Mentors, and Unyielding Trailblazers,

In a political era defined by chaos, viral distractions, and a constant barrage of headlines, one might assume that activism belongs to the young—the energized, the digitally native, the TikTok generation. But across America, a quieter revolution has been unfolding, led by women in their 60s, 70s, and 80s. These women, often dismissed by the very systems they seek to hold accountable, are not only participating in political life—they’re leading it. They are the moral anchor, the logistical engine, and often the last line of defense against apathy and authoritarianism.

Many of you came of age during the seismic upheavals of the 1960s and 70s. You marched for civil rights, demanded gender equality, and fought for reproductive freedom. You protested the Vietnam War, organized sit-ins for racial integration, joined consciousness-raising groups, and stood on the front lines of the women’s liberation movement. You pushed for Title IX, defended affirmative action, and demanded equal pay for equal work. You fought for the Equal Rights Amendment—not just in Congress, but state by state. You helped establish domestic violence shelters, rape crisis centers, and LGBTQ+ support networks when none existed. Others among you entered activism later in life, sparked by events like the AIDS crisis, the Iraq War, climate change and environmental concerns, or the 2016 and 2024 presidential elections. What unites you is a lifetime of bearing witness to the fragility of progress—and a deep unwillingness to see hard-won rights disappear on your watch.

I am writing to thank you—not just with words, but with the deepest reverence I can summon. This letter is for every one of you who still rises early, sharpens your sense of justice like a blade, and steps into the arena of civic life with no expectation of reward, no time for cynicism, and no tolerance for cowardice.

Many in our culture have overlooked you. Some have patronized you. Others have wrongly assumed your activism belonged to a past era, that the fire in your belly must have dulled with age. But the truth is far more powerful and far more urgent: you are not just still fighting—you are often the reason the fight continues at all. You are the spine of modern political activism. You are the moral compass, the strategists, the defenders of truth, and the last line of defense against the rising tide of authoritarianism.

Some of you marched with Dr. King or Gloria Steinem. Others stood quietly, yet firmly, telling the truth at your kitchen tables, in church basements, in small-town book clubs, or across tense Thanksgiving dinners. You spoke up online when it would’ve been easier to scroll past. You challenged injustice in personal conversations with courage and grace. You’re still showing up today—reading articles like this one, engaging in thoughtful dialogue, and refusing to go numb. That, too, is activism. That, too, is power.

Your history is not merely remembered—it is lived. You fought for civil rights, for peace, for equality. You stood up when few others would, and when the world did shift—even just a little—you were the ones who pushed it forward. You know, in your bones, that every inch of progress was paid for in sweat, solidarity, and sacrifice.

They say idealism fades with age. But not you—with unshakable purpose, you’ve transformed experience into strategy, and memory into a mandate to act.

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You Never Stopped

Now in your 60s, 70s, and 80s, you are not slowing down. You are picking up the torch again—this time with the clarity that comes from knowing precisely what is at stake.

You write postcards to swing state voters from your kitchen tables. You knock on doors, organize community meetings, and testify at school board hearings where democracy itself is under siege. You drive neighbors to polling places, bake for fundraisers that keep grassroots efforts alive, gather signatures for local petitions, put signs in your yard, and distribute voter guides to neighbors.

You fight not because it’s easy. You fight because you must.

You are not simply nostalgic for past battles—you are strategists in the present. Your activism is deliberate, smart, and profoundly necessary. Your generation is not waiting to be asked. You’re leading.

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Why You Matter More Than Ever

Women over 60 are the most consistent voters in the country. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, turnout rates among women aged 60–74 routinely surpass 75%, dwarfing younger age groups. But you don’t just vote—you mobilize. You lead nonprofits, host fundraisers, and volunteer for campaigns at staggeringly high rates.

Many of you are embracing progressive causes with renewed urgency. The myth of the apolitical, conservative “little old lady” has been replaced with the image of a fierce grandmother holding a protest sign.

Let us not overlook the very real price you have paid. You’ve worked jobs, raised families, cared for sick spouses and dying parents, endured discrimination, sexism, and systemic setbacks. You’ve buried friends, lost rights, gained them back, and watched in horror as they were stripped away again.

Every election cycle, every protest, every time someone says “there’s nothing we can do”—there you are, doing it.

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Tenacity + Perspective = Power

You’ve seen presidents rise and fall, movements splinter and reform, promises made and broken. You understand how power works—and how to challenge it. You know that setbacks are part of the struggle, not the end of it. And you are often less susceptible to despair, because you’ve lived long enough to see that even the most entrenched systems can be changed.

You’ve also seen that democracy is never finished—and never guaranteed. The erosion of reproductive rights, the rollback of voting protections, the attacks on public education and LGBTQ+ dignity—none of these developments shock you. But they do enrage you. Because you remember what it took to win those fights the first time: the organizing, the marches, the arrests, the bruises, the harassment, the heartbreak. And now you watch in disbelief as men—uninformed, unscarred, and unbothered—move to dismantle it all with a slogan, a gavel, or the stroke of a pen. Not out of principle, but out of ignorance and greed.

What they do is galvanize you. Because you don’t have the luxury of hoping “someone else” will fix it. You know the truth: change has never come from waiting—it comes from showing up, speaking out, and refusing to back down.

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This Is Global

While this letter speaks primarily to the women of the United States—those holding the line in statehouses, libraries, courtrooms, and neighborhoods—I have readers in over 75 countries, and I would be remiss not to acknowledge the parallel revolutions led by elder women across the globe.

From British pensioners defending public healthcare, to French women organizing against authoritarian encroachment, to German grandmothers confronting the rise of the far right with memories of fascism still vivid in their bones, to Dutch elders marching for climate justice and LGBTQ+ dignity, to Swiss women fighting climate injustice in the courts, and Canadian elders standing for Indigenous rights and public services—and from Indian women leading grassroots climate justice campaigns, to Kenyan elders mediating local peace agreements and promoting civic unity, to Brazilian grandmothers rallying to defend the Amazon and Indigenous sovereignty—your voices, too, resound with wisdom and resolve.

You remind us that the fight for dignity, equity, and democracy knows no border.

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You've Gone Vital

You show us what real patriotism looks like. Not the empty sloganeering of flag-waving nationalists, but the slow, unglamorous, tireless labor of civic engagement. You don’t scream for attention—you roll up your sleeves and get to work.

You don’t need to go viral. You’ve gone vital—integral to the functioning of resistance in red and blue states alike. While the rest of us are doomscrolling, you are building democracy one conversation, one postcard, one act of courage at a time.

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The Young Need You

And now, more than ever, younger generations need you.

Many of them grew up in a world shaped by the victories you fought for—a world where legal abortion was a given, interracial and same-sex marriage were rights, and women could speak freely at work without fear of being fired for their pregnancies. A world where the doors you broke open looked, to them, as if they had always been open. They were raised in a climate of possibility—one that too often mistook progress for permanence.

They didn’t live through the fear of back-alley abortions, segregated schools, the AIDS crisis ignored by government indifference, or the silencing of dissent under threat of violence. They have known freedom—but not always the fragility of it. And many never imagined that the clock could turn backwards.

But it is turning. And now, as those rights are being stripped away, as disinformation spreads like wildfire, and as the machinery of oppression recalibrates for the digital age, they are waking up. Some too late. Some just in time.

That’s where you come in.

You must be their lighthouse.

Through your actions—and yes, through your words, your emails, your stories, your outrage—you remind them that democracy demands vigilance. That rights are not guaranteed, and that every generation must choose whether to defend or surrender them. You’ve seen what happens when good people stay silent. You’ve lived through what they are only beginning to understand.

And they need to hear from you. Not later. Now.

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To Every Voice

To those of you who can no longer march, or never did—but still raise your voice when it matters—please know: that is courage. That is leadership. And it ripples outward, further than you may ever see. You’re helping change minds, reinforce truth, and build resolve in a world desperate for all three.

You are not just participating in history. You are history.

And let me say this plainly: you are also our future. Because if we are to salvage what remains of our democracy, we will need your courage. We will need your clarity. We will need your refusal to let despair win.

We will need to follow the path you’ve cleared—not because we’re honoring the past, but because it is the only way forward.

So thank you—for your fight, your faith in justice, your exhausting labor, and your impossible hope.

You have earned rest many times over, and yet you remain—organizing, resisting, leading, and showing us how.

You may be called elders. But in this fight for the soul of the nation, you are nothing less than our generals.

With deepest gratitude and admiration,

—Mersault

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Author’s Note

I wrote this letter to honor the women who carried us through history—and who are still, even now, carrying us through the fire.

My hope is that this tribute serves as both a thank-you and a torch-passing. If it resonated with you, I invite you to share it with someone younger. Your story might be the reason they decide to stand up.

And if you feel moved, I ask you to share your own story of activism—past or present—in the comments. Your words might light the path for someone else. Your voice matters, now more than ever.

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