53. It’s the age a recent poll found people felt their sexiest. I listened to a brilliant episode of BBC Woman’s Hour where Emma Barnett read comments from women over 50 who wrote in to say how they felt about their sexiness. Confident. Passionate. Great sex. Best I’ve ever felt. Those were their words. Now, I’m only 33, so still 20 years off from what I just can’t wait to experience following this precisely scientific study (I’m only joking, it was a poll from a dating app, but even still, it holds value), but it did get me thinking about how we view our bodies. How I view my body.
Are we happy and content with them? If not, when were we? If so, why? Will we ever reach a point in our lives – perhaps 53 – when we feel proud of our bodies, satisfied with what they are?
I remember starting to calorie count and run while I was in high school. I wanted to be thinner, lose some baby fat. Jumping on the scales, I expected that having had avoided that second brownie at the sleepover would surely give me the satisfaction of losing a pound. Seeing the numbers read the same as the previous day, my eyebrows shifted into a curious expression, wondering how I could possibly shift even a pound, even half a pound.
I distinctly remember whining to my mom and sister that I looked like a “fat, ugly boy”. Bear in mind, I was not fat. Not ugly. And not a boy. But that is what I preached to myself, both externally and internally.
In the years that followed, I just loved food too much to drop a jean size. I was an avid extravert, constantly with people, often eating.
But when I came to the UK for a summer visit when I was 20, a place far away from home food comforts, I finally found the secret. Eat less, move more and the weight will drop off.
And it did. It did.
I became obsessed with food, or the lack of it. Made sure I exercised to counterbalance the calories I did take in. Calories from porridge, salad, and beans. My obsession graced every holiday, every date night, every dinner with friends, every work lunch. It followed me everywhere.
I can’t pinpoint a moment, perhaps it was my second pregnancy, but I finally started to come out of my haze of disordered eating years after its descent onto my fragile mind.
Although I had been thin, too thin, I had not been happy.
I would say I’m now more content with my body than I’ve ever been, minus that I would make (certain parts) bigger, magic away my forehead wrinkles, and heal my scared hands. And yet, still not content.
To help me understand how others were feeling about their bodies – to see I was alone in this - I put out some social media feelers and texts to ask my friends and family how they felt about their bodies.
Some of the people I adore most admitted they’ve never been happy with their bodies and never expect to be. Some said they remembered times when they were young children – that was when they liked how they looked in a mirror. Some said they are mocked openly because of their bodies. Some said they wish they could be different, but no amount of work can fix who they are.
Our bodies, our powerhouses, our temples, our workhorses. They are a source of pain for so many. A lower-case form of trauma constantly suppressed or obsessed over.
We want them to look different. So we restrict, amp up, lift, operate, purchase, or just feel like crap.
Or we like them as they are and fixate on ensuring that they stay that way.
Both are exhausting, and frankly, miserable. Completely unjoyful ways to live.
And yet, we don’t know another way to live. Hating our reflection has become so normalised that we can’t do any differently. Whether it’s weight, skin, symmetry, disability. We are constantly fighting the voice in our heads telling us to want a better body, whatever that looks like.
Can it change?
It would be a pleasure to say yes, but I’m unsure that would be accurate. Unless we lived in a utopic society, with no pressure to conform. Without celebrity. Without social media. Without the “it” girl with big boobs and butt, tiny waist. Without the six-pack abs splashed on magazines. Perhaps then, and only perhaps, we wouldn’t feel like we are fighting a never-ending battle.
But I suppose that is in itself the solution. Fighting. We must not give up fighting the whispering giant trying to convince us our fatness, skinniness, oldness, youngness, and blemishness makes us less valuable.
We have to battle back if there is any hope of ever loving our bodies. Remind our minds how our bodies deserve respect. They have carried us, protected us, encased us. For some of us, they have created life. For others, they have saved lives, touched lives, sacrificed for lives. They have designed, imagined, invented. They have reasoned, enjoyed.
Our bodies deserve our gratitude, for without them, we’d miss life.
This morning, my eight-year-old looked at my hands, red and marked with what I think to be an autoimmune condition. For the last year, I have hidden my hands, ashamed of them. But when my baby boy asked me why my hands looked the way they did, I didn’t answer with shame. “These hands have written, washed, and worked. I wish they looked and felt differently, but these hands have been good to me and I’m so thankful for them.”
I fought back. We have to fight back.
I spent much of the first 25 years of my life hating my body. I had Anorexia, Bulimia and suicidal thoughts. I felt more guilty about this because I was a Christian too. I thought I should not be like this, I should be content.
Jumping to today, I am content with my body shape, yes my skin’s dry, and my hair is never right but I eventually grew into myself and accepted myself in my 30’s. The things that have helped me are: my faith ( God accepts me and loves me unconditionally and has never ending patience), my husband - he loves me too and encourages me ( most of the time),
My children- being a parent takes your mind off of yourself and gives you less time to grieve over little things, also wanting to be a good role model helps too.
Now I am 54 (apparently last year should have been a whopper according to the survey 🤣) - did none of the other women have the joys of menopause!
Seriously, I’m happy with who I am, I am realistic and know I’m flawed but even with the MS symptoms to come- I am content and am learning to have fewer pity parties. I’m no saint but I have a great God.