I’ve discovered a remarkable shift in my perspective on body image. Much like the gradual evolution of parenting and marriage, this change has unfolded over the past few years, presenting itself as a much-appreciated revelation. After spending far too long scrutinizing my reflection and feeling disappointed, I can now confidently stand in front of the mirror, appreciating my body without the urge to cringe.
It’s truly a personal triumph that I can joyfully embrace my figure, even sporting a few dimples and sagging skin, while playfully acknowledging my body. Honestly, it feels liberating.
For years, I hesitated to embrace the idea that “I am more than my dress size.” Now that I’ve hopped on this transformative journey, I have no intention of stepping off. The reasons for my delayed acceptance are unclear, but I suspect they stem from years of trying to conform to the unrealistic body images perpetuated by the media. From the moment I flipped through Seventeen magazine in 1988, I fell victim to the false narrative that “Thinner equals better, sexier, and happier.” What a complete illusion.
Let me tell you about my body at 44—this body that has achieved so much, and frankly, I couldn’t care less that I’m not a size 4 anymore.
This body has created four incredible lives, including one towering at 6 feet tall. Yes, my belly, which didn’t magically revert to a flat surface post-babies and carries the marks of C-sections, jiggles—but it does so with a joy that rivals Santa Claus’s belly.
This body nourished those four children with breasts that now resemble deflated balloons. While they certainly need some support, I wouldn’t change a thing. Those breasts provided sustenance for my babies, and that’s what I want celebrated—not the unattainable ideals of a fashion magazine.
These arms, though struggling with “girl” push-ups, have spent years lifting 30-pound toddlers, cradling them, and carrying them in and out of various settings. My biceps may not be ready for sleeveless tops anymore, but the countless hugs I’ve shared with my kids make them more valuable than the skinny arms of a supermodel.
My hips and thighs, which require a bit more encouragement to fit into jeans these days, have carried me through countless miles, even if they chafe during a run. Yes, my body is changing—it’s expected. We’re often warned that “Once you hit your 40s, everything will fall apart.” But I reject that notion. Who cares?! Am I strong? Absolutely. Am I generally healthy? You bet.
I cherish being able to play tennis with both older and younger partners without missing a beat. I adore that my body can still embrace the thrill of riding a bike like a child, kick a soccer ball around with my sons, and dive off the high board without hesitation. I appreciate that I can still dance to upbeat music, that my husband finds me attractive, and that my heart beats with more love and passion than it ever did when I was slimmer.
The body I’m growing to love now—one that has shifted away from the obsession with being smaller and sexier—is becoming softer, wider, and slower. Yet, this newfound appreciation for what my body can do has revealed that its capabilities far surpass mere appearances. Gratitude, peace, and awe have replaced my insecurities, showing me that what truly matters is not how I look but what my body can accomplish.
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In summary, as I embrace my body in my 40s, I celebrate its accomplishments and the joy it brings, regardless of societal standards.