How aging affects my self-perception

A reflection on midlife in 2024

A selfie the day I got my hair cut and decided I didn’t need makeup or Botox in order for me to feel good about myself. Summer 2021

Becoming reacquainted with myself in my forties

Three years ago, I stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and glanced in the bathroom mirror. It was the first time I’d checked my naked appearance in months, because every time I saw my body, I recoiled. I was repulsed by what I saw, by what I’d become.

I’ve never been a thin woman, nor athletic. Rarely have I been told I have a pretty face. I wasn’t a cheerleader in high school, never played sports, wasn’t in the running for homecoming queen. What I was, what I have always been, is sensitive, shy, observant, empathic, and a deep thinker: an artist.

Three years ago, my body had been through its own war: the ups and downs of five pregnancies in ten years. I got used to the stretch marks on my stomach, the c-section scar below my navel, even my sagging breasts. The problem, for me, was that I could not lose my “baby weight.” (I use quotations here, because I used this phrase to excuse myself from losing any weight at all, for years after having babies.)

Before my first pregnancy with Felicity, I was curvy but strong. I’d worn the same jean size for fifteen years at that point. I could eat whatever I wanted, within reason. But after Auggie, I had ballooned to over two hundred pounds, and the worst part about it was that I didn’t care. Because I didn’t care about myself.

In fact, at that point in my life, I wanted to die. No, I didn’t have a plan, didn’t think of specific ways to end it all. It was this cloak of death and wishing for it to come for me that never relented —for three years.

When I saw my reflection for the first time in months after showering, I wept. But I didn’t look away like I had before. Instead, I made a choice: I will learn to love myself. I don’t know how, but I’ll start somewhere.

Earlier that week, Ben had sent me a loving email from work. In it, he wrote about how beautiful I am, how much he wanted me to see that, and by the way, maybe we could work out together? It might help me feel more confident, might strengthen my aging muscles and bones. Of course, receiving this both startled and pricked my heart. But it stirred something inside me —a kernel of truth that I’d concealed beneath my self-loathing.

My initiative was small but measurable: first, drink only water. That was easy enough, since I didn’t indulge in caffeinated beverages or sodas very often, and only imbibed in a glass of dry red wine on weekends. Next, walk every day. This part humiliated me, as I was so out of shape I couldn’t even make it around the block without wheezing and gasping for breath. My asthma was out of control. I was pre-diabetic. My body was racked with chronic pain, but here’s what gripped me:

What if the second half of my life is better than the first half? What if I treat myself kindly, believe that I matter as much as everyone else I care for? What will happen if I stop hating the way I am now, and make changes to improve what I can?

I wrote at length a while ago on Substack about how I gradually went from one lap around the block to two miles a day, plus lifted weights three times a week. Here, I want to focus on something else: once I achieved my set point (the weight at which my body remained steady over time), I noticed laugh lines around my (thinner) face. Also a mom belly. And graying hair around my temples.

This is what forty looks like on me?

I had expected that, once my body shifted into a shape that made me feel confident, the rest of me would, too. Make me feel confident, that is. The opposite happened. Crestfallen, I nitpicked how I could make my face look younger, in order to complement my newly trim figure.

Dye my hair? I consulted my hairdresser, but every product on the market contained sulfates, which I am allergic to. Okay, I guess I’ll have to deal with the gray, then.

Botox for my laugh lines? No, that doesn’t sit well with me. I’m more of a crunchy person who prefers natural methods of self-care, rather than injecting a known toxin in my face.

What about a tummy tuck? Well, I can’t justify medically unnecessary surgery when I’m still trying to figure out the grocery bill to feed my five hungry chicks. Hmm, maybe I can look into something more non-invasive, like cryolipolysis. (Which I did, and it worked so-so.)

Day after day, I obsessed about the way I was clearly aging, because I didn’t want to age. I didn’t feel oldish. In my mind, I was stuck in my thirties, and I needed to stay there for a while. Giving birth to, and raising, tiny humans in short succession stole several (good) years of my life, and I was trying desperately to win them back, in ways I thought were vain.

What motivated all of this was one thing: fear. I was petrified that, since my life was half over (or over half over), I couldn’t possibly accomplish everything I wanted to before death came calling for me.

Now I’m 43, and I still don’t love my aging body and face. But I appreciate them more than I ever have. And I nurture them. I’m kind to them. When my body beckons me to rest, I sit down. Or take a catnap. Or maybe a real nap. I read. When my stomach rumbles, I reach for healthy, nourishing foods, like the homemade beet hummus I keep in my fridge with some raw vegetables or almond crackers. When my throat is parched, I give it water. Maybe with lemon if I’m in an adventurous mood. If I’m sick of water, I’ll opt for herbal tea with a scant teaspoon of stevia or monkfruit.

The point is, I’ve become more attuned to myself. And this has translated into greater attunement to others and to the world I inhabit. It’s a form of embodiment I neglected all those years I was trying to keep another human alive inside my body. All that time, I was worried about their fragile lives instead of my own.

I am a Geriatric Millennial.

A few weeks ago, Felicity bounded in the family room and said, “Mom, did you know I’m part of the Alpha Generation?”

I placed my phone on the side table, eager to hear more. Years ago, I became interested in learning about generational differences, but I hadn’t yet heard of the Alpha Generation. “No, I didn’t. That’s really exciting. Where did you learn that?”

She shrugged. “Somewhere online. I don’t remember.”

Of course. The Internet: a defining feature of her generation, but in its infancy when I was her age.

“What else did you learn about that?” I asked her.

“That our generation has never known life without personal electronic devices.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

With that, she disappeared, but I picked up my personal electronic device to research this. And I found myself digging into the rabbit hole of my own generation: Millennials. Or Zennials, specifically, since I was born in 1981.

Here’s where my heart sank: I landed upon an article that prodded at the “geriatric” Millennials. Quotes again, because, really? Geriatric? When I was pregnant at 35, I knew I was considered geriatric for pregnancy, and back then I flinched a little at hearing that. But this? The Gen Zs and Alphas are labeling me geriatric? As in, elderly. Almost in the grave.

Ouch.

Shortly thereafter, I carried this knowledge with a heavy heart to my city’s first Human Library event of the year. Meeting up with the other books, many of whom I knew only nominally and some whom I’d never met, I couldn’t shake this feeling that I was just…old. Invisible. That people in my generation are laughingstocks, because we are no longer youthful, trendy, or exuberant. In all honesty, I can’t say I’ve ever been trendy or exuberant, even when I was part of the the “it” generation in the mid-1990s.

It feels different now. It stings.

I chatted with Autumn and Liv, two books who openly shared that they are in their early thirties and late twenties, respectively. I blurted, “You two are so young! I’m 43!”

Both gasped, eyes widening. “No way!” they said in unison. “There’s no way you’re 43! You look so much younger.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t flatter me.”

Autumn put her hands on my shoulder. “I’m not. I really mean that. You look amazing.” Liv nodded. “Really, you do,” she added.

Grateful, I smiled and said, “Thank you.”

It’s humbling to age, but I decided after that encounter that there’s some truth to the old trope you’re only as old as you feel. Inside, I feel exasperated, weary from all the suffering in the world. I feel harried and haggard. Apparently that has not generalized to my appearance. Even so, what is a number, anyway?

If I believe that no one is too young to pen their story, then I also believe no one is too old to pursue their dreams. Exuberance is an interior trait, not an external characteristic. I can choose to rediscover the delight of my younger years. That’s what makes me a creative person, anyway: the wonder and awe of attuning myself to my personal needs and the hidden beauty surrounding me every day.

I don’t need to look like everyone else. I just need to look like me. And I need to like me, the way I am today.