This post was written in 2021, after our second child was born, and never published, but I figured it deserved to see the light of day.
I’m aging. My skin is beginning to sag and wrinkle. The first lines of silver gleam against the dark brown of my hair.
Of course, I’ve been aging my entire life–from the moment I was conceived–but the slow growth and development (because really how do we decide when growth stops and aging begins? Where does that shift take place? Couldn’t it all just be aging? Couldn’t it all just be growth) that takes place during the course of life takes on new meaning once you’re older than 25.
Our entire society is obsessed with looking like they aren’t aging. There are pills and creams and shots and mantras and exercises and diets all geared toward the art of aging without actually looking like you’ve gotten older. And when those fail, there are ways to mask your aging: thick foundations to smooth over your wrinkled face. Plumpening solutions for your lips. Hair dyes to bring back that glossy, gray-free mane.
Lately I’ve been thinking about this concept a lot. I turned 30 this year, my first big adult birthday. I also had my second child, which has launched me firmly into the realm of motherhood. I’m more confident in my role as “mom” (mainly, I no longer feel like I’m playing house with Jordan. Now I own the role). And my body has changed in new ways: I’m softer around the hips and butt, my tummy is more wrinkled, and my breasts will never return to their former globular shape.
The other day, I was looking at my body in the mirror after a shower, and I realized that it looked familiar: I look like a mom.
The thing is, l feel very peaceful about these changes.
My entire life, I have been conditioned to pick and preen at my body. To measure its worth by the number of pounds on a scale, the smoothness of my skin, the glossiness of my hair, or the ratio of my eyes and nose and mouth.
But since having my two babies, I suddenly don’t give a damn. And what a relief not to care so ferociously about the shape of my body!
More and more, I’ve been letting myself go. I’ve always heard the term “letting herself go” said in a tone of faint scorn, generally about new mothers or middle-aged women or men who have put on a beer gut, and I’m here to reclaim the phrase.
In this new phase of life, I have found that my external appearance means so little in the face of all the love and richness that caring for children brings.
Since H was born, I’ve had no desire to exercise; I’d rather soak up this time with him. I don’t care that I’m losing muscle tone in my legs, or that my core won’t recover as well this time without pilates. I’m deeply content with the extra ten pounds I’m carrying.
I’ve stopped shaving my body hair completely. Who cares if my legs and armpits are hairy? Who cares if I never wear make up again? I certainly don’t (and if you care, quite frankly, I don’t care that you do!).
I’m letting myself go.
What a freeing thing, to let yourself go! To let go of the need for control over our bodies. To let go of our insecurities and fears about our personal appearances. To let go of all the nasty things middle school kids whispered in our ears as we were just learning how to exist in our bodies.
It is wonderful to feel that I matter in a way that goes deeper than superficial appearance. I only wish that it hadn’t taken me adopting a whole new identity (mom), for me to learn to let go. Because we all deserve to let ourselves go. We all deserve to matter, to be worthwhile, just for ourselves. It shouldn’t take having children or being married for us to feel like we are finally safe enough to exist simply for ourselves.
I’m not saying you shouldn’t take care of your body, or that you shouldn’t use makeup or shave your body hair. I guess what I’m saying is that if “letting go of yourself” means liberating yourself from the external pressures to look a certain way, or to measure your self worth by your physical appearance, then by all means, let yourself go!
You’ll find yourself freed up to do things because you want to do them. You’ll have the space to listen to your body and learn what it actually needs to be healthy and happy.
Right now, my body still needs rest and recovery after childbirth. It needs baby snuggles and long nursing sessions and chubby fingers digging into the wrinkly folds of skin on my tummy. It needs sugar and fat–lots more than it usually needs–to keep up with the demands of sustaining another human.
But eventually, I know that will shift. That I’ll be happiest and healthiest when I head out alone for long walks and runs each day. That I’ll crave vegetables and fruits and whole grains.
But the beauty of letting yourself go is that you know you’re doing those things to feel genuinely good for yourself–not because of the heavy gaze of the world on your skin.
Feathery Thoughts 