I was visiting my 81-year-old mother recently, and we were having a pleasant conversation when, all of a sudden, she perked up and exclaimed,
“I lost three pounds!”
“I lost three pounds!”
I didn't say a word in response, but I had a whole conversation in my mind.
She hasn’t changed her eating. She doesn’t exercise. In fact, her lifestyle has remained unchanged since I last saw her a few weeks ago. And yet, her joy in that moment was genuine—like those three pounds made her more worthy.
I don’t say this to shame her. I say it to point out how deeply absurd—and deeply ingrained—it is that even at 81, weight loss still feels like an accomplishment.
At that age, weight loss is a normal part of aging. Most people gradually lose weight as they grow older. We move less, we eat less, our bodies require less fuel. And while it’s not something to fear or pathologize, it’s also not something we need to celebrate as if it means we’ve finally “made it.”
When is it enough?
My mother spent her whole life trying to accept her body. And I don’t blame her. Her adoptive mother called her cruel names I won’t repeat. Love and acceptance were conditional. Somewhere deep in her subconscious, she picked up the belief that male approval was her lifeline—and a thin, “beautiful” body was the price of admission.
She learned that her appearance was her value, and that she needed to earn her place in the world by shrinking.
Did she ever get the “dream body” she worked so hard for?
I don’t know if she ever believed she did.
I look back at photos of her and see a stunning woman—but even then, she didn’t see it. And now? At 81, the struggle still lives in her.
That’s how the system is designed. It keeps us striving. It keeps us small.
And I don’t want it.
I’m 48. My body is shifting again—perimenopause, straggly grays, and cycles that are no longer predictable.
I once heard someone say that menopause is like puberty in reverse—another threshold of change. And just like puberty, it’s not something to feel ashamed of. It’s human. It’s powerful. And it’s something I want to be present for, not afraid of.
I spent puberty being ashamed of my body due to the toxic religious system I was in. Part of my deconstruction will be embracing this phase of life rather than shrinking from it.
Of course, I want to care for my body. I want to move, stretch, walk, and breathe. I want to be active at 80, but I don’t want to be chasing thinness or starving myself for approval. I don’t want to be in competition with my own body. I’m done trying to make myself small.
Instead, I’m learning to take up space.
Whether that means carrying some extra weight (thanks, hormones!), or raising my voice in rooms where I used to stay silent, or learning new skills so I can contribute to this big, beautiful world—I’m here. And I’m not hiding anymore.
My body has been with me through every single moment of this life. She’s the only friend that never left. I refuse to treat her like a project to be fixed. I will love her. I will nourish her. I will listen to what she needs. And I believe, in the end, she’ll thank me for it.
More importantly, I hope my children inherit something different. I hope they resist the system that tells them they’re not enough. Because that’s the lie. That’s the virus in the code.
Reprogramming your mind to believe your body is good—worthy, beautiful, lovable—isn't just self-help. It’s healing. It’s resistance. It’s revolution.
So love your body. Speak kindly to her/him/them. Stand up for her.
Because she is enough. You are enough.
I am enough, and so is my 81-year-old mother, even though she likely won't ever know it.
Because she is enough. You are enough.
I am enough, and so is my 81-year-old mother, even though she likely won't ever know it.
Love,
Candi D.
Candi D.
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