Lately I’ve been thinking about all the different versions of myself that have existed.
The little girl with scraped knees. The teenager who thought she’d look sixteen forever. The version of me with baby weight. The version of me after cancer. The version of me who was exhausted raising babies. The version of me who felt strong, who felt beautiful, who didn’t.
Somewhere along the way, I realized something: every single one of those girls spent her time wishing she looked like another version of herself.
It’s almost funny.
I used to look back at old pictures and think, I can’t believe I thought I was fat there. A few years would pass, and I’d say the exact same thing about another version of myself.
It’s like we’re always standing in the body we’ll one day miss. But lately, something has shifted.
Instead of asking, “How do I get my old body back, how do I get a new one?” I’ve started asking, “Why would I want to?”
That body did exactly what it needed to do for that season of my life. This one is doing the same.
My body has changed because my life has changed.
I’ve survived things. I’ve celebrated things. I’ve carried stress, joy, grief, babies, dreams, late nights, early mornings, and everything in between.
Of course I don’t look the same. I’m not supposed to. And honestly? Every year I become a little more me.
Not because I weigh less or more. Not because my face changes or my style changes. It’s due to the fact that I’m growing into someone I actually like.
I’ve stopped believing that my best years are behind me.
I think we get better with age.
Kinder. Wiser. More comfortable saying no. Less interested in impressing people. More certain of who we are. Maybe our bodies are doing the same thing. Maybe they’re not falling apart. Maybe they’re simply growing with us.
I don’t think the goal is to stay looking twenty forever. I think the goal is to become someone you’re excited to meet at thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, and beyond.
Because if every version of me has taught me anything, it’s this: She always thought she needed to become someone else. In reality, she was becoming herself the whole time.
That thought doesn’t scare me anymore. It makes me softer with myself. This body has never existed before, and after I’m gone, it never will again. There will never be another me with this exact laugh, these exact freckles, this exact face at twenty-four. Why would I spend the only chance I get being her wishing I looked like someone else?
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