Until my mid-twenties, I lived the life of a skinny person. Up to that point I didn’t know most adults must make an effort to maintain a slim physique. Thinness just seemed to happen to me. I ate whatever I pleased and never worked out. In hindsight I can see that I avoided weight gain through a combination of the following – constant anxiety, smoking, walking everywhere because I didn’t know how to drive, being broke most of the time, my metabolism, and prioritizing cigarettes and beer over food. I never dieted. I associated exercise with gym class (a.k.a. torture), so I didn’t bother with that either. I neglected my body, but I never longed to change it in any significant way. I had mild gripes, like how my short-torso-to-long-limb ratio sometimes frustrated me when I shopped for clothes. But I didn’t relate to cultural tropes around young women criticizing their own bodies. I was too caught up in my weird brain to get hung up on any of that. 

And then came a major transition phase. Therapy. Getting into healthier relationships. Eating. Taking better care of myself. And also slower metabolism. Suddenly my old clothes weren’t fitting anymore. By age 26 I was no longer skinny. And while that really bothered me at times, I wasn’t about to part ways with food or adopt a rigorous exercise regime to get back to my previous shape. For the most part, I just accepted that my body had changed.

I’ve been through other big bodily adjustments since then, especially as I moved into more and less sedentary lines of work. I started going to the gym in my thirties once I finally figured out exercise was good for my anxiety. Then I went through pregnancy and nursing. Doing natural childbirth made me feel more curious and courageous about my physical strength, so I started attending boot camp classes that made me face my old gym class fears. Eventually I got tired of that and took up jogging instead. And then there was that whole wacky pandemic experience, the ultimate in sedentary lifestyle! Now I’m more physically active again, but also going through perimenopause. I’m not the fattest I’ve ever been, but I’m about 15 pounds heavier than I was five years ago. Between all the lifestyle and hormonal shifts, my body has gone from bigger to smaller to bigger a lot in the last twenty years. The one consistent thread throughout all of it is this – whether I’ve been slender or thick, I’ve more or less accepted my shape at the time and just let it be.

I didn’t know until recently that there’s a term for this state of acceptance — it’s called “body neutrality.” It’s different from popular conceptions around “body positivity,” because I’m not that concerned with being perceived as beautiful by me or anyone else. I don’t look down on people who put a lot of thought or creativity into their appearance, because I know that’s a totally legitimate form of self-expression. It’s just not my priority. I’m generally content with my appearance as it is, because I know it’s one of the less important things about me. 

This concept of body neutrality has brought me much peace. I used to think there was something wrong with me for not being more into celebrating my appearance. But now I understand my level of attention to it is just fine. Like it’s okay that I don’t adore everything about my body. Frankly, I’m not wild about the droop of my belly fat or the bumpy feel of cellulite on the back of my thighs. I appreciate my body less for how it looks and more for the experiences it affords me. I’m so grateful to my taste buds for allowing me to relish one of life’s greatest joys. I love my height and how my legs carry me so far, so quickly. I feel powerful when I use my long arms to help others reach stuff that fell behind the couch. And I grin whenever I see the familiar shape of my long shadow in the morning sun, because it looks just like a scaled up version of the one I saw when I was a little kid walking to school.

I admit that feeling attractive to other people does matter to me. Fortunately, I’ve been blessed with a husband who thinks I look hot pretty much 24/7. I certainly don’t get as much attention for my looks from others as I did when I was young and thin. But I also know that attention never made up for my other anxieties and fears. I just like this calmer, more confident, rounder and wrinkled version of me way better! Anyway, I know I look my best when I’m smiling or laughing, which I do a lot. I enjoy my life, even when I don’t feel particularly pretty.

Nevertheless, I do sometimes feel nostalgic for the effortless hotness of my youth. Yet I also recall it getting me icky attention I didn’t want, and I’m not just talking about creepy dudes. Like I don’t miss when my older women coworkers would whine “I wish I had your problems” when I told them I felt too anxious to eat. And I feel sad when I remember insecure boyfriends who would confess in intimate moments that they couldn’t believe someone as slender as me wanted to be with them. Thinness was a currency I never tried to earn, and I have no interest in doing the work it would take to get it back. I love my carbs, my couch, and my peace too much.