What the Hell Happened to My Body?

This isn't vanity. It's grief. And it's fucking real.

I opened my closet, pulled out the pants I’ve had for five years, and they don’t zip.

Not “a little snug.” Don’t zip.

I stood there for a solid thirty seconds like maybe I had the wrong pants. I had the right pants.

I had the wrong body. Or — more accurately — I had a body that had quietly, without any kind of announcement or consent process, decided to become a different shape.

And something happens in that moment that isn’t just about pants.

This is grief. Even if nobody calls it that.

It’s a specific kind of grief. The kind that doesn’t get a casserole or a sympathy card.

Because from the outside, nothing died. You’re just... different now. Your body redistributed itself without asking. Your waist went somewhere. Your hips have opinions. Your chest changed shape.

And the clothes that used to say this is me now hang wrong or just look wrong in a way you can’t fully explain.

It’s not vanity. I want to say that clearly, because the world is going to try to tell you it is.

It's real. And it deserves a name.

Your body isn’t failing. It’s just done asking permission.

Here’s what’s actually happening: around perimenopause, estrogen shifts change where the body stores fat, less in the hips and thighs, more in the abdomen. Muscle mass decreases. The ratio of everything shifts.

This isn’t a personal failure or a motivation problem or a sign you should have done more Pilates.

It’s biology. Doing exactly what biology does.

Knowing that doesn’t always soften the feeling. But it does mean you can stop adding self-blame to an already full plate.

I cried in the shower this morning

Not about anything dramatic. No crisis. Just, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I got in. Which, by the way, I always try to avoid. I did not successfully avoid it today.

I got in the shower and stood there thinking, I used to look good.

And then I just... stayed there. Hot water running. Grieving that sentence like it was a person.

And then, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, I actually looked.

Really looked.

The belly that wasn’t there ten years ago. Not an "I should do more crunches” belly. A belly that has arrived, unpacked its things, and seems to be staying.

The varicose veins mapping their way down my legs like a road system nobody asked for.

The skin on my arms starting to crêpe at the edges, that particular texture that shows up one day and does not leave.

And the bat wings.

Oh, the bat wings.

I had made myself a promise. A genuine, heartfelt, feminist promise that I would not care about the bat wings. That I would be above it. That I was too evolved, too self-aware, too clinically trained to grieve the underside of my own arms.

I cannot tell a lie: I’m grieving the bat wings.

The drawer of things I own but don’t wear anymore

And I grieved the sleeveless tops, too. The whole drawer of them. Tank tops, sundresses, that one strappy dress I loved. All of it is now a collection of things I own but don’t wear anymore.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve reached the age where it’s not just “no sleeveless.” The sleeves now need to come to the elbow. The elbow. I have a sleeve length requirement now. Like a dress code. For my own arms. In my own life.

Getting dressed used to be easy. Now it’s a negotiation with my own body every single morning before I’ve had coffee.

And then there’s the four-inch scar across my thigh from the recent hip replacement. Which is, fine, a scar. A badge of survival and modern medicine and all the things I’m supposed to say about it.

I knew my bikini days were over a long time ago. That ship had sailed. I’d made my peace with it. I had fully, completely, therapeutically accepted that particular loss.

And then the scar showed up and somehow managed to seal the deal in a way that felt unnecessarily final. Like the universe sending a certified letter about something you thought was already settled.

Thanks. Got it. Very clear.

The quiet way it happens is the worst part.

I used to look good. Past tense. As if it were already decided. Done. Filed under former self.

And the thing that hurts isn’t just the change. It was the quiet way it happened. No announcement. No warning.

No memo from my body saying, " Hey, just so you know, we’re starting some renovations, so you may want to prepare emotionally.”

Just one day, you realize you’ve crossed some invisible line, and the reflection looking back at you is different in ways you can’t fully argue with.

That’s not self-pity. That’s loss.

Then I went shopping. Which made everything worse.

And then, because apparently the universe has a sick sense of humor and also does not care about my feelings, I went clothes shopping.

Which made everything worse.

I stood in store after store, thinking, What the hell am I supposed to wear?

Because here’s what I found: clothes for teenagers. And clothes for women who have apparently decided they are done, shapeless, colorless, built for someone who stopped caring.

Like the fashion industry looked at women in their 40s and 50s, shrugged, and split the difference between “not you anymore” and “gave up entirely.”

Congratulations. Here’s some elastic-waist linen in a color we’re calling oatmeal.

There was nothing in between.

No section for the woman who still has places to go, things to say, and a body that’s changed but is not invisible yet.

No rack for the woman who wants to look like herself — not younger, not older, just herself.

The fashion industry’s working theory seems to be that women either want to look twenty-two or they’ve stopped caring which decade they’re in.

Neither of those is me. Neither of those is you.

I left with nothing. Went home. Sat with it.

And the sitting with it was its own kind of grief.

What to do first

You let it be grief first. That’s it.

Not a project. Not a makeover. Not a Pinterest board of “style tips for women over 50” that’s really just a curated collection of tasteful beige and the quiet suggestion that you should be grateful you have a body at all.

You don’t have to fix this right now. You don’t have to find your new look or make peace with your body or figure out who you are in this next chapter before lunch.

You just have to stop treating grief like a problem you should already be over.

Because grief doesn’t have a timeline, and it doesn’t care that nothing technically died. Your body changed without consent.

The culture handed you two options, and both of them are insulting. The woman you recognized in the mirror for thirty years is different now.

That’s real loss. And real loss asks for one thing before anything else.

To be acknowledged, not solved. Not reframed and not optimized with a ten-step plan.

Just acknowledged.

So if you cried in the shower this morning — hi. Me too. That counts. You don’t have to turn it into a lesson yet.

What moving through it actually looks like

But at some point, when you’re ready, not when the self-help industry tells you to be, you do have to move through it.

Here’s what helps. And it’s not a vision board.

Name what specifically you’ve lost. Not “I’ve lost my looks.” Too big and too vague, and you'll drown in it instead of moving through it.

Get specific. I lost the version of myself who could walk into a room and feel like she belonged in it. I lost the easy relationship with getting dressed. I lost the thing I didn’t even know I was relying on until it was gone.

Specific losses have edges. Edges mean you can actually grieve them instead of drowning in them.

Separate your body from the culture’s story about your body. These are two different griefs, and they need to be handled separately. One is yours. One was handed to you by a world that decided women have a shelf life, and apparently, it expires somewhere around forty-seven.

You’re allowed to mourn the changes in your body and be furious at a fashion industry that responds with shapeless oatmeal. Both are true.

Blur the line between them, and the anger has one place left to go — inward. Which is exactly where it doesn't belong.

Find one thing that’s still yours. Not a whole new wardrobe. Not a style reinvention. One thing, a color you love, a fabric that feels right, a pair of earrings that still say you, and let that be enough for right now.

Grief doesn’t ask you to rebuild everything at once. It just asks you not to abandon yourself completely while you’re in it.

You don’t have to be done yet

Your body changed. The woman in the mirror is different, and you didn’t sign off on any of it.

That’s a lot to carry. And you don’t have to be done grieving it yet.

You just have to stay on your own side while you do.

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If this landed, send it to the women you’re thinking of right now. The ones who texted you something like “I don’t even know what to wear anymore” and meant something much bigger than clothes.

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P.S. Some good news! I’m having a free Substack Live to talk about this (with Jen)! Stay tuned for the official announcement.