At 40, I Finally Love My Body

It took too long to get here

Photo by Antony on Unsplash

“You’re pint sized!” a friend said one day.

I was about to jump in the pool and, self-conscious in my teenage body, was desperately trying to minimise the time between removing my towel and hiding under the water.

“Is pint-sized a good thing to be?” I thought.

My friend sat with a towel wrapped around her middle, next to the pool — her beautiful cleavage curving out the top of her bikini. My torso was certainly pint-sized compared to her. Almost flat chested at 17, I had an athlete’s body — lean, strong, toned, and tiny. But I felt ugly.

I was mortified by the size of my thighs, my fat knees — scarred from a biking accident — my pear-shaped, small-breasted, big-bottomed body. Except for my school uniform, I refused to wear shorts or skirts and hid my lower half under flowing dresses and jeans.

I compared myself to my slim friends who somehow managed to be runners and keep their curves. My intense figure skating practice four days a week — and off-ice training in between — chased my curves away. Except the ones I imagined and hated.

When your body turns on you

Hating my body meant I treated it badly. I ate junk. So much junk. My drinks were full of…