This Body, Still Mine

I’ve been a low-grade hypochondriac for most of my life. (My husband might say high-grade.)

I’m not proud of it — just aware. Some of it, I know, came from long hours, stress, and a brain that doesn't like to let go of a worry once it grabs hold. And yes, being obsessive about things doesn’t help.

These days, I like to think I’ve chilled out a bit. But every now and then, a strange twinge or unfamiliar ache sends me spiraling into worst-case scenarios. Then I pause. Breathe. And remind myself: I'm aging. These feelings? They come with the territory.

I’d love to say I don’t care about my hair — but I panicked when I noticed it thinning. Still, the beauty standards of aging don’t keep me up at night. I accept what’s changing. That doesn’t mean I won’t try to soften the fall, but I’m not going to lose sleep over it.

There are days I look in the mirror and don’t quite recognize myself. My face has softened. My body moves differently. The changes are subtle, but they’ve arrived — and they’ve brought with them a reckoning.

I’ve spent years negotiating with my body. Apologizing for it. Trying to shrink it, push it harder, fix what others told me was wrong. And somewhere along the way, I started believing that aging meant losing control. Losing beauty. Losing relevance.

But this body? It’s still mine.

It has carried me through births and heartbreaks, career changes and caregiving, long nights and longer years. It has held joy and tension, desire and doubt. It has been the backdrop to my life — and it deserves better than constant critique.

I’ve read studies that suggest our 50s are pivotal. This decade is the bridge between who we were and who we’ll be in our 60s, 70s, and beyond. That doesn’t mean if you’re already in your 60s or 70s it’s too late — far from it. But if you’re in your 50s, it’s time to make some choices.