My body’s Turning Thirty.

“New is scary, and acceptance takes time.”

Changing body’s, changing age and changing perspective.

“My body’s turning thirty and it’s blowing my mind. I should say that up until now it’s always been a very well-behaved body. Happily pear-shaped, taking some liberties around Christmas and Easter but generally slipping back into line by the time it gets to summer. I’ve never really flirted with shapewear or cabbage soup diets, never stuck pictures of other women to my fridge.

Sure, I’ve wished it was a different body sometimes, pining after someone else’s bigger boobs or smaller thighs or flatter stomach, the way we do when we’re not being so nice to ourselves. In fact, I spent my entire teens convinced that my knees looked like potatoes and that no one would ever love a girl with feet as big as mine (not true, it turns out). But generally, I can’t deny that for 29 years and 11 months, my body’s served me pretty well.

Recently though, things feel… different. Not that you’d notice – maybe I wouldn’t even notice if I was checking myself out in the window of a parked car or in the back of a shiny spoon. But given enough time to scrutinise, or the mean glow of a changing room light, I’ve started to see that things are definitely… dropping. Creasing. Bunching. Pleating??

The slight sag of skin under my jawline. That’s new. And it’s not the accidental-front-camera fold of skin I’ve been familiar with for all of my twenties. This one doesn’t disappear with the panicked push of a home screen button, but hangs around all day like some kind of small, soft hammock. There’s the resilient little whisker that keeps sprouting on the bottom of my chin, no matter how many times I pluck the bugger. And another thing: Nipples, meet belly button.

Don’t get me wrong, there are good things too. I’m a little more rounded in places in a way I quite enjoy. I feel stronger. Sturdy. Less of a waif and more of a woman made to withstand all of life’s cannonballs. There are marks on my skin that aren’t really marks but memories. There are parts of me that I used to hate (I’m looking at you, knees) that I’ve made peace with. And there’s a lot of joy in that.

But still, new is scary, and acceptance takes time. It’s hard to roll with the punches when I’m still being surprised by my side profile, and my style, which for most of my twenties has been fairly uniform, is having to evolve with my body. But we are where we are. And though I may not quite be ready to welcome these changes with open arms, thirty years of experience tells me that nothing good comes from beating yourself up about things you can’t control.

So instead I choose to trust the process. And as I barrel into my thirties in a body that – let’s face it – is only going to keep changing, I aim for more acceptance. More tolerance for my body’s shifting tides. More appreciation for the fact that it’s brought me this far.

After all, what else is the downward trajectory of my boobs other than the weight of all those valuable lessons learnt? What’s the stubborn whisker on my chin but the plucky willpower that comes with being told you can’t and discovering that you absolutely can? What’s the soft skin hammock under my jawline but a gentle reminder to lie back and take it easy sometimes?

My body, if not quite a temple, has still been a safe haven for me to grow and change inside over the past three decades. Generously carrying me through thirty years of late nights and cheap white wine and work stress and sunning myself in crappy London gardens. Of questionable choices and some good choices and too much caffeine and honestly only really ever getting 3 of my 5 a day. Of new friends and new love and new perspectives. When I look at it like that, we’ve been through a lot, my body and I. And surely that’s worth every sag, crease and persistent little whisker that’s coming my way?”