26/08/2025
Since becoming a mother to a daughter, Iâve thought a lot about how much of a womanâs worth is still tied to her appearance.
It makes me shudder that the highest compliment we give a woman is that sheâs âpretty.â I look back at myself, six days a week at the gym, starving my body, botox at 25, and I ache. Not just for me, but for every woman whoâs twisted herself into knots trying to be âenough.â
The irony is, even when I did fit the âmouldâ, size 8, perfect skin, shiny blonde hair, I never felt beautiful. Not once. Because beauty was never there.
The most beautiful I have ever felt? It wasnât when I was my smallest or most put together. It was with a big pregnant belly, in my true feminine form, carrying life, creating life, nourishing life. Sitting on the couch at 5am, sunrise glowing into the room, a brand new baby in my arms. That was beauty.
We forget that aging is a privilege. Every line on our face, every change in our body, is proof that weâve lived, that weâve loved, that weâve survived.
When I think of the people I adore most, I donât think of their toned body or wrinkle free skin. I think of their laugh that fills a room. Their wisdom. Their kindness. The way their presence softens a space.
And when our time is done, no one will stand at our funeral and say, âShe had perky b***s and smooth skin.â Theyâll remember how we made them feel. That is beauty.
And more than anything, I hope Iâm raising a daughter who loves herself exactly as she is. Who treasures her curious, smart mind, her quick wit and her laugh, her smile and sparkly eyes. Who knows thatâs enough and never feels she has to contort herself to fit an ever changing definition of beauty.
