14/03/2026
This is somewhat excellent. There comes a point in life where deciding to become our own best friend over the eternal critic using filters and fast fixes as distraction tools, is the true game to be played. Credit to the author. ❤️
My lovely friend sent me a poem about the body this morning, and I loved it so much I wrote a letter to my own.
Dear Body,
I’ll be honest…
we’ve had a bit of a complicated relationship over the years.
Because the truth is, it hasn’t always been difficult between us.
There were years when you made me feel bloody marvellous.
Years when I could throw on a dress, look in the mirror and think,
“Yep… that’ll do nicely.”
You’ve made me feel glamorous.
Sexy.
Confident.
You’ve turned heads in the right way many many times.
There were nights out, parties, holidays, dancing in the highest of heels until stupid o’clock when I felt completely at home in you.
And if I’m honest, I didn’t thank you then either.
I just assumed that was normal.
Then life happened.
Years went by. Things changed. People died. Relationships ended.
Menopause arrived causing problems like squatters holding a ten-year rave.
And there I was, still standing in front of the mirror saying,
“Christ, look at the effing state of you.”
Somewhere along the way our relationship got a bit strained.
There were decades where I treated you like a problem to be fixed.
Too big.
Too soft.
Too lumpy in places the magazines said should be smooth.
I apologised for you in photos.
Held my breath in changing rooms.
Pulled jumpers down over my arse like I was smuggling a sofa under there.
Cursed my itchy lady bits and the hairs that sprout up, all-over.
And the ridiculous thing is, while I was busy criticising you,
you were just quietly getting on with the job.
You carried me through sleepless nights.
Through work stress.
Through family dramas.
Through every daft diet I threw at you.
You got me out of bed when I was tired.
You kept my heart beating when I wasn’t paying attention.
You digested the Greggs corned beef slice and hopeful side salad
without judgement.
So I think it’s time we had a word.
Dear Body. I’m sorry.
Sorry for the years of eye-rolling and muttering under my breath.
Because the truth is you’ve been an absolute warrior.
Yes, things wobble a bit more now.
Yes, the knees creak like an old floorboard.
And yes, my big backside has decided it would quite like its own postcode.
But you know what?
You’re still here.
Still getting me up in the morning.
Still carrying me through life.
Still letting me laugh so hard I wee a bit.
And at this stage of the game that’s not something to criticise.
That’s something to be bloody grateful for.
So from now on, instead of constantly telling you what’s wrong with you, I’m going to try saying thank you.
We might still lose a bit of weight together.
We might get a bit fitter.
We might even sort the pelvic floor out so sneezing isn’t a tactical event.
But this time it’s not because I hate you.
It’s because you deserve looking after. After everything you’ve done for me.
Because after everything you’ve carried me through the least I can do now is finally be on your side.
Love,
Me x
Your definitely older, slightly wiser owner.
(who is finally starting to realise you were never the problem — she was)
Janette Cass Copyright 2026.
Feel free however to share the whole post with anyone who might need it today and let us know in the comment what you'd include in your letter.
