How I learned to love my body

By Luna Vermeer

4 min

Somewhere between turning thirty I started to notice my body changing. At first, I fought it pulling at clothes, sighing at mirrors, and googling “gravity-proof bras.” But eventually I realized my body wasn’t betraying me; it was just evolving, like a wise old friend with a sense of humor. This is my story of learning to laugh with my body, love it as it is, and even find more pleasure than I expected.

The day my jeans protested

One morning I tried to put on my old skinny jeans, and I they stopped at my thighs. For a moment I felt betrayed, but then I thought: maybe my thighs are just that fabulous now that denim can’t contain them. So instead of crying into my coffee, I wiggled out of those jeans, put on leggings, and gave my thighs a standing ovation. That tiny shift choosing humor over horror was the beginning of me making peace with my new curves. I realized the mirror wasn’t an enemy; it was just showing me the sequel. And honestly, sequels can be better than the original.

Wrinkles and wobbles

Getting older is like your body adding bonus features nobody asked for: wrinkles, softer arms, and boobs that seem to nap a little lower every year. At first, I pulled, prodded, and pushed, hoping to press rewind, but eventually I leaned into the comedy of it all. My belly jiggles when I laugh so really, it’s just joining in on the joke. The lines around my eyes are basically permanent smile souvenirs. Even cellulite started to look less like a flaw and more like artistic texture. Somewhere along the way, I realized my body wasn’t falling apart; it was just showing off all the fun it’s had.

Not taking it too seriously

These days I give my body a little gratitude speech before bed. On tough days I talk to my belly like it’s a pet “thanks for digesting all that pasta, buddy” and the silliness makes me smile instead of sulk. When I notice my boobs heading south, I remind myself: well, at least they’re adventurous. Even my stretch marks have earned nicknames they’re my “tiger stripes,” proof that I’ve lived, loved, and probably eaten way too many croissants. By keeping it light, playful, and a little silly, I finally learned the big secret: loving your body doesn’t mean worshipping it; it means laughing with it, forgiving it, and enjoying the ride jiggles and all.

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