There are moments when I catch my reflection and feel like a stranger is looking back at me.
Not because I’ve fallen short of some societal standard of beauty — I gave up chasing those long ago.
The disconnect is deeper, more personal.
It’s between the woman I feel myself to be and the image I see now.

I’m carrying more weight than I ever have in my life.
And while I know my worth is not measured by a number on a scale, I can’t pretend it hasn’t affected how feminine I feel — or don’t feel — in my body today.

This isn’t just about appearances.
My health has felt the weight too.
Years of living under heightened stress, anxiety, and depression led me down a path of survival — not thriving.
Long hours at a desk. Movement as an afterthought. Habits meant to soothe pain that, over time, only deepened it.

Add to that a total hysterectomy and early menopause — my hormones spiraling, my digestion struggling — and it often feels like my body and I have been at odds for years.

“Femininity was never meant to be a dress size. It’s the quiet strength of coming home to myself.”

Now, I’m doing the work to listen.
I’m working with a doctor to re-balance my hormones.
I’m finding an eating style that nourishes rather than punishes.
I’m relearning how to move — not because I hate my body, but because I want to feel alive inside it again.

There’s grief here.
Grief for the ease I once felt in my skin.
Grief for the woman I sometimes think I should still be.

But there’s also something else growing alongside the grief: hope.

Hope that femininity isn’t something I lost.
Hope that it was never about fitting a shape or meeting a standard.
Hope that it’s about inhabiting myself — broken, healing, imperfect — with love.

“This chapter isn’t about getting back to who I was.
It’s about meeting myself where I am — with tenderness, patience, and a deeper expression of love.
Healing isn’t just physical; it’s remembering who I’ve always been underneath it all.”

I’m not regaining an old version of myself.
I’m becoming someone new — someone softer, stronger, and more real.

I am not who I used to be — and that is not a loss, but a becoming.

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