The Woman in the Mirror Went to San Diego

I had just written an entire book called The Woman in the Mirror: Where Skin Meets Soul.

An entire book about looking beyond the reflection.

About aging.

About worth.

About learning that beauty isn't measured by what we see in the mirror.

And then I started packing for San Diego.

Apparently, life decided it was time for a pop quiz.

I started pulling clothes out of my closet, trying things on, and discovering that things did not fit the way I remembered them fitting.

There was a belly where I didn't want a belly.

Things were tighter.

Things bulged.

Things that looked perfectly innocent hanging in the closet became downright rude once I put them on.

And I got sad.

Not just I don't like this outfit sad.

This went deeper.

Because I wasn't going just anywhere.

I was going back to San Diego.

The place where I had spent more than 40 years of my life. The place where I raised my kids. The place filled with memories of younger versions of me.

And somewhere in my head, without even realizing I had done it, I had decided that the woman returning to San Diego was supposed to look like one of those earlier versions.

Thinner.

Younger.

Maybe prettier.

Certainly without this belly.

And suddenly I realized something.

I was doing exactly what I had just written an entire book telling women not to do.

There I was, standing in front of the mirror, reducing the whole complicated, beautiful, battered, funny, hard-earned story of my life to the muffin top sticking out of my pants.

Well, shootskies.

The Mirror Wasn't the Problem

The mirror was just showing me my body.

I was the one telling the story about what it meant.

That's the part that finally hit me.

I could look at my belly and decide it meant I wasn't as attractive as I used to be.

I could compare myself to photographs from years ago.

I could walk into San Diego wondering whether people were noticing that I'd gained weight.

I could spend the whole trip apologizing to myself for not being 40 anymore.

Or...

I could remember who was actually going on this trip.

Not the younger Beverlee.

The 67-year-old Beverlee.

The one who has lived through all the years between then and now.

The one who has loved people and lost people.

Raised children.

Become a grandmother.

Built a business.

Started over.

Made mistakes.

Survived heartbreak.

Laughed until she couldn't breathe.

Created things from nothing.

Written a freaking book.

And accumulated some extra padding along the way.

When I looked at it that way, it seemed a little ridiculous to let a waistband have the final word.

So I Changed the Question

Instead of asking:

How do I make myself look like the woman who used to live in San Diego?

I started asking:

How do I go to San Diego as the very best 67-year-old Beverlee I can be?

That changed everything.

I stopped trying to dress the body I used to have and started dressing the woman I have now.

And part of that meant doing something remarkably simple.

I went up a size.

I went shopping and bought clothes that actually fit the body I have today. And let me tell you, I found some really, really cute outfits.

Funny how much better you feel when you're wearing clothes that fit instead of spending the day being punished by a number sewn into the back of your pants.

I bought some new makeup, too.

I did my hair.

I accessorized.

I put myself together in ways that made me feel pretty.

And then I did something else.

I quit looking in the mirror so much.

I stopped inspecting myself from every angle, searching for something else to criticize.

And I never weighed myself.

Not once.

I didn't need a number on a scale to tell me whether I was allowed to feel beautiful that day.

Little by little, I started seeing the whole woman again.

Not just the belly.

Me.

And you know what?

I looked cute.

Actually, some days I looked really cute.

But even better than that, I felt like myself.

Maybe That's What Loving Yourself Actually Looks Like

I don't think loving yourself means looking in the mirror every morning and being thrilled with every inch of your body.

Some mornings you might look at yourself and think, Well, that's unfortunate.

We're human.

We have insecurities.

We age.

Our bodies change.

Sometimes our pants betray us.

Self-love isn't pretending you don't see any of that.

It's refusing to let those things become the most important thing you see.

Because there is so much more standing in that mirror.

There is history there.

Wisdom.

Loss.

Joy.

Friendship.

Motherhood.

Grandmotherhood.

Love.

Work.

Resilience.

A thousand ordinary Tuesdays you survived without ever realizing they were building the woman you would eventually become.

And yes, there may also be a muffin top.

Both things can be true.

Don't Wait for Perfect Before You Begin

All of this reminded me of something I used to talk about when I was coaching.

I had a picture of myself when I was about seven years old, learning to ride a bicycle.

It was my brother's bike, a three-speed, and it was way too big for me.

So I would prop that big old bicycle up against one of those wooden rail fences. I'd climb onto the fence so I could get high enough to get myself onto the bike.

Think about that little girl for a minute.

She didn't wait until she had a bicycle that fit her perfectly.

She didn't wait until she was bigger.

She didn't wait until she knew how to ride.

She found a fence, climbed up, got on the bike and began.

The quote I used with that picture was:

Don't wait to be perfect before you begin.

And isn't that exactly what we still do as grown women?

I'll go when I lose ten pounds.

I'll buy the cute outfit when I'm a smaller size.

I'll get in the picture when I look better.

I'll start dating when I feel prettier.

I'll wear the bathing suit when my stomach is flatter.

I'll begin when...

We can spend half our lives standing beside the bicycle waiting to become the person we think we're supposed to be before we're allowed to get on.

Maybe the answer is much simpler.

Find the fence. Climb up. And begin.

I Went Back Anyway

I went to San Diego.

I spent time with one of my oldest and dearest friends.

I laughed.

I went places.

I wore my cute new clothes.

I wore my new makeup.

I ate, drank and enjoyed myself.

And I lived my life instead of waiting to lose weight before giving myself permission to enjoy it.

Somewhere during that trip, the younger, thinner woman I thought I was supposed to compete with stopped feeling quite so important.

I don't want her life back.

I'm grateful she existed.

She got me here.

But she didn't know everything I know now.

She hadn't lived everything I've lived.

She hadn't become me yet.

And I wouldn't trade all of that just to fit into a smaller pair of jeans.

So if you're standing in front of your own mirror today, pulling at your shirt, sucking in your stomach, studying your wrinkles, criticizing your arms, your thighs, your neck, or whatever body part has decided to annoy you today...

Look again.

Not because you're supposed to convince yourself that everything you see is perfect.

Look again because you may have stopped before you saw the whole woman.

She's still there.

And she has places to go.

Put on something that fits and makes you feel good.

Go up a size if that's what fits. Cut the tag out if the number bothers you. Nobody needs to know what it says anyway.

Fix your hair if you want to.

Try the new makeup.

Add the earrings.

And then quit looking in the mirror.

Go.

Don't wait until you're thinner.

Don't wait until you think you look perfect.

Don't wait until you've fixed that one thing you've convinced yourself is standing between you and the life you want to live.

Don't wait for perfection before you begin.

The mirror doesn't get to decide when you're ready.

You do.

Be the very best version of the woman you are today.

And then go live your life.

You might even discover what I did.

You look pretty darn cute doing it.

From Skin to Soul,

Aunt Be

If This Spoke to You...

The Woman in the Mirror: Where Skin Meets Soul was written for moments just like this.

It's my little reminder that the woman looking back at you is so much more than what you see in the mirror.

I'd love for you to have a copy. It's my gift to you.