A Love Letter to My Changing Body.

Sags. Leaks. Slays. Still got it and turns out, I always did.

Jul 09, 2025

Are you there, boobs? It’s me, Angela.

(To my OG July Blume girls, this will sound familiar. BTW, Judy Blume? What a badass, am I right?)

As a teenager, I never fully appreciated how lucky I was to have you so full and fabulous at such a young age. You two were scrumptious. I even remember telling my grandma how much I loved the cleavage you two lovelies gave me.

My two delicious little mounds.

Then I started swimming competitively and, well, you got in the way. You were big and bulky. I was convinced you were slowing me down. I blamed you for costing me seconds in the pool.

In my 20s, you calmed down. A little smaller, a little cuter. Perky, standing at attention, and looking damn good in most tops. I adored you, but I know I didn’t tell you that enough.

Then came my 30s and my first son. You bounced back to full glory during pregnancy. You fed my boy for two years.

And when he was done? So were you. You clocked out.

You deflated into what I can only describe as two medium-sized prunes.

Just hanging there. Sad. Wrinkly. Deflated and defeated.

But you rallied. You showed up for Baby No. 2, and again for No. 3. You literally sustained life for a total of six amazingly active years.

You did, admittedly, draw some unwanted attention. Like the time one of my sons (at age 5) told me you were “big … and long.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong. You weren’t big, exactly. But you were definitely long.

And not the cute kind of long. The “WTF happened here?” kind.

Eventually, just as I started working to get my body back, you decided to retire. Like, full-blown Florida snowbird status. You bought a one-way ticket out. You just left the building.

And I was sad.

I’d look at you in the mirror and think: You must really hate me. You bolted, and maybe it’s because I stopped loving you, too.

Then, in my mid-40s, I got tired of mourning the space you used to fill, literally and emotionally. So I brought you back. (Thanks, Dr K.).

I didn’t do it for a man. It wasn’t a decision borne from some post-divorce identity crisis. I didn’t do it to be sexy for anyone else.

I did it for me.

I wanted to feel whole again. To take back something I’d lost. I didn’t ask for permission. I didn’t explain it or justify it. I just said yes to myself for one of the first times I can remember.

Now, in my mid-50s, sure–you’re a little droopier again. But you old girls still know how to have a good time.

You like to be felt up. You like to be sucked on a little bit during sexy time fun time. You fill out a blouse just right. You get noticed at the beach on occasion. You’re one of my man’s two favorite friends.

You’ve got presence. Personality. History.

So thank you, boobs, for the good times, the comebacks, and for still bringing me joy after all these years.

A Glimpse of Gorgeous I Didn’t See Coming

Two days after my 50th birthday, I realized a woman can still feel beautiful in her ~~fifth~~ sixth (official math alert) decade. My man’s older daughter had just married her stunning wife, and the two of them were absolutely beaming.

Leading up to the wedding, their only ask of me was to wear something in a light champagne color, which was easy, since champagne shades are already in my top three, right behind black and gray. (Plus, I’m a big fan of champs, full stop.)

When I started looking for a dress, I browsed the “mother of the bride” section, and let me just say, some of those options were so not me: Too plain. Too conservative. Too old. Too meh.

Maybe because the wedding lined up with my milestone birthday, I wanted to go bold.

I’ve always been conscious of what I eat. I love working out. (Decades of running is a hell of a lot cheaper than extra therapy sessions.) And while I’ve heard, “You look good for your age,” more times than I can count, I hate that phrase.

At 50, I just looked good. Period.

As I searched the racks, I got more adventurous: one-shoulder styles, mid-calf cuts, even strapless. (Although strapless still terrifies me. I live in fear of the whole thing sliding to the floor mid-toast).

I ruled out cap sleeves because, let’s be honest, no one looks good in those. Eventually, I landed on a lacy dress that showed my arms (wrinkly elbows and all), my back, and my shoulders.

I also bought my first pair of Spanx because no one needs to see my midsection jelly roll. And I splurged on a pair of heels.

Which, if you know me, is a big flex. I can lose my balance on the couch. So heels? I had to practice for a week just to avoid looking like a baby giraffe.

But once the look came together, it was on.

The morning of the wedding, I was invited to get ready with the bridal party. My curls got the royal treatment, and a pro worked makeup magic on my face: no dark circles, no crease-caked foundation, no over-rouged cheeks. I even wore a few well-placed false lashes for the first time.

When I turned around and saw myself in the mirror, I actually said out loud, “Well damn, hon. You clean up good.”

And when I slipped into that dress, stood in front of the full-length mirror, and finally exhaled after a week of high-highs and hard-lows (wedding prep, my birthday, and the sudden loss of my man’s mom just days before), I saw only myself.

The new version of me: Fifty. Divorced. A marketing exec with exactly 30 years of experience. Mom to three feral boys and four more kids from my Australian.

It was like all the weathering I’d been carrying just lifted for a moment, and what stared back at me was me. The me that’s beautiful. The me that’s always been beautiful.

Maybe I saw what others have seen in me for years: the parts I’ve dismissed, minimized, or tucked away in the name of being “humble.”

Not “pretty,” but attractive.

Inviting. Warm. Confident.

I saw in the flesh the things others often commented on. When I smile, it takes over my whole face, something I see and love in my boys. My eyes are this odd shade of blue-gray that apparently shifts with my mood (or so my boys swear). My curly hair piled in a messy updo that gave “just rolled out of bed in a good way” energy.

People have told me I have a presence that feels safe and welcoming. It draws them in. That day, maybe for the first time ever, I fully leaned all the way into those traits.

I knew I’d turn heads, and not because there was toilet paper stuck to my shoe. (Yes, that’s happened before).

It was because I looked beautiful.

Because I am beautiful.

Period.

**Breaking Up with Bullsh*t: The Body Myths I Don’t Date Anymore**

There are two things I still remember a stupid-ass boy telling me back in 9th or 10th grade. I wasn’t the stunning teenager with the flowing hair and perfect curves that screamed hot girl.

I was (and still am, though the shrinking has started) tall. I rocked a mess of curls which, in the '80s, meant massive hair, gallons of hairspray and, yes, at one point, a perm. (I’ve ditched the product and perms, but the curls live on.)

I had boobs early - thanks, puberty, Mom, and Grandma Gemma! But I was also a swimmer with broad shoulders, thick quads, and not a lot of curves where boys wanted them.

I wasn’t the girl guys lined up to flirt with, but there was one boy I thought was really cute. He had bright blue eyes (different from mine), he was tan from playing soccer, and he had this deep brown hair with amber highlights.

The looks looked!

Typical teen drama unfolded as a result of this crush. After some classic he said/she said, I got the download.

This guy did like me, but … .

“Her lips are too big,” he told my friends. “And her butt’s too flat.” As can only happen in high school, this was the talk inside a group of about 10 kids and eventually made its way back to me by my best girlfriend at the time.

That was it.

Big lips.

Flat butt.

Two dumb throwaway comments from a full-on adolescent idiot that I invited to live rent-free in my head for decades.

Those labels didn’t spark daily, but they popped up frequently. Like bad background music.

Fast forward to my 20s and 30s when, it turned out, big lips were a very good thing. They saved me thousands in filler.

As for the butt? I was a runner. Running doesn’t exactly build a booty, so I just accepted that I wasn’t packing much in the back, and I was fine with it.

Until one day, during my marriage, when my ex made a comment about my flat ass. I don’t remember the moment, just the words.

Like little grenades, his “observations” came back to me post-divorce in the form of new, unhelpful mantras: That I couldn’t sing. (This one made me self-conscious, so I chose to mumble along with my kids instead of belting out our favorite songs over the years. That my smile was crooked. That my ass was flat.

After the split, something changed.

I started really seeing myself, parts of me I’d ignored, hidden, or silenced. I owned the things I needed to own about why the marriage didn’t work. But I also began ditching the baggage I’d carried about my appearance.

One day, as I was getting ready to take the kids to the beach post-divorce, I stood in front of the mirror in my bikini.

I looked at the woman staring back: Tired boobs. Strong-ass legs. A tummy with a C-section scar from babies No. 2 and No. 3.

And when I turned around to check the backside?

There it was: a butt. Was it round and perky and Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition-worthy?

Nope.

But it was mine. And I saw it.

For the first time, I didn’t think: Ugh, still flat as a pancake.

Instead, I thought: Well, hey there, badass (literally), sorry I let a couple of jackasses throw shade. You’re lookin' like a damn fine peach to me.

She’s Not Perfect, But Damn, She’s Mine: Learning to Befriend the Body That’s Carried Me Through Hell and Back

I didn’t really take care of myself or my body for a long time. As I look back on that reality in my 50s, it’s kind of heartbreaking.

I treated my body like a distant acquaintance, a social “friend” I’d see at parent-teacher night or while shopping at the grocery store.

Friendly. Familiar. But not someone I ever truly knew.

Over the past decade, I’ve had to admit that I never took the time to really get to know her, like “know” know her.

I didn’t know she liked her boobs kissed and sucked during sex. I didn’t know the moves she needed to climax because I never asked. Because she was never asked.

I didn’t fully appreciate that she could carry a baby on one hip, a toddler in the other arm, and give a third a piggyback ride while ordering pizza and fishing a pacifier out of the toilet.

I didn’t know her legs would carry her across finish lines in multiple marathons or that she’d hit her personal best at 40.

I didn’t know she’d become the safe place her sons needed and wanted close to them every night before bed. The body they’d crawl onto for comfort. The arms they’d cry in when their world got too loud and too scary.

I didn’t know she’d carry herself, barely holding it together, into a mediator’s office. I didn’t know she’d sit across from her soon-to-be-ex-husband of 15 years, digging deep to choose strength over collapse.

I didn’t know she’d fall in love with a man from Australia, board flight after flight to build a life across hemispheres, and yell like a lunatic at every one of her boys' games. (Win or lose, she was never demure and mindful).

I didn’t know she’d work like a dog for decades to secure her finances, carry me through cancer, and still rock a bikini at nearly 55 like she owns the damn beach.

I didn’t know she could keep up with three giant sons, that she’d love being wrapped up by her man, and that she’d melt every time he whispered, “Damn, you are the sexiest bitch ever.”

And through all of it?

She showed up. Every. Damn. Day.

But I wasn’t showing up for her. I never made time to know her, to really see her, and to truly appreciate her.

Now, I do. I’m still learning.

But today, she’s not just my body.

She’s my oldest, fiercest, most loyal friend.

Honestly, I think she always has been.

Your Turn: Write Her a Letter

What would you say to the body that’s carried you through heartbreaks, babies, battles, and belly laughs?

Write her a love note.

Drop a line below or email me at realgirlsguide55@gmail.com to share. A rant. A thank-you. Whatever she needs to hear, we’re listening.

We’ve earned every wrinkle. Might as well make more laugh lines together.
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