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<\/figure>\n\n\n\nI stopped expecting perfection from myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was why I didn’t hesitate when my husband, Michael, suggested taking a photograph together during our seaside holiday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were standing near the water. I was wearing a swimsuit. My hair was messy from the wind, there were lines around my eyes, and my stomach certainly didn’t look the way it had thirty years earlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn’t care.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Michael put his arm around me, we smiled, and a stranger took the picture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I looked at it later, I loved it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not because I looked younger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because I looked happy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I posted it online that evening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The following morning, I discovered a comment that made me wish I hadn’t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was from my own daughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom, seriously? At your age you shouldn’t be showing yourself like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read the sentence twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then a third time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Suddenly, I didn’t see the ocean in the photograph anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I saw every part of my body I had spent years learning not to hate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Body I Had Spent a Lifetime Criticizing<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
My daughter, Emily, was thirty-four.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were close, although like many mothers and adult daughters, we could occasionally hurt each other with a precision strangers could never achieve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She probably thought she was making an ordinary observation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To me, it felt different.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked again at the photograph.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My eyes immediately moved to my stomach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two pregnancies had changed it permanently. There were stretch marks and softness that exercise had never completely removed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My thighs weren’t smooth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My arms weren’t as firm as they once were.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My face clearly belonged to a sixty-year-old woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For perhaps ten minutes, I considered deleting the photograph.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then Michael came onto the balcony carrying coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou’re quiet,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I showed him the comment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He read it without speaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre you going to delete the picture?\u201d he finally asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don’t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDid you like it before you read that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen what’s changed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I almost said, \u201cNothing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But something had changed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For a few minutes, I had allowed someone else’s discomfort to become my shame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When Did Aging Become Something to Hide?<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
I spent that morning thinking about the strange rules women absorb throughout their lives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When we’re young, we’re encouraged to be attractive but warned not to attract too much attention.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When we become mothers, our bodies are celebrated for creating life and then immediately judged for not returning quickly enough to their previous shape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As we grow older, another message appears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cover up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Be elegant, but not noticeable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stay fit, but don’t show too much skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Look youthful, but don’t appear to be trying to look young.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Age naturally, but somehow avoid looking old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It is an impossible collection of instructions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I realized that I had followed many of them without questioning why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had spent years buying swimsuits designed to hide my stomach. I had avoided photographs from certain angles. I had refused to wear sleeveless dresses because I disliked my upper arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nobody had forced me to do these things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had simply learned that a woman’s body was something constantly being evaluated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now my own daughter was repeating the same lesson back to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was what hurt most.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I Didn’t Delete the Photograph<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Instead, I did something much less dramatic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I left it exactly where it was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I wrote another post.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I did not mention Emily by name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn’t want to humiliate my daughter publicly, and I certainly didn’t want strangers attacking her on my behalf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wrote about myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I explained that I was sixty years old and that the body in the photograph had changed enormously during those sixty years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It had carried pregnancies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It had recovered from illnesses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It had gained weight and lost weight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It had worked long days, slept too little, danced at weddings, walked along beaches and held people I loved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It had wrinkles because I had aged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It had scars because I had lived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I was no longer interested in treating those facts as failures.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I wrote one final sentence:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don’t need to look thirty to deserve a photograph of myself being happy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put down my phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the rest of the afternoon, Michael and I went sightseeing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My Daughter Called That Evening<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Emily didn’t begin with an apology.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom, was that post about me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPartly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI was only saying the picture was a little revealing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor whom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She became quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho was uncomfortable with it? Me or you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Another silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she said something I hadn’t expected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI just don’t want people laughing at you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There it was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not cruelty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily had seen how people behave online. She knew that strangers can be vicious about appearance, particularly toward women. In her mind, perhaps she was protecting me before somebody else could hurt me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But protection that requires someone to disappear is not much protection at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf somebody laughs at my sixty-year-old body,\u201d I told her, \u201cwhy should I be the one embarrassed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn’t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Conversation Became Bigger Than a Photograph<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
We talked for nearly an hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I asked Emily whether she remembered being sixteen and refusing to go swimming because she thought her thighs were too large.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remembered trying to reassure her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had told her she was beautiful. I had told her not to compare herself with photographs in magazines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But then I remembered something else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
During that same holiday, I had refused to wear my own swimsuit without a long cover-up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily had been watching me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Children do not learn only from what their parents say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They also learn from what parents do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had told my daughter to love her body while spending years criticizing mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had complained about photographs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had talked about diets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had stood in front of mirrors and pointed out everything I wanted to change.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Perhaps the lesson Emily learned was not the lesson I thought I had taught.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Maybe she had concluded that young women could be beautiful but older women were supposed to hide the evidence of aging.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If so, I had helped teach her that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The realization softened my anger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It did not make her comment acceptable, but it helped me understand where it might have come from.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat Am I Supposed to Wear at Sixty?\u201d<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
A few days later, when we returned home, Emily visited us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The photograph was still online.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked embarrassed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI shouldn’t have written that,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thanked her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I asked a question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat exactly am I supposed to wear at sixty?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She laughed awkwardly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don’t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA long dress?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA coat on the beach?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPerhaps a curtain?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She finally laughed properly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then her expression changed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI really am sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I believed her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I also told her something I wished someone had told me when I was thirty-four.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Growing older does not happen suddenly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There is no morning when you wake up and feel like an \u201cold person.\u201d You remain yourself while the number changes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At forty, I had still felt like me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At fifty, I had still felt like me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At sixty, I was still the same person, carrying every earlier version of myself inside me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why would reaching a particular birthday suddenly cancel my right to wear a swimsuit?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Confidence Doesn’t Mean Thinking You’re Perfect<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
This was another lesson I had learned late.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For years, I believed confidence meant looking in the mirror and loving everything I saw.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That standard is almost as exhausting as hating yourself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don’t love every part of my appearance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There are mornings when I notice another wrinkle and wish it weren’t there. There are clothes I avoid because I don’t feel comfortable in them. There are old photographs in which I admire the body I had and failed to appreciate at the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Confidence is not pretending those feelings never exist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It is refusing to allow them to decide whether you participate in your own life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can dislike my stomach and still swim.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can have wrinkles and still enjoy being photographed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can be sixty and still want my husband to look at me with affection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can care about looking attractive without pretending to be younger than I am.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Those things are not contradictions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They are simply human.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Photograph Became More Important Than I Expected<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Weeks passed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The picture remained online.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eventually it disappeared down my page beneath photographs of dinners, flowers, family gatherings and ordinary afternoons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But something had changed between Emily and me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few months later, she sent me a photograph from a holiday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was standing beside a swimming pool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAlmost didn’t post this,\u201d she wrote.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy stomach.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the message.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then another appeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut I remembered what you said.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She posted the photograph.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Perhaps that was the \u201clesson\u201d I had wanted to give her, although it wasn’t really a lesson in the end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a conversation we both needed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A Body Is Not an Apology<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
We often talk about aging as though it were something that happens to other people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then one day we notice that the person in the mirror has changed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The temptation is to compare that person with photographs from twenty or thirty years earlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But that comparison has no winner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course I looked younger when I was younger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That is what younger means.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The goal of my life cannot be to spend its second half mourning the face and body I had during the first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am sixty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If I am fortunate, I will become seventy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then eighty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Perhaps even ninety.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don’t know what my body will look like then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know only that I do not want to spend those years waiting for permission to enjoy it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The photograph my daughter wanted me to delete is still one of my favorites.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not because I look flawless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don’t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I love it because Michael’s arm is around my waist. The sea is behind us. My hair is blowing everywhere, and we are both laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nothing about that moment needed correcting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nothing needed hiding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And neither did I.<\/p>\n\n\n\n