v. 29 The Great Cellulite Spiral: A Love-Hate Letter to Aging, Insecurity, and Perspective
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
Happy International Women’s Month, friends.
I was mid-workout, feeling strong, looking in the floor length mirror, fully embracing the move-your-body-because-it-feels-good mindset, when I caught a glimpse of my thighs. And just like that, my brain flipped a switch. “Why?!” I thought, exasperated…“I really need to work out more.” As if I wasn’t already doing exactly that. As if those dimples on my skin were some great moral failing. As if my body owed me a smooth, wrinkle-free, dimple-free existence simply because I had chosen to move it.
And here’s the thing—I know better. I talk about empowerment for a living. I can wax poetic about self-acceptance, aging with some semblance of grace, and the utter nonsense of beauty standards. I know that my body isn’t broken, that it doesn’t need fixing. And yet, in that moment, none of that wisdom mattered. Because there it was: that knee-jerk, deeply ingrained belief that something about me needed to change. Which is wild because—c’mon—I am absolutely stunning. I mean, gorgeous. My beauty has been confirmed by countless mirrors, good lighting, and at least three separate family members (including my husband.) And still, even I am not immune to the ridiculous societal nonsense that says I should be at war with my own thighs.
Just as I start spiraling—mentally researching new workout plans that I won’t actually commit to—I pull back and remember: The world is literally burning. Actual crises are unfolding all around us. But sure, let me just fall apart over the fact that my thighs look… like thighs. Because that’s the real emergency here.
The actual issue, of course, isn’t my thighs—it’s the conditioning. We’ve been taught to value ourselves based on smooth skin, a flat stomach, and an overall ability to defy time. And even when we unlearn this garbage, we still have to fight against its residue. The absolute mindfuck of being a woman is that we can know all of this. We can intellectually understand that bodies change, that weight fluctuates, that cellulite is a feature, not a flaw—and still, that tiny voice sneaks in. The one that’s been whispering since birth: Fix it. Hide it. Shrink yourself. And so, we exist in this absurd space where we champion self-acceptance while also side-eyeing our reflection in bad lighting.
So, what do we do? Because the answer isn’t to pretend we never have these thoughts. It’s not to shame ourselves for still being affected by the world we live in. No, the work is in noticing. In pausing long enough to say, “Oh, look at that. There’s that old, tired trope again. Cute.” It’s understanding that these insecurities are not a reflection of our actual worth but of the ridiculous, outdated standards we’ve absorbed for decades. And when we name them, when we call them out for what they are, we take away their power.
I won’t tell you that I never think about my body in shitty ways. That would be a lie. But I will tell you that I refuse to let those thoughts dictate my life. I refuse to let the texture of my thighs convince me that I am anything less than whole. And when those thoughts inevitably creep back in (because they will), I’ll remind myself: The world is literally on fire. My thighs are doing just fine.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
This week’s microjoy: Perspective. Recognizing ridiculous, ingrained self-criticism for what it is—a lie we’ve been fed. This is a microjoy in itself. It means that I’m aware and awake. And that I have the power to rewrite tired old ideas and scripts that are not serving me (or others.) Every time I catch myself mid-spiral, I reclaim my joy. It’s proof that I am not a prisoner to my thoughts—I can see them, name them, and let them go. A microjoy, indeed.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- PLEASE repost, comment, share and spread the word.
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With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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