Learning to love my body at 44.

I’m learning to love my body at 44… and to be honest, it feels a little like learning to live with a stranger who has been with me all along.

My body has been through so much — births, miscarriages, trauma, surgeries, heartbreak, joy, and a thousand silent battles no one will ever see. This body carried seven babies, and it carried the weight of grief when it couldn’t carry some of them long enough. It has protected me through trauma, stood tall in rooms that tried to shrink me, and kept going even on the days I begged it to quit.

And yet… here I am, 44, looking in the mirror and realizing I don’t have the same curves that my confidence once carried. The stretch marks, the softness, the shifts in shape — they all tell stories I didn’t ask for but earned with every year I’ve survived.

Some days I miss the body I used to have.
Some days I miss the version of me who never had to think twice about a picture, a dress, or how my jeans fit after a long weekend.
And some days… I just feel tired of trying to measure myself against a woman I no longer am.

But lately something in me is changing.

I’m slowly learning to live in this body — not fight it, not judge it, not punish it. Live in it.

This body has held all my children.
This body has buried one.
This body has walked out of trauma that should have broken me.
This body has stood behind podiums, in courtrooms, in classrooms, and in front of survivors who needed someone strong.
This body is still here.

And maybe that’s worth loving.

Loving my body at 44 looks different. It’s quieter. Gentler. Less about the mirror and more about gratitude. It’s noticing the way my legs still carry me through hard days. The way my hands comfort my kids. The way my heart still expands even after being shattered.

Learning to love this version of me means understanding that confidence doesn’t live in curves — it lives in survival, in resilience, in the decision to show up for myself every single morning.

I don’t have the same body I had at 24.
But my 24-year-old body didn’t know the love, loss, strength, or healing that my 44-year-old body carries.

And honestly?
I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

I’m still learning to love this body — slowly, intentionally, and with a little more grace than I used to give myself.

And if you’re reading this and feeling the same way… you’re not alone. We can learn together.

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