Why my confidence lives in stretchy pants (And yours can too)
- Chris
- Nov 18, 2025
- 3 min read
When Was I Ever Comfortable With My Body?
Who am I kidding? When was I ever truly comfortable with my body?
I remember being 25 — flat belly, perfect fat distribution, the whole package. And yet, I thought I was fat. (Dramatic eye roll.)
Now, when I look back at photos of myself at 20, 25, 30, I want a Doc Brown in my life to fire up the DeLorean so I can go back and scream at younger me:
“Put down the low-fat yogurt and stop crying over your nonexistent muffin top!”
The Last Time I Was Single
The last time I was single, I was 21. My stomach was flat, I weighed 125 pounds, and cellulite was something I thought only happened to oranges.
Fast forward a few decades and… well, gravity and hormones have been working overtime. I’ll leave it at that.
Thank God for the athleisure trend that exploded during the pandemic! Whoever invented stretchy waistbands deserves a Nobel Peace Prize. Leggings have become my emotional-support fabric.
But I digress…
The Taboo Nobody Warned Us About
Growing up, no one ever talked about perimenopause or how a woman’s body changes after 40. It was like a secret level in a video game — except instead of coins and power-ups, you get unpredictable hormones, periods that show up like uninvited guests, and chin hairs that could pick up Wi-Fi.
Add in the extra pounds and “the twins” that now salute the floor instead of the ceiling, and you’ve got yourself a pretty convincing list of deterrents for reentering the dating world.
Confidence: Somewhere Between Beyoncé and Spanx
I know women who don’t care. They strut into midlife with Beyoncé-level confidence, hips swinging, voices fierce. Then there are others who say they’ll start dating again after they lose the extra weight.
Me? I’m somewhere in the middle — trying to channel my inner Sasha Fierce while wondering if Spanx counts as a personality trait.
The Ex Factor
I’ve always had self-esteem issues. My ex-husband didn’t help — let’s just say he had the emotional intelligence of a baked potato — but, truthfully, those insecurities didn’t start with him.
After the separation, I went full Rocky Balboa on midlife fitness: working out six days a week, tracking calories, cutting carbs.
The scale barely budged. Maybe a pound or two a month. I was frustrated, miserable, and convinced no one would ever swipe right on me. My fear of rejection came roaring to the surface.
See:
Understanding My Body in Perimenopause
It was only through talking with other women — who casually mentioned perimenopause symptoms between sips of coffee or mid-rant about their sleep — that I finally started to understand what was happening to me.
I feel so grateful to live in an era where we can actually talk about these things without shame. Halle Berry is openly educating women about perimenopause, Tamsen Fadal uses her social platforms to create awareness, and Dr. Mary Claire Haver (and others) are breaking down the science so we can stop feeling like we’re losing our minds.
Exercising the way I did in my thirties and forties didn’t cut it anymore. What worked? Low-impact workouts, long walks, and hot yoga. Anything higher-impact made me swell like a balloon — a cortisol dream come true.
I didn’t realize it then, but all that research — hormones, nutrition, perimenopause — was quietly helping me make peace with my body. One day, scrolling through old bikini photos of my 25-year-old self, I found myself asking:
“When will you finally feel like you’re enough? When will you stop fighting your own reflection?”
And that’s when the real work began.
Learning to Love Every Version of Me
These days, I’m learning to accept myself in every season of life — even the ones with hormonal changes, and midlife plot twists.
It’s not easy. It takes work. I have to constantly remind myself that the voice in my head doesn’t always deserve the microphone.
So, I’m swapping out the inner critic for a hype woman who says:
“You’re not too old, too soft, or too late — you’re just getting started.”
And honestly? I’m learning to love every version of me — even the one permanently living in stretchy pants. Because maybe comfort isn’t a sign of giving up; maybe it’s a sign of finally feeling at home in your own skin.
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