An Open Letter To My 30 Year Old Body


I realize you’re probably holding your breath right now, and contemplating a shift into the fetal position (not necessary, I can assure you) because if you’ve learned anything about life with me these past 3 decades, it’s to duck and cover whenever I have an issue with you.

Which is why older, slightly more enlightened me wants to take this opportunity to not incessantly complain, but instead, apologize.

You may still have PTSD from when we had that wildly tearful exchange on my 19th birthday, and for that, I am eternally sorry. If I can promise you one thing about our relationship going forward, it’s that there will be no more attempts to maniacally struggle into size 0 jeans at American Eagle – nor will I commit carbocide the week before my period just because I’m “emotional and feeling like it”.

Alright, so I lied. Two promises.

It’s a bit of an understatement to say that I’ve taken you for granted, and looking back, I’m pretty sad when recalling how many months ticked off the calendar for strictly superficial reasons.

A number on a scale led to a bad mood, and wasted day.

Going to bed starving after just eating 4 crackers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner combined led to an equally bad mood (read: haaaaangry), not to mention a completely wasted 24 hours.

Day after day of internalized struggle and hatred of the fact that I was becoming curvier only paved the way for more severe behavior. I’m amazed, in retrospect, that you remained intact during the worst of those years in my early 20’s.

Thanks for that. Thanks for understanding that my asshole behavior was temporary, and I would eventually turn a corner into normalcy.

So, 30. I’m tempted to whine about what 30 has done to my metabolism, but as we all know so well, millennials have already mastered the art of bitching – it’s probably time we quiet the hell down. I still have those days when I look in the mirror and throw out a “what the fuck?” because a pair of pants doesn’t fit like it did yesterday (SERIOUSLY?) but again. Small, insignificant shit.

And I’m reminded of this daily – when I go for a run, and suffer through a barre class, and even chase my cat around my condo when he has a dryer sheet in his mouth. As frustrating as aging can be (hello, creaking joints when I first get out of bed), I’m continuously in awe of how lucky I’ve been, and that I’m able to move through life freely and without much pain.

I’ll end this on a surprisingly high note, which is a sharp contrast from the past. (Nobody is more shocked than I.) You have, for the vast majority of these 30 years thus far, been damn good to me. And for that, I am grateful.