Finding the way, again.

I was in middle school. It was the summer of 1994 or '95, back when Seal’s "Kiss from a Rose" was the soundtrack to every awkward transition. Like most middle school people, I was very unfortunate-looking, and my self-esteem was nonexistent. My body was changing, and I could see the changes in others; it was a confusing time full of comparison and judgment. I desperately wanted to be cool, but I also desperately wanted not to be me. My family was going through a hard time, and while my friends seemed to have perfect lives with perfect houses and clothes, I was alone a lot. I didn't feel like I belonged anywhere.

I didn't really know how to be feminine, and it seemed so easy for my girlfriends. I had always been a tomboy, stuck between the worlds of boys and girls, and middle school just made everything more complicated. I probably would have been non-binary at the time, but we didn't think like that back then. I had an interest in boys, but I was "one of them." I knew their secrets and stories, so I quickly took the role of the informant and messenger between the boys and the girls. I hated it. I felt stuck and unable to compete with my female friends, always destined to be the odd one out.

Then came the weekend at the lake house. My friend’s family invited a group of us out, and the only swimsuit I had was a swamp-coloured one-piece. I begged my mom for a different one, but that didn't happen. So there I was at the lake, with my beautiful friends and their cute bodies in adorable two-piece suits, and I was the lake monster. My hair was a blonde rat’s nest; once it got wet, it was a lost cause. If I had a picture, you would understand I'm not joking. The weekend was full of middle school drama, water sports, and lying in the sun on a wobbly dock.

I didn't expect to have a moment alone with a local boy. My friends, who are still stunning, seemed more likely back then to attract boys. I'm not sure what was in the water, but they all could have been swimsuit models, even back then. I didn't see myself on the same level. We had been watching this boy from afar—he was jumping off a diving board at a nearby house, showing off for us—it was clear we were giggling and talking about him. After returning to the house from the dock, I went back down alone, I think, to retrieve something the boy had lost. When I reached the dock, the boy approached me. We briefly spoke and flirted. After a quick chat, he asked to meet up later, and I was surprised but said yes. My friends saw everything, and I don’t think anyone expected him to be interested in me. I was thrilled. We met under a dock the next day, and although his little brother interrupted our plan for a make-out session with endless questions, that moment opened a new door for me.

The next enlightening encounter happened at the same lake when we were in high school. My friend and I were stranded on one side of the water and needed a pen for some reason I can't recall. There was a boy sitting on a picnic table nearby—tall and very attractive. I didn't hesitate to walk over to him and ask for help. I had no idea he was a well-known basketball player from a neighbouring town. I walked with him to his car to get the pen while my friend watched. We chatted and flirted the whole way. I left him blushing; he left me smiling. Later, at a football game, he stopped his entourage just to speak with me again, remembering my face. He chatted with me in front of his friends and several pretty girls vying for his attention.

Why do I revisit these memories? They were the first moments when I began to see myself as desirable. When you live in a small town, things can feel set in stone, as if change is impossible. These boys opened a door in my mind, revealing other possibilities. They made me feel attractive; they gave me the confidence to move away from this "tomboy" persona and that small-town bubble. I spent my 20s and 30s using that presence as currency. I relied on my sex appeal to determine my value. It defined most of my life and my relationships. Sex appeal, prettiness, and desirability were gauges by which I measured my worth. Now let's shoot forward to the present and think about how I'm navigating this today. How are all women handling this today? When we put so much stock into our sex appeal and our youth, how does that shape our worth when we get old?

Today, I feel this insurmountable loss every time I look in the mirror. I realise I’ve lost that girl, I'm grieving her and stepping into a new understanding. I look at my body today and, honestly, I hate what I see. I hate that I can’t see "myself" anymore. I hate that I can’t get to the gym and work as hard as I used to because chronic pain keeps me grounded. I hate that I feel this heavy, pulsing awareness of my limits. I hate my sagging face and the little grey hairs sprouting on my head. It feels like a reverse puberty that no one prepared me for. I am afraid of what’s ahead, missing out on and experiencing everything. I want thousands of years—I want to see my children grow old, and their children grow old. I want to see what the world turns into.

I don't like feeling the limits of life.

Wisdom is a double-edged sword; it gives you the answers, but time is limited. I'm also living in a time where youth is currency. I face an industry that tells me I have to be that girl on the dock again—that I must remove all evidence of a lived life, the scars that prove my womanhood. I'm told over and over again to buy all the things that will turn back the clock, only to eventually shorten my life anyway. It is constant verbal and emotional abuse by social media and my environment. When I fail to fight it, I find myself on a table with a "nice lady" hovering over me with a laser or a needle, trying to erase the very things that remind me I've lived. It’s really exhausting.

I feel lost and isolated, which is uncomfortable for someone who has lived an informative life. I know I'm not alone, as I see other women trying to find themselves again in various ways. We try to support each other as best we can, but we all look in the mirror in the morning and evenings and have conversations with ourselves. For me, the loneliness comes from a desire to speak to that young self without an answer. The other night, I was crying in bed, talking to my husband about my loneliness, and I said, "I feel like a witch without a coven." It’s lonely to be a grown woman, especially a woman living in a foreign country. We talk about the kids and the house and the career, but we don't talk about the disappearing. Sometimes I want those girls back—that laughter, that constant dialogue about life and its new discoveries. I miss being by the lake, wondering. Instead, I'm at the edge of the ocean, worrying.

Back then, I was at the same stage of my life—finding my footing, stepping out of childhood and into a new self and a new body. Here I am again. This time, I’m navigating a body worn and scarred by life, accepting a self that knows things and teaches others. It's a complex web of self and constant discovery. I am a queen trying to master the art of teaching my children to be who I once was—to be a learner, to be patient, to be kind—even as I navigate a new crossroads myself.

I find myself walking to the water, trying to find that voice again. I’m waiting for a moment where my newly defined value comes into focus, perhaps waiting for someone to give me permission to accept who I am now. Ultimately, I know it needs to come from me because I have those voices around me, encouraging me, but it doesn't sink in. I want to give myself permission to be who I am now, without the fear of loss, because I know loss is inevitable. I hope to eventually become that witch in the woods, the crone with all the answers, the one who has finally let go of the mirror.

For now, I am just trying to find my footing again in this new, heavier skin. I know I’ll find it, but it’s okay to be scared—and it’s okay to want to be reminded that I don’t have to be.

Be well.