There’s a moment, maybe you know it, where someone asks too much, again, and instead of speaking, your body screams. Your jaw tightens. Your stomach turns. You smile and say, “Sure, no problem.”
I used to think being agreeable made me good. What it made me was exhausted. And resentful. And invisible.
This is about the messy, liberating art of setting boundaries, even if your voice shakes, even if you’ve never seen it modelled, even if it costs you people who only loved the version of you that said yes too often.
Where We Learn to Over-Give
We don’t come out of the womb clutching a to-do list and an apology. That’s learned. Most of us were raised to be good girls and boys, to not make waves, to share even when it hurt. And if you’re someone who’s lived through trauma or chronic illness, the habit of over-giving becomes a survival strategy. We give more, so we’re not abandoned. We stay quiet so we’re not punished. We work twice as hard to prove we’re worth the space we take up. Then there’s the capitalist cherry on top: if you can do more, you should. Productivity becomes morality. Rest is suspect. And boundaries? Selfish. That’s the lie they sell us so we’ll keep bleeding ourselves dry.
What Happens When You Don’t
The body keeps the receipts. Fatigue. Resentment. MS flares. Migraines. Rage that simmers under your skin until it boils over or turns inward. When you don’t set boundaries, your body will eventually do it for you. And the people who benefit from your lack of boundaries? They’re not going to suggest you take better care of yourself. They’re not going to set limits for you. That’s your job. Without boundaries, you become a ghost in your own damn life, present, but not really there.
Boundaries Are Not Walls
People get twitchy around boundaries because they mistake them for barriers. But boundaries aren’t walls. They’re bridges with toll booths. They say, “You can come closer, but here are the terms.” Boundaries allow love in, real love, not the manipulative, shape-shift-until-you’re-pleasing kind. You can say, “I love you, but I don’t take work calls after 6 PM.” Or, “I care about you, but I’m not your emotional landfill.” Boundaries are not ultimatums. They are clarity. And clarity is kindness, even if sometimes it sounds like fire.
What Saying No Can Sound Like
Saying no doesn’t need to come with a PowerPoint presentation and a side of guilt. Sometimes it’s just: “No.” Or: “That doesn’t work for me.” Or the power move of silence. You don’t owe an explanation for protecting your peace. And yes, you’re allowed to say no to people who love you, people who raised you, people who expect the old version of you to show up on cue. Every no is a yes to something else. A yes to your body. Your time. Your sanity.
Expect the Pushback
You will be called selfish. Dramatic. Cold. Especially if you’re a woman, or someone socialised to be the fixer, the feeler, the forgiver. But hear this: you’re not selfish. You’re sober now. You’ve sobered up from the belief that you must earn your place by disappearing. Some people won’t like the new you. Let them leave. That’s not a failure, that’s a filter. The ones who stay? Those are your people. Those are the ones who can love you with your spine intact.
Boundaries for Chronic Illness & Energy Management
If your body is already fighting battles no one can see, your boundaries are your armour. Cancel the plans. Turn off your phone. Say, “I can’t do that today” without a TED Talk. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you manage your health, your pain, your rest. Boundaries aren’t just emotional tools; they are survival gear. Especially when every decision costs energy you can’t afford to waste.
Personal Note
For me, learning to say no started with getting sick. MS didn’t just strip my nerves, it stripped my tolerance for bullshit. I don’t have the energy to please and perform anymore. What’s left is a very raw, very real version of me. She’s not for everyone. But damn, she’s finally for me. And with that came loss. I lost a lot of people, people who were only around for the good times, for the easy yeses, for the mountains of emotional support I used to give without question. When I got sick and started drawing lines in the sand, some vanished overnight. Boundaries have a brutal kind of clarity. They show you who’s in your corner because they love you, and who was only there for what they could get.
Here’s something I wish someone had handed me like a glass of cold water in the middle of a body-image meltdown: talking about weight doesn’t have to be an act of war against yourself.
But for a lot of us? It is. Or it has been. Or it’s still whispering in the background every time we say we’re “body neutral” but silently pull our shirt down before we sit.
This is the first in a series I never thought I’d write. Not because I don’t think about weight; I do, more than I want to admit, but because this conversation comes loaded with shame, confusion, and about twelve inner critics screaming at once. It should come with a trigger warning and a therapist on call.
But avoiding it hasn’t made it go away. It’s just made it lonelier. So yeah, we’re talking about it. Honestly. No thigh-gap propaganda. No smoothie cleanses. No shame spirals. Just truth, complexity, and a serious side-eye at diet culture.
Why talk about weight at all?
Because weight is never just a number. It’s a story. Or more like a thousand stories:
That time a doctor talked to you like your BMI was a personality flaw.
The jeans you swore you’d “earn” back.
The compliment that felt like a warning.
The breakup you blamed on your thighs.
The silent math you did before every meal.
Weight is memory. It’s grief. It’s every time someone taught us, explicitly or not, that our value had a dress size.
But also? It’s embodiment. Your body carries you through life. Through joy and loss and orgasms and hangovers. Through parenting, periods, dancing, surgery, and grief. It deserves care. But the way we’ve been taught to care for it? Mostly bullshit.
The emotional landmine of the word “diet”
Say it with me: diet.
Did your shoulders tense up? Mine did. It’s a word soaked in guilt, rebellion, hunger, and spreadsheets of sins. For many of us, “diet” means war; against our bodies, our cravings, and our sanity.
And now we’ve just rebranded it: “wellness,” “clean eating,” “biohacking.” Same control, different font.
But what if food wasn’t punishment? What if hunger wasn’t a moral failing? What if eating wasn’t something we had to earn?
This is where body trust comes in. It’s radical. It’s messy. And it starts with unlearning the idea that your body is a wild animal that needs to be tamed.
Respect > Restriction
I’m not here to sell you weight loss. I’m here to talk about body respect.
That might include weight loss. Or not. It might mean more movement. More rest. Less people-pleasing. More carbs.
It might mean feeding yourself like someone who matters.
Because weight loss, if it happens, should be a side effect of listening, not loathing. Not fixing. Not performing.
This isn’t about control. It’s about connection. It’s about neutrality over perfection. It’s about the kind of love that isn’t conditional.
Your body isn’t an algorithm
Your body doesn’t speak in macros or TikTok challenges. It doesn’t care what your fitness tracker says. It communicates in much quieter ways:
The ache in your shoulders after a day of pretending.
The craving for something warm when the world feels cold.
The anxiety that flares when you skip meals in the name of discipline.
The tears you swallow when you catch your reflection and feel like you failed.
This body? It’s not broken. It’s talking. Are you listening?
Because the minute you stop outsourcing your cues to apps, influencers, and medical charts, you remember something: you already know.
What you need isn’t another damn plan. You need presence. You need compassion. You need to stop treating your body like a battlefield.
So yeah. Let’s talk about weight.
Let’s drag it out of the shadows. Let’s unpack it. Let’s get messy and curious and kind. No “before and after.” Just the middle. Just this moment. Just you, as is.
What does body respect look like for you right now? Drop it in the comments. We’re building something here.
Let’s start with a confession: I haven’t cried over a forehead line. That little guy can stay. But the chicken neck situation I’ve got developing? That’s a different story. One day I caught my reflection mid-turn and thought, When did I become someone who Googles “best neck creams 2025” at 11 p.m.?
It’s not vanity, it’s grief, confusion, a weird kind of identity crisis. Because no one prepared us for the moment when our outsides start changing faster than our insides.
And just like that, the invisibility spell begins.
The Disappearing Act
Women don’t age; we vanish. One wrinkle, one grey hair, one birthday over 40 at a time. You hit a certain age and suddenly:
You’re too old for that dress
Too “tired-looking” for that role
Too loud to be cute, too quiet to be seen
We’re told to be grateful for health, for wisdom, for “ageing gracefully.” But what they really mean is, Disappear quietly. Be wise, but wrinkle-free. Be strong, but not outspoken. Be sexy, but only if it’s subtle. God forbid you want to feel seen without apology.
The $60 Billion Lie
Here’s a fun fact: the anti-ageing industry is worth over $60 billion. That’s billion with a B; built on our fear of becoming irrelevant. Serums, supplements, surgeries, and shame. They sell us youth in dropper bottles and injectables, promising to erase the years that supposedly make us unworthy.
But here’s what no one’s selling: acceptance. Confidence. Visibility. The right to show up, as we are, age and all, without apology.
We’re not allowed to look older or talk about the shame we’re made to feel about it. So we go quiet. We hide. We smile through the Botox and pretend we feel empowered, when really, we feel erased.
What They Never Told Us About Ageing
No one warned me that midlife would come with so much shedding: of skin, of people, of illusions. And weirdly, it’s kind of beautiful.
Because under all that shedding? There’s me.
More sure-footed. Less willing to shrink. No longer willing to measure my worth in how easily I can be digested by a youth-obsessed culture.
And yes, I still want to feel beautiful. But on my terms. Not because a brand told me what “ageless” should look like.
What If We Refuse to Disappear?
What if we stopped spending our power on pretending we’re not aging and started investing it in showing the hell up as we are?
What if we:
Showed our lines and told the stories behind them
Refused to shrink our bodies, voices, or joy
Wore the damn red lipstick, or didn’t, for ourselves
Started seeing midlife not as the beginning of the end, but the beginning of being seen
Because the truth is, we were never meant to fade. We were meant to ignite.
So, what now?
I don’t have a tidy five-step plan to age gracefully. I’m not here to sell you a serum or preach a mantra. I’m just here, 40-something, noticing neck sag and still becoming, still shedding, and saying, Let’s burn the invisibility cloak.
Let’s get louder.
Let’s get unapologetically seen.
And let’s get something else straight while we’re here: I’m too damn tired from carrying around this much accumulated age-acquired wisdom to give a flying fuck if someone thinks I shouldn’t wear something, or should be dyeing my hair, or shouldn’t speak the way I do. I’m not going to be quiet for the sake of someone else’s comfort.
This is me. Warts, wobbles, and all.
Yes, I’m squishy. Yes, gravity is trying to make a slow meal of me. But that doesn’t diminish my worth. Not one bit. I’ve got stories to tell, love to give, and ideas to birth, and a hell of a lot to offer the world and future generations. And so do you!
What about you? Have you felt the slow fade into invisibility after 40? What would it look like to rewrite that story?
