Weight Isn’t the Enemy. Silence Is.

Weight Isn’t the Enemy. Silence Is.

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.

Aging Like a Woman: The Invisibility Spell They Cast at 40

Aging Like a Woman: The Invisibility Spell They Cast at 40

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.

kate + ginger woman with chicken whattle on her neck.

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?