The Weight of Grace: Learning to Love the Body I Have
“Do I look as big as her?”
Those were the words my mother often asked when I was growing up. Sometimes she’d add, “I’m not as big as so-and-so, right?” I would cringe inside every time. Why compare yourself to others? Why give so much energy to appearances? It seemed so vain.
And yet, here I am, decades later, quietly asking myself the same kinds of questions. I don’t always say them out loud—except to a close friend who understands—but the inner dialogue is familiar: Do I look bigger than her? What happened to my abs? Can I wear this without embarrassment?
This is not a story I thought I’d be writing. Vulnerability makes me fidget. And in a world that now celebrates body positivity, self-love, and acceptance of every shape and size (hallelujah for that!), confessing my private battle with my post-menopausal body feels… a little taboo. But here it is: I don’t always give myself the same compassion I encourage in others.
When the Body Changes
I’ve exercised most of my life. I’ve been active, slim, toned. Movement has always been my therapy and my joy. But at 57, something shifted. My once-flat stomach got soft, back fat appeared, and cellulite made its first uninvited appearance. At first it was just seven pounds, then ten, and now two years later, about fifteen extra pounds have settled in like an unexpected houseguest who has no plans to leave.
No problem, I thought. I’ll cut sweets, go alcohol-free for Dry January, tack on an extra workout, walk farther. Done. But despite my efforts, the scale hardly budged. What did budge was my self-esteem.
According to Canada’s Health Guide, I’m still within the normal BMI range, and thankfully I’m not dealing with major health issues. But mentally and emotionally? I was spiraling. My mother’s old comparisons echoed in my head. I felt like a hypocrite—championing body positivity for others while privately wishing I had my 46-year-old size-2 frame back. The kicker? Back then I was enduring the most emotionally painful season of my life, what I call my “crisis diet,” and yet people constantly told me how “amazing” I looked.
It’s messed up, isn’t it? Praise for the body, blindness to the broken heart.
The Compliment That Cuts
I’ve heard similar stories from other women. A friend recovering from cancer treatments. Another reeling from a divorce. Someone else surviving the devastation of infidelity. Each of them, slimmer than before, each of them complimented on how “good” they looked. Their weight loss wasn’t a lifestyle win—it was grief, stress, or illness. And still, the question always followed: What’s your secret?
The truth, of course, is not the kind of “secret” anyone wants to hear. And yet those comments remind us that despite decades of progress in affirming body diversity, the unspoken ideal of slim, toned, and fit still looms over us. Even when we know better, we feel its weight.
Gratitude for Fifteen Pounds
It’s taken me two years of reckoning, but I’m learning gratitude for my new fifteen-pound companion. My body still allows me to walk nearly five kilometres a day, dance on the beach, travel, pack and haul boxes, and cuddle my loved ones with strength. This body, though softer, has carried me through the grief of losing my younger brother, my father, and my mother in close succession. It has borne the weight of sorrow and the joy of healing.
So maybe the goal isn’t to get “back” to who I was at 46. Maybe the invitation is to live fully as who I am at 60, while still choosing the healthiest version of me without the torture!
The psalmist reminds us: “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well” (Psalm 139:14). Wonderful. Not flawless. Not forever young. But wonderful, exactly as God designed.
Bodies Are Temporary, But Identity Is Eternal
As Christians, we often hear that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). That truth matters—we should take care of ourselves with nourishing food, sleep, movement, and rest. But our bodies are not the whole story.
We are more than muscle tone and clothing sizes. We are a combination of personality, natural abilities, skills, passions, and character. Most importantly, our spiritual identity is in Christ. That means freedom—freedom to love the body we have, freedom to stop obsessing over imperfections, freedom to remember that our bodies are temporary vessels. They will change, they will age, they will one day fade. But our souls? Eternal.
As 1 Peter 3:3–4 reminds us: “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment… Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.”
Frolicking in a Bikini
This past summer, I decided enough was enough. I wore the bikini. I frolicked on the beach. I bared my arms in sleeveless shirts. And you know what? The world didn’t end. In fact, I had fun. I also gave away my size 2 clothes (with a little sigh) and embraced the fact that medium feels a lot more comfortable these days.
Life is far too short and fleeting to waste energy on size. I’ve already lost too much precious time to grief and worry; I won’t lose more to the bathroom scale. Instead, I’m choosing joy. I’m choosing freedom. And when I need a little humour to lighten the mood, I remind myself: Spanx were invented for a reason, but they don’t get the final say on my worth.
An Invitation to Grace
So here’s my invitation: let’s stop measuring ourselves against each other—or against our younger selves. Let’s extend to our own reflections the same compassion we give to others. Let’s praise these bodies not for their shape, but for their service—for the way they carry us through heartbreak and celebration, for the hugs they give, for the work they do, for the lives they touch.
Because at the end of the day, my worth isn’t in a flat stomach or a toned back. My worth is anchored in Christ. And in Him, I am free—free to wear the bikini, free to eat the occasional cupcake, and free to love the body that loves me back.
