30 Apr 2026
This month Ruth looks at the ever-evolving relationship many of us have with our bodies.
A fact about me that really unsettles a close friend is that I don’t have a full-length mirror in my house.
He finds this deeply troubling. Borderline negligent.
“How do you know what you look like?” he asks, as though I might accidentally leave the house in something catastrophic – his own personal idea of hell.
Of course, I do know what I look like. Just… not all of me, and not all the time. And as I get older, not in a way that feels like the most important thing about me.
Believe me, this hasn’t always been the case.
There have been long stretches of my life where my body felt like a project. Something to improve, correct and manage. A constant negotiation between what it was and what I thought it should be. Growing up in the ‘90s, the media was a brutal place for women. The message was simple: you will never be thin enough, and by implication, you will never be good enough.
As a result, I’ve approached my body with varying degrees of frustration, indifference and what I can only describe as mild dissatisfaction over the years. It’s never been dramatic, just that low-level hum most women seem to carry. But now, somewhere in the final year of my thirties, I find myself in a slightly different place. It’s definitely not a triumphant, “I adore my body” kind of place – I’m not a maniac! – but maybe something just a bit more respectful.
I’ve started to realise that my body is for me. Which sounds obvious, but it isn’t always how we treat it.
When I was 12 years old, I got my first job so I could buy myself cool clothes. Flared jeans, platform runners, Adidas tracksuit pants with poppers on the side. I styled my hair meticulously into space buns and adorned it with butterfly clips. I bought a hair straightener and ironed my lovely natural curls poker straight.
Fashion was my first love. And I still love clothes. I still care how I look. I’m not floating around St Albans in hessian sacks, rebelling against the patriarchy. But there’s no denying that the balance has shifted. What my body feels like has started to matter more than how it is perceived.
That shift is subtle but significant – especially for a single woman who, if society is to be believed, is fast approaching her expiration date.
Because once you start prioritising how your body feels, certain things begin to fall away.
The constant monitoring. The sense that you are one small adjustment away from finally getting it right.
I’m also now at the age where “doing something” becomes a more present conversation.
Some of the most physically beautiful women I know – truly, objectively stunning – are quietly tweaking. A little here, a little there, and I absolutely get it. There’s no judgement in it. If anything, there’s something quite pragmatic about it.
But what has surprised me is the realisation that it’s not always about how they look, because they already look incredible. It’s about control and trying to hold something in place for just a little longer.
I started to think about it. Would I? Should I?
I’m not against it. I’m certainly not above it. When I started to really question what I would actually be trying to fix, and more importantly, who I would be doing it for, the answer was a little unexpected.
For the first time in my life the answer wasn’t anyone else. It was a sense of wanting to look how I feel on a good day. I feel vibrant, capable, very much in my prime and I’d quite like that to be reflected back at me, in my (waist-up only) mirror every day.
For a long time, the conversation around our bodies has been framed in extremes – either total acceptance or total intervention. But perhaps, there’s a softer middle ground. One where you can take care of your body, make small decisions about how you want to present it and yet still remain entirely anchored in yourself.
Gently adjusting on your own terms, instead of fighting or fixing. So, after much deliberation, I say… bring on the salmon sperm injections!
You only get one body, as people love to say. It’s a cliché, but it’s also annoyingly true. And I truly believe now that the real shift isn’t in how my body looks at all, but in how I relate to it.
Am I entirely happy with everything about me? No.
But do I fully love and accept myself every day? Also, still no.
BUT do I understand myself better than I used to? Do I trust my instincts more? Do I feel more at ease in my own skin? Absolutely, finally, yes.
And that feels like a different kind of progress.
A little more freedom. A lot more joy.
And, for now at least, still no full-length mirror.
