I wish I could say I’ve made peace with how I look. But even at 50, I still haven’t.
For so long, I wanted the silver bullet to end the fight over how I viewed my body. But no amount of diets, Scripture memorization, or throwing blankets over mirrors seemed to do the trick. Lies still creep in, insecurities persist, and the opportunity for comparison is everywhere I look.
Now, the opinions of others don’t grip me the way they once did. Every so often, I catch these quiet, unexpected glimpses of how God sees me—how he actually delights in me. And in those moments, I feel a kind of hope that nudges me forward, reminding me I’m not done growing yet. But I still wrestle. And I think that’s OK (and maybe even a good thing).
Because by choosing to commit to the fight—and not run away from it, strong-arm it, or ignore it altogether—I’ve felt closer to God and his truth than ever before. And I know that He promises to be with me, love me, and grow me every step of the way.
“And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” (Philippians 1:6)
It hasn’t been easy, but it’s been worth it. I’ve started noticing the old patterns and named them for what they are: lies I picked up somewhere along the way. And little by little, I’ve been learning to see myself with softer eyes, to let God’s truth sink in past the noise, and to believe that growth, grace, and healing can take time.
Like, a lot of time. Like, maybe-my-whole-life kind of time.
I may not yet fully believe everything I want about myself, but I’m no longer letting those old narratives go unchecked. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’ve stopped all forms of exercise in a silent protest against lies. But through intentional reflection and experiencing God’s love and gentleness, I’ve learned some things that have helped me gain a clearer perspective on how I view myself, how I listen to God’s voice, and that my superpower, when walking into a room, isn’t how I look, but how I love.
Turning back the scale clock
At this point in my life, with stretch marks that map out motherhood, wrinkles that prove I’ve laughed and cried a lot, and a body that’s softened and sagged, you’d think I wouldn’t care anymore. But I do. I still hear that voice—the one that whispers when I look in the mirror, “ i.” Not beautiful enough, thin enough, sexy enough, tall enough, young enough, cool enough… the list goes on.
I’ve spent the past twenty years or so rooting myself in truth. Scriptures I’ve memorized, verses I’ve scribbled into journals, words spoken over me by friends and family—all reminding me that I am loved, and created with purpose:
“You are fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14).
“Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).
“Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit” (1 Corinthians 6:19).
I’m familiar with these words. I believe them. I’ve spoken them to my kids and to friends walking through their own valleys. But when I face the mirror, they don’t always reach the parts of me that still feel…not enough.
The American Society of Plastic Surgeons says there were more than 18 million cosmetic procedures in the U.S. in 2020, up 54% from 2000. Non-invasive options like Botox and dermal fillers are also pushing that market growth even further. The world’s voice is loud, insisting that youth defines beauty and that aging features mean fading worth. And I hate that I listen.
Unfortunately, I’ve been listening to that negative voice for a long time. It didn’t begin in adulthood—it was planted early, in ways that felt normal at the time. I was raised in a home where body image was just part of the conversation. Jokes about “thunder thighs” or “bubble butts,” complaints after holiday meals about needing to diet—it wasn’t cruel, just constant. Diet culture was everywhere. Like most families at the time, our pantry was stocked with fat-free, sugar-free, low-calorie products. The messages weren’t shouted, but they were steady: smaller was better and more lovable, and self-control was a virtue.
I didn’t know it then, but those things were shaping how I saw myself. By the time I reached middle and high school, comparison took over. I looked around and measured myself against other girls—flatter stomachs, longer legs, clearer skin—and silently decided I didn’t measure up. I began to believe that beauty was currency, and I had somehow come up short.
I was quietly absorbing messages about my worth—messages that settled deep and unnoticed, beginning to shape everything. It wasn’t loud or obvious, more like a slow unraveling. I remember as a teenager standing in front of the mirror before school, trying on outfit after outfit, hoping one would make my body look thinner, more desirable, more like the ideal picture in my head. I’d stare at my reflection and silently list all the things I wished I could change.
I didn’t know much Scripture back then—I couldn’t have told you what Psalm 139 said about being fearfully and wonderfully made. Honestly, even if I had, I’m not sure I would’ve believed it applied to me. Maybe if those words had been part of my inner dialogue, they could’ve started to chip away at the lies. Instead, I let those lies settle in. They followed me—not just through school, but into adulthood—still shaping how I see myself, still whispering that I’m not quite enough.
Move Past the Mirror
I’ve done a lot of self-reflection these past few years. Through prayer, long talks in therapy, and quiet moments, I’ve had to be honest with myself about what I really believe.
But still, after all these years, some of those old beliefs echo in the background. They show up in subtle ways—how I adjust my clothes, the colors I choose to wear, the hesitation I sometimes feel before I walk into a room of people—but I’m more aware of it now. Instead of anything bright or form-fitting, I’ll opt for black or something that will allow me to fade into the background or not call attention to myself. I notice the instinct to hide, and I’m learning to challenge it by reminding myself that I have something to offer that’s more important than my looks or the shape of my body. When someone shares encouragement or a compliment, I still feel unworthy, but I’m practicing receiving it and letting it soak in instead of brushing it away.
Somewhere inside of me, there’s a longing to push back and to break free. There’s a desire to be known for something that won’t wrinkle, sag, or fade. I want to be seen for the heart beneath the surface—for the love, the grace, and the light I try to offer.
Do You See What I See?
When I take a step back, I realize something important: the people around me aren’t focused on the flaws I see. They don’t see the soft stomach or the fine lines. They see the warmth in my smile, the kindness in my eyes, the way I try to make them feel known and safe. I’m usually my own worst critic, caught in a loop of self-comparison, but others see a different me.
And when I look at them, I notice something else—how easily I see their beauty. I don’t study their faces or bodies with the same harsh lens I use on myself. Instead, I see the light in their eyes, the way they listen, the gentleness in their presence. I see how they love, how they serve, how they reflect Jesus in quiet, everyday ways. The more I get to know them, the more beautiful they become. Not because of what they look like, but because of who they are. Their radiance grows with every glimpse of Christ I see in them.
God’s POV
It makes me wonder if that’s how God looks at me, too. If He sees beyond what I focus on in the mirror—the wrinkles, the sagging, the things I call “flaws”—and instead sees His own image shining through. Maybe the same grace I so easily extend to my friends is the grace I need to offer myself. Maybe real beauty isn’t about perfection, but instead about being a reflection of our Creator. That shift in perspective helps. It reminds me that what matters isn’t how I look, but how I love.
What I want more than anything is for people to see something deeper in me—not my flaws, not my figure, but a glimpse of God’s goodness. I want them to feel peace in my presence, to hear gentleness in my words, patience in my tone, joy in my laugh. I want the Fruit of the Spirit to be so evident in me that it sticks around after the conversation ends. And I hope they walk away without thinking about my outfit or face, but about how they felt—seen, valued, and loved.
The Invitation
If I truly believe that “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” then I need to believe that every day. Not just when I’m trying to convince myself to get up at 6:45 to work out so that I can keep up with future grandkids. If I agree that Christ can do far more than I can ask or imagine (Ephesians 3:20), I need to agree that it is possible, no matter my dress size or the wrinkles around my eyes. God cares so much for me and knows me so intimately that he has even counted the exact number of (gray) hairs on my head (Luke 12:7).
Maybe God isn’t asking me to stop struggling, but to bring my struggle to him. I’m certain he doesn’t want me to hide the inner dialogue. He wants me to invite him into it because he’s been watching it happen the entire time.
Maybe this aging body, in all its imperfections, tells a sacred story. My unique story—of children carried, meals shared, late-night prayers on stiff knees, battles fought, hugs that said “I’m here,” and a faith that has held through it all.
Maybe it’s not just about gritting my teeth, avoiding all mirrors like the plague, and desperately and unsuccessfully trying to tune out the voice that says, “You’re not enough.” Maybe it’s more about letting God (and others) in on the ongoing fight, rooting myself in truth, and allowing those lies to be answered by a God who says: “But I am.”
Disclaimer: This article is 100% human-generated.
Reflections to share? Got an idea for an article? Email us at articles@crossroads.net
At Crossroads, we major on the majors and minor on the minors. We welcome a diverse community of people who all agree that Jesus is Lord and Savior, even if they view minor theological and faith topics in different ways based on their unique experiences. Our various authors embody that principle, and we approach you, our reader, in the same fashion. You don’t have to agree with every detail of any article you see here to be part of this community or pursue faith. Chances are even our whole staff doesn’t even agree with every detail of what you just read. We are okay with that tension. And we think God is okay with that, too. The foundation of everything we do is a conviction that the Bible is true and that accepting Jesus is who he said he is leads to a healthy life of purpose and adventure—and eternal life with God.
