By Khaya Ronkainen

I am a plump child afflicted with a skin disease, which doctors cannot diagnose. Only their repetitive advice, “Stay out of the sun!” brings me temporary relief. Regardless, I am beautiful. But I don’t hear much about my beauty from my parents, instead from relatives and strangers. In fact, my beauty often compels strangers to plant kisses on my cheeks without my parents’ permission. As young as I am, I can see a twinkle of pride in my father’s eyes and a hidden smile dancing on my mother’s lips.
 
As a teenager I add to my plumpness, eyeglasses and bookworm tendencies. Because I have no interest in sports, my body size makes me look older than I am. In addition to residual dark marks and scarring on my legs and arms from the skin disease, I start battling severe bouts of acne. In spite of everything, my beauty status doesn’t change. At boarding school, boys my age compete for my attention. At home, my mother starts to fend marriage proposals from villagers, who want me as their daughter-in-law. I’m only thirteen years old.
 
This attention starts to get me confused about what beauty really means. Because I certainly don’t feel beautiful. Yet I can’t dismiss compliments from people who see me as such. I don’t bother to ask others what exactly makes me beautiful because comments about my beauty are varied. But I begin to imagine it might have to do with my soft eyes, which allow me to hold things at the center of my gaze while I remain aware of everything that goes on around me. Perhaps, it’s my affiliative smile from which people expect to see dimples. But I don’t dimple.
 
In late adolescence, I learn my body loves to move. This is a coincidental discovery as I take up tennis only to imitate my older sister, who is a professional player. While I find slight enjoyment in being confused for her in tennis circles, even though we don’t resemble each other that much, I branch out to find my own identity. And it’s at the university great hall, in my sophomore year, I first become aware of the power rested on my hips as I learn to cha-cha dance.
 
While I’ve completely shed my baby fat, my pear-shaped body struggles to find a good fit with clothes. I take to making my own or buying clothing to refashion it in order to feel comfortable in it. Wearing skirts and dresses doesn’t make me cool among my peers, who have discovered the appeal of sexy jeans. I don’t despair much because I find my memorably beautiful and unique friends. 
 
As a young woman, I learn to walk on stilettos. But I’m hopeless as I teeter on uneven pavements in a big city with blisters on my feet. Hence, when I land my first job, I add a gym contract to my monthly expenses to strengthen my muscles. My determination pays off. I measure this by a turn of heads each time I approach. Unfortunately, disdainful catcalling from men who have hopes to own my body also ensues.
 
I’m told about the power of women appreciating one another but in the same sentence, I hear about women who envy appearance. That’s why sometimes I can’t distinguish between appreciation and envy. So, I learn to tread with caution as I navigate mixed looks I get from other women. Sometimes these looks are decidedly lustful across the board, something that makes me feel awkward and leads to avoiding social gatherings. Regardless, I am a success as I sashay my heavy thighs and curvy hips around town.
 
Suddenly I’m a plus-size, my shopping experience in ages. Who designs these customized size charts, anyway? As a grown woman, I wish I could say I don’t really care. But the industry seems intent on making us hate our bodies. Nonetheless, the fact that I am beautiful holds true now as I mature to myself with heavier arms, disappearing waist and a derriere that needs firmer support. Because when you’ve been told all your life that you are beautiful, it’s really difficult to see yourself otherwise.
 
My beauty was never perfect. Along the way, I learned my beauty has little to do with my physical appearance or age but a sense of self that was instilled in me from a very young age. In a society hell-bent on qualifying and quantifying beauty as it offers an array of invasive and expensive promises for youthful beauty, I simply smile. Because my middle life crisis is strapped on my hiking boots. This too is a journey of constant self-affirmation.

Khaya Ronkainen is a South African-Finnish writer of poetry and prose. Her work is largely inspired by nature, often examines duality of an immigrant life and also explores themes on ageing. To learn more, visit her site at https://www.khayaronkainen.fi

Instagram: @Khaya Ronkainen 

 
 
 

​By V.J. Knutson

​Avoiding mirrors is my superpower. I learned it growing up in a house full of women. While sixteen-year-old Jo-Jo would stand in front of the large mirror above the living room fireplace, backcombing her hair, twelve-year-old June was posing in front of the full length, and I would be ducking out the backdoor avoiding mother’s scrutiny. At five, I already knew that when it came to beauty, I didn’t stand a chance.
 
Dubbed “Moose” by my siblings, I was broad-shouldered, thick waisted, and could throw a punch as well as any boy. My mother, not in the habit of using nicknames, just shook her head and mumbled, “No one will ever love you.”  I didn’t need a mirror to tell me I was ugly; I had family.
 
Mother’s criteria for a successful woman: 1) complete the eleventh grade; 2) work as a secretary; 3) attract a husband; 4) marry and have babies. Jo-Jo rebelled, got pregnant at nineteen, and was whisked away into marriage, leaving June to fulfill the expectations. She was submitted to etiquette classes and later registered with a modelling agency. I’d sneak into her bedroom and glance through her notes, hoping to gain insight into to how to become more feminine, but I couldn’t walk with a book on my head, or sit with the elegance required. June had the figure of Twiggy and the looks of Mary Quant. I was still “Moose.”
 
I gave up hope of ever having an acceptable physique and focused on academics and athletics. I excelled at the first and was mediocre at the latter.  My body was just too awkward. 


“Stretch” and “Tree” were added to my list of monikers, and one male classmate drew a portrait of me that depicted big breasts on a pair of ridiculously long legs, which translated to “no hips” or “no ass.”  
 
While June was receiving marriage proposals, I was being hit on by the fathers of the kids I babysat, or later, work supervisors.  Confused, I sought guidance from my mother, who advised that some men will do “it” with anything that stands still, and I needed to not provoke attention.  When I accepted a ride home from a friend of a friend that ended up in sexual assault, I learned firsthand that what my mother said was true: the police confirmed that my tight jeans and halter top were enticement for predators. I learned to loathe my body more.
 
I married the first boy who was willing to date me without making his erect penis my responsibility. We were both nineteen, and when after three weeks of marriage we had not consummated the marriage, he admitted that he just didn’t find me sexy. I was willing to bear that burden: I knew it to be true.
 
Separated at twenty-one, I threw myself into work and fitness. I worked out twice a day, put in lots of overtime, and chose rum and sodas as my meal of choice. Drunk, I was much more desirable, or so it seemed. Men from my past came knocking on my door, but I pushed them away. I couldn’t bear for them to see the ugliness underneath. When one of June’s suitors asked me out, I thought this must be love: surely anyone who would want me over her was willing to accept all of me. 
 
I would marry this man and have his children just like Mother wanted. I would endure seventeen years of “if you loved me more” and criticisms that wore me down. My breasts were too large, my waist too thick, my legs too skinny—never enough. He played to all my insecurities, and I just kept trying harder, because I believed him.  The day he told me he didn’t love me anymore, and in fact, had never loved me, I heard the echo of my mother’s words, No one will ever love you, and something inside me snapped.
 
I was forty years old, had just lost one-hundred-and-eighty pounds of no-good husband, and I was enough! If I didn’t love myself, I realized, no one else ever would.  I had work to do.
 
First, I took a photo of myself in a swimsuit and posted it on the fridge door. Till I could look at that image and not cringe, I promised to dig deeper.
 
I set boundaries for myself, and goals that represented self-respect. I would no longer be a babysitter, mother, therapist, or punching bag for some man’s shortcomings. I wanted to be desirable and cherished, so I needed to know how that would feel. I stopped dating and started courting myself. When I was down, I bought myself flowers. I dined alone, trying out different restaurants until I learned what I liked. I took myself to the movies and discovered that I preferred a night in with a good book. I signed up for dance classes and auditioned for an improv company. I started a social club for dating misfits like myself—first rule of participation that members be friends only. 
 
As time passed, that woman on the fridge didn’t look so bad. She encouraged me to go back through my life and look at old photos of myself. I was surprised to find an attractive young woman, who bore no resemblance to the me I had experienced. 
 
The improv company—a murder-mystery troupe—hired me, and the first role I was assigned was a nudist named Ivana BeBuff.  My costume was a form fitting, low cut, sequined gown, slit at the sides to accentuate my long legs.
 
“Just strut your stuff,” the director coached.  “Exude your sexiest self.”
He had no idea the mountain he was asking me to climb, and I wasn’t about to tell him. Leaving self-loathing in the dressing room, I made my entrance as Ivana—a bombshell looking for a rich investor. The experience was life-altering.  
 
After Ivana, came a line of female characters who inadvertently helped me learn that to be comfortable in my own skin, I just needed to exude confidence. 
 
No one called me Moose anymore, or any other body shaming name, but I needed to confront my mother about her put downs.
 
“You weren’t like your sisters,” she said.  “You were so smart, and such a tomboy, I honestly didn’t know how anyone would want to marry you. I thought I was preparing you to be independent.”
In a convoluted way, I get it.  She didn’t know any different. 
 
I gave up declaring myself as enough and decided that “I am” sums it up best. I spend my time now completing the sentence with nouns:
 
I am Grandmother, writer, teacher, artist. I am friend, lover, sister, seeker.
 
Funny how once I stopped worrying about my physical image, I started living my best life. I went back to school and completed a post-graduate degree, finally fulfilling a childhood dream.  
 
My body, I now appreciate, is a sacred vessel: as unique and perfect as the spirit it carries.   


VJ Knutson, BA (French), B Ed, writes to make sense of life. Her poetry and short stories have been published in numerous anthologies. A memoir and book of poetry are in the works. Visit VJ at vjknutson.org or onewomansquest.org.   Twitter @Vjknutson and Instagram @1womansquest.  

​Midlife brings about many changes in a woman’s life – the maturation or ending of marriages, the stride or disruption of careers and the emergence into adulthood of their children, just as their senior parents may begin to show serious indications of true aging and decline.

As if these dichotomies weren’t enough, then enters weight. As women enter their mid-30s+, some begin to realize they must take intentional steps to preserve their health. The habits of their teens and 20s no longer serve them, and they assume all kinds of practices to stem weight gain and lose size. Yet many find that despite all their efforts, including clean eating and exercise, weight loss proves more challenging and fluctuates throughout the month.

But why? What factors drive the sometimes wild changes in a woman’s weight all within the same 30 days, even with steadfast practices to stay in shape?

It turns out that it’s not entirely women’s fault. Some of it is purely out of their control.

It’s hormonal, to a large extent.

Throughout life, women contend with hormonal shifts, swings and changes. Think of puberty. Consider the menstrual cycle. Then there’s pregnancy, postpartum and, now, perimenopause.

According to a professor at Michigan State University, women’s appetites unconsciously rise as they prepare for the possibility of pregnancy, even during perimenopause when women are still capable of conceiving: “Each month, the female body undergoes a menstrual cycle marked by changes in the hormones estrogen and progesterone. Monthly fluctuations in hormones cause women to increase the amount of food they eat and also causes emotional eating, which is the tendency to over consume in response to negative emotions.”

The shift in hormones that happens during perimenopause – usually a woman’s 30s to 40s – can play a part, too. Less estrogen can lead to more visceral fat in the abdominal area, and this is a common complaint of perimenopausal women – that they gain a spare tire they never had before, and it’s harder to lose than ever.

It's also a matter of what you eat and drink.

Aside from premenstrual indications, a woman’s weight can go up and down by as much as five pounds within 24 hours. In such cases, the explanation is usually attributable to water weight and sodium. Cutting back on salty foods and consuming foods high in potassium and magnesium can blunt the impact of sodium.

A casual scientific experiment in which several women tracked their weight over the course of a month is pretty interesting. Even with various levels of exercise, and a mix of “clean” diets to so-so, less disciplined eating, all the women’s weights changed over the course of 30 days.

Alcohol can also cause bloating and impose a state of dehydration that makes the body hold onto weight. This can cause puffiness in the face, the waist and elsewhere. Aside from the aesthetic effects, too much alcohol consumption can lead to a state of inflammation in the body, of which weight retention is a symptom.

Additionally, many people – when enjoying a glass of wine or a cocktail – don’t consider the caloric impact of this indulgence: A regular, 12 oz. beer contains 153 calories, and a small glass of wine (five ounces) clocks in at 125 calories. Many drinkers have more than one drink in a sitting – say, two beers while watching the game or a glass of wine followed by a mixed drink while enjoying a night on the town. Drinking on a regular basis (several days a week) while eating regular meals, snacking and drinking other high-calorie beverages, like frozen coffee drinks or fruit juices, can stack on the calories fast.

It’s about your activity level, too.

Exercise and strenuous activity rev up the heartrate, boost the metabolism and lead to perspiration. Exercise routinely, and you’ll drop water weight more consistently. And you’ll also reap the benefits of calorie burn, too.

According to Harvard Health, during a 30-minute workout of the following activities, a 155-pound person burns 108 calories when weightlifting, 144 calories from water aerobics, 144 calories during hatha yoga, 198 calories doing low-impact aerobics, 216 calories on a stepper machine, 324 calories on an elliptical machine and 360 calories doing step aerobics.

Metabolism with age may play a role.

It’s been said time and time again that metabolism slows with age. According to science, much of this has to do with the loss of muscle mass with age, not just getting older by default. Beginning around 30 years old, lean muscle mass starts to decline unless the person takes action to prevent it through weight bearing exercise and strength training. Researchers estimate that people lose 3-5 percent of muscle mass each decade if they don’t stay active. With less muscle mass, you burn fewer calories. And the weight you gain will be based on fat, not putting on muscle.

Despite this, recent studies published in the year 2021 reveal that metabolism and age don’t necessarily go hand in hand. Researchers found that between the ages of 20-60, metabolism actually didn’t change. Instead, it slowed down after the age of 60 by about 0.7 percent every year.
This evidence shows that the adage of metabolism getting sluggish with age is an unproven maxim. Instead the weight gain is attributable to a loss of lean mass and a reduction in physical activity, leading to weight gain.

Medications that help with conditions but can harm what the scale says.

Some people never needed any medications on a sustained basis until midlife hit.

Unfortunately, some of the medications women are apt to begin taking in their 40s and beyond can be associated with weight gain. Almost 25 percent of women in their 40s and 50s are on antidepressants, and many drugs in this class have been connected to weight gain.  Frequently, the antidepressants themselves do not cause weight gain, but they can induce an increase in appetite that leads to more eating.

Aside from antidepressants, there are other medications connected with poundage. They include steroids, which are used for arthritis, asthma, lupus and other health conditions, and antihistamines, commonly used for allergies. Meds for epilepsy and nerve pain, like Lyrica, and beta blockers, which are prescribed for hypertension and anxiety, can also lead to weight gain.

Moving forward

Weight gain at midlife as a woman is a complex thing. As you can see, there are various clues and causes for it, from monthly hormonal changes beyond one’s control to lifestyle factors that are in one’s sphere of influence.

Some strategies for coping with age-related body changes include adopting a wellness-focused lifestyle that prioritizes feeling good more than fitting into a socially acceptable model of beauty. Developing this mindset doesn’t mean foregoing exercise and sound nutrition for French fries and sugar binges, but it does acknowledge that doing well by one’s body turns the focuses to maximizing its function for the long haul vs. short-term gains in unhealthily obtained weight loss.

Other methods include becoming even more cognizant of diet and exercise if you’re on medications associated with weight gain. Taking a drug that heightens appetite is not necessarily carte blanche to eat whatever, whenever. Rather it can be a sign to be that much more disciplined because an increase in desire to eat due to a medication doesn’t mean the body physiologically needs more food to fuel it.

With age comes change, as most of us can attest. Change in our lives, change in the world, change in our spouses and children, and change in our philosophies, ideals and goals. This can be a time to be more forgiving and tolerant of those changes, holding a mirror of acceptance and goodwill to ourselves as much as we extend that to others.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.”