by Erika Matic, emotionally evolved but still googling questionable things at 10:47 p.m.
There is a strange hobby humans have developed, and by “humans” I mean women, and by “hobby” I mean a lifelong, unpaid internship in self-criticism.
We look at ourselves in mirrors the way detectives look at crime scenes. Not with curiosity. With suspicion.
Every reflection is interrogated.
What’s that?
Why is that there?
Has it always been like that, or did it get worse overnight out of spite?
And God forbid someone else be present.
Because if we don’t comment on our appearance first, someone else absolutely will. It’s a social courtesy, really. Like saying hello, except instead of “Hi, how are you?” it’s:
- “You look tired.”
- “You’ve lost weight!” (good)
- “You’ve lost too much weight.” (bad)
- “You’re muscular now.” (concerned whisper)
- “Careful, you don’t want to look manly.”
- “You should eat more.”
- “You should eat less.”
- “You should cover that.”
- “You should show more confidence.”
Thank you, Mom. I will take that under advisement and immediately spiral.
The Female Body: A Community Project
Somewhere along the line, women’s bodies became public property.
Open for commentary.
Group feedback encouraged.
No opt-out option available.
- Too fat – clearly you’ve given up.
- Too thin – clearly you’re unwell or seeking attention.
- Strong – suspicious.
- Soft – lazy.
- Aging – tragic.
- Trying not to age – desperate.
There is no winning.
There is only participation.
And we participate enthusiastically. We don’t even wait for others anymore. We internalised the voice. Installed it permanently. Rent-free.
It wakes up before us.
It lives in the mirror.
It whispers helpful things like: Interesting stomach. Let’s ruin the day.
The Transformation Nobody Warned Me About
This past year, I lost 26 kilograms.
Twenty-six.
I gained muscle. Strength. Endurance. A spine – metaphorically and literally. I trained for health. For longevity. For energy. For the radical idea of wanting to be alive well.
I didn’t do it for abs.
And yet (plot twist) abs showed up anyway.
Rude.
But they didn’t come alone.
They brought a guest.
Loose skin.
Now listen. This skin is not dramatic. It’s not tragic. It’s just… there. A soft reminder that my body once carried more, held more, survived more.
And logically, I know this.
Emotionally?
I zoom in on it like it personally betrayed me. I can lift heavy weights. I can outrun my past habits. I can out-discipline the woman I used to be.
But this? This tiny fold of skin sends me straight to Google.
“How to get rid of excess belly skin?”
As if Google will reply gently: “Bestie, that’s called living. Close the laptop.”
No.
Google offers surgery, creams, lasers – and an overwhelming sense that I am, once again, unfinished.
The most uncomfortable realisation is this: the voice in my head doesn’t sound like strangers anymore. It sounds familiar. It sounds like women I love. It sounds like generations of survival disguised as self-criticism.
Because our mothers weren’t taught to love their bodies – they were taught to manage them. To shrink, to smooth, to stay acceptable. To apologise pre-emptively for existing too loudly in physical form.
That voice wasn’t born in me.
It was inherited.
And that’s the part that makes me pause.
Because if I don’t interrupt it, my daughter won’t inherit silence. She’ll inherit the same commentary, just with better lighting and faster internet.
The Absurdity of Being Almost Enough
Here’s the joke: I am happy with how I look.
Genuinely.
I am proud of my body. Of what it can do. Of how it shows up for me daily.
And yet (because we are nothing if not consistent in our contradictions) I still find ways to be dissatisfied.
Because satisfaction, for women, is suspicious. You can’t just be done.
There must always be an improvement pending. A flaw to monitor. A future version of you who will finally deserve peace.
And that’s the part that scares me.
Because my daughter is watching.
She’s watching how I talk to myself.
How I stand in front of mirrors.
How I pinch imaginary flaws while complimenting her softness.
She’s learning whether bodies are homes – or projects.
And I don’t want to teach her that a life well-lived leaves marks you should be ashamed of. I don’t want her to believe that proof of effort is a problem to fix.
The Radical Idea Nobody Profits From
Here is a dangerous thought: What if the loose skin is not a flaw? What if stretch marks are not failures? What if softness, scars, changes, and evidence of time are not aesthetic crimes – but receipts?
Receipts that say:
“I was here.”
“I changed.”
“I endured.”
“I grew.”
We live in a culture that worships transformation but despises evidence of it.
They want the “after” photo – but none of the consequences.
The glow-up – but not the history.
They want women reborn without proof they were ever human.
And I’m tired.
Tired of pretending that the body must look untouched to be worthy.
Tired of negotiating with mirrors.
Tired of holding myself to standards no living organism could sustainably meet.
The Body as Evidence, Not an Apology
We talk about bodies as if they owe us an explanation. As if every change needs justification. As if softness must be defended and strength must be explained.
But bodies are not apologies.
They are evidence.
Evidence of seasons. Of stress. Of nourishment. Of neglect and repair. Of love. Of grief. Of discipline. Of survival.
My body doesn’t exist to remain untouched. It exists to respond.
And it did.
A Small, Quiet Rebellion
Loving your body doesn’t mean you never wish it were different.
It means you stop punishing it for changing.
It means you stop calling proof of effort a mistake.
It means you look at yourself and say: You did your job. Thank you.
So I’m trying something new.
When I notice myself judging my body, I stop mid-thought. Not dramatically. Not heroically. Just gently.
And I remind myself:
This body carried me through survival and into strength.
This skin adapted faster than my brain did.
This is not damage – it’s documentation.
And some days, that works. Other days, I still Google things I shouldn’t.
Growth is not linear. Self-love is not a destination. It’s a practice. And I am still very much practising.
But here’s what I know for sure:
I refuse to spend the rest of my life at war with proof that I lived it fully. I refuse to teach my daughter that her worth is conditional on smoothness, tightness, or silence. I refuse to let a culture obsessed with perfection convince me that transformation should leave no trace.
Because at the end of the day, these aren’t flaws.
They’re chapters.
And honestly?
I’d rather look like a life well spent than a body that never dared to change.
Erika Matic writes about bodies, contradictions, motherhood, and the exhausting sport of being a woman with a mirror. She is strong, healthy, occasionally unhinged on Google, and learning – slowly – that peace is more radical than perfection.
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