I used to think older women were dramatic. Respectfully… I owe several women an apology basket and possibly an edible arrangement.

Because at 21, after two kids, I was 106 pounds fueled almost entirely by caffeine, gas station burritos, emotional instability, and audacity. I had abs. Not intentional abs. Not “I wake up at 5 a.m. to do hot yoga while drinking chlorophyll water” abs. Just accidental abs.The kind you get when your body still believes in you. Back then I could eat a double quarter pounder at midnight, sleep four hours, wake up mildly hungover from life itself, and somehow lose three pounds because I walked through Target too aggressively.

Now?

Now I gain water weight from looking at a tortilla chip. At 41, after seven biological children, years of stress, business ownership, hormones, sleep deprivation, and enough cortisol to tranquilize a horse, my body responds to inconvenience like a Victorian woman with tuberculosis.

One bad night of sleep and my face retains water like FEMA is issuing sandbags. My Oura ring sends me passive aggressive notifications. My knees sound like microwave popcorn. My metabolism didn’t disappear. It unionized.

And can we discuss the absolute betrayal that is the pelvic floor situation? Because when I delivered Harper, the midwife actually asked if I did Pilates. Pilates. Ma’am, I barely had time to shower consistently, but apparently my pelvic floor was out here training for the Olympics. Harper would start coming out during a push and then WHOOSH. My body sucked her right back in like it forgot its Amazon return deadline. The midwife looked impressed. I looked exhausted.

Fast forward a few years and now if I feel sneeze loading while walking through Costco, I immediately begin scanning for the nearest restroom like I’m running an emergency evacuation drill. At 21, sneezing was free. At 41, sneezing is a tactical event.

Women warned me about this. They did. Older women used to laugh and say things like: “Enjoy jumping on trampolines while you can.” “Cross your legs when you cough.” “Wait until your metabolism changes.” “Wait until you hit your forties.” And I laughed. LAUGHED. Because I was young and dumb and thought my body and I were in a lifelong committed relationship.

Turns out it was a temporary situationship. Now my body wakes up every morning like: “Before we begin today’s activities, we’d like to discuss inflammation.”

And let’s not even discuss the emotional damage of realizing some women in their forties still look effortlessly tiny while I inherited the “retains water after smelling soy sauce” genetics from my biological paternal DNA. Thanks, Hubert. Could’ve passed down generational wealth. Instead I got cardiovascular risk factors and puffiness with a side of lupus. Not even the cholesterol you can fix with kale and optimism either. No no. The hereditary kind. The kind handed down like herpes on prom night in Vegas. Unwanted. Permanent. Impossible to exchange.

Meanwhile my mom and sister can drink sweet tea and survive entirely on vibes while remaining tiny woodland creatures. I eat one restaurant meal and wake up looking like I lost a bar fight with sodium.

And the cruelest joke of all? I’m actually trying now. At 21, health was accidental. At 41, I own supplements. Electrolytes. Fiber. Magnesium glycinate. Compression socks that look suspiciously medical. A smartwatch monitoring my stress levels like I’m a zoo animal under observation. I stretch before getting out of bed now because apparently sleeping wrong is a legitimate injury risk. I have opinions about hydration. Botox has gone from “I would NEVER” to “well maybe just a little around the forehead because life has been visually stressful.”

The wildest part isn’t aging. It’s realizing women were telling the truth the entire time. Not because we become less beautiful. Not because we “let ourselves go.” But because life physically lives in women’s bodies. Pregnancies. Stress. Mental load. Sleep deprivation. Hormones. Loss. Responsibility. Years of putting everyone else first. Your body keeps receipts.

Still… I think there’s something weirdly comforting about women hitting this stage together. Because now when one of us says: “I laughed so hard I peed a little,” the rest of us don’t judge. We just nod respectfully and ask: “Okay but were you wearing black leggings or did it ruin your whole afternoon?”