I’m 50. Here’s How I’m Moving My Body in Midlife

In my twenties, I imagined that turning 30 would see me effortlessly put together. Right house. Right car. Right relationship. Right clothes. You get the picture.

It turned out that 30 saw me going through a divorce, drinking too much, burdened by debt, battling an eating disorder, and dating a man who was a couple of months out of a long-term relationship. It’s fair to say that it wasn’t quite the fantasy era I’d imagined.

Not to be deterred, I picked myself up (a few more times), gathered the pieces of my chaotic life, and gradually created a world that didn’t feel like a nightmare I wanted to escape from.

The path from 30 to 40 became a journey of reclamation. I took several steps back from the plethora of societal expectations that so many women feel compelled to meet, and finally began to clarify my true desires.

What emerged was transformative: a name change, a career shift, and a leap into a new country (goodbye London, hello NYC). At 38, I married again, optimistic that my 40s would usher in a phase of completeness and clarity. I embraced the thought that I would finally be "totally together."

While my 40s weren't a repeat of my tumultuous thirties, they weren’t devoid of challenges either. We were living in an apartment that I didn’t love, I was adjusting to a new culture, feeling the void of friends and chosen-family who were far away, and struggling to carve out my professional identity.

Once again, my visions of gliding into a magical new decade turned out to be a series of awkward stumbles and unexpected challenges.

The approach to my 50th birthday held no such illusions. I shed the notion that a specific age would come wrapped with any promises. Having survived a brain tumor a couple of years prior, I mostly felt glad and grateful to still be alive. We’d since bought an old but much loved home in the woods, and I had stopped chasing a lot of the empty shells that I’d once thought of as markers of success.

However, I did decide to make some changes with regard to my physical health. Knowing full well that I was officially at an age where muscle mass and bone density were declining, I knew that I wanted to focus on building strength. I wanted to care for my body without panicking that one day, in the decades to come, I’d struggle to get myself out of bed or off the toilet.

So I made a decision to start strength training.

My 50th birthday came and went. I bookmarked articles about building strength. I saved video tutorials. I watched Instagram reels of other women lifting weights at the gym or at home.

And I did absolutely nothing to start my own strength journey.

Every day I’d promise myself that I’d get started tomorrow. When I had more time, or I wasn’t as tired, or it wasn’t as hot. Or cold. Or humid. When I wasn’t so hungry. When I hadn’t just eaten. When I wasn’t busy doing these other 20 things that absolutely had to take priority right now.

The weeks went by, and then suddenly it was Thanksgiving. I hadn’t got any stronger and I felt like a failure. What was wrong with me? I wondered. Why couldn’t I just do the damn thing?

At 4am, I’d lie in bed, wide awake after my second bathroom trip, and I’d mentally replay one of those Instagram reels, this particular one featuring a midlife woman emphasizing the importance of lifting heavy weights over and over again. All I could think of was how I wasn’t lifting anything at all. And why not?

Running my own business meant I had the luxury of setting my own schedule. Working from home meant I had the convenience of wearing work out clothes all day if I wanted. I had zero excuses.

Eventually, after acknowledging some other behavioral patterns that had become apparent (namely sitting at my desk to start work and then going into freeze mode, not being able to emotionally “mask” anymore in social situations, lacking drive, energy, and patience amongst other things) I faced the fact that this was another layer of perimenopause.

Despite having had a stormy few decades, I wasn’t someone who’d ever lacked motivation. If I decided to go for something, I did exactly that. If I set a goal, I did everything I could to smash it. I was a purposeful person and I didn’t allow myself to drift.

Until now.

I found myself facing unfamiliar behaviors, attempting to tackle them with outdated strategies that had once served me well. The truth is, I wasn't 30 or 40 anymore; I was 50, and it was time to adopt a whole new approach.

Looking back, I realized that I’d spent almost all of my life in some kind of active conflict with my body. I’d yearned to be slimmer, thinner, less-than. I’d obsessed about finding ways to acquire a body shape that I didn’t naturally have. I’d allowed the number on the scales to determine my self-worth for the following 24 hours until I stepped on them again to repeat the cycle. I’d had a long brush with bulimia, and I’d spent longer still trapped in a pattern of disordered eating.

My relationship with my body had been informed and influenced by my other relationships. And, for the bulk of my life, those relationships hadn’t been particularly compassionate. They certainly hadn’t been healthy.

One of my dear friends, Jessamyn, is a magical being and I always rave about how she has a remarkable gift of being able to meet people in the moment they’re in. So I decided to stop watching reels that left me feeling more deflated than inspired, and instead consider how I could meet myself in the moment I was in. Or, more accurately, the stage of life I was at.

Meeting myself in the (midlife) moment looked like continuing with the daily walks that I was already enjoying. It meant gradually adding in some more resistance to those walks in the form of extra inclines. It meant not fixating on the fact that I wasn’t lifting heavy weights and panicking about the impending decline of my body, and instead letting a sense of lightheartedness lead me to movement I felt intuitively and energetically drawn to.

I’ve been doing this work of helping women navigate midlife for long enough now. Yet it took me a little while to pull myself out of my own fug.

When I stopped “shoulding” all over myself, I naturally found my own path forward and began incorporating movement into my life in ways that felt both sustainable and enjoyable.

I started listening to motivational podcasts on my daily walks, relishing in the fact that I was able to move my body and shift my mindset. I began taking online classes with Movement Living and allowed myself to focus on connecting with my body at a core level instead of feeling the need to go from zero to gym goddess in a week.

In short, I trusted myself and I held space for myself.

If my 50s are going to be about anything, and I hesitate to confine myself to any kind of a label these days, it might be about embracing the totality of who I am.

And that’s why this post is about more than movement. Because we are more than any one thing. Yet still we try to separate ourselves and compartmentalize our experiences.

I’m not the woman on Instagram who is lithe and toned and lifting weights in Lululemon clad attire. I’m the woman who pulls on the same gray hoody she always reaches for and values comfort over social media approved style.

What I realized was that, for me, transformation isn’t about leaving previous versions of myself behind. It’s about bringing them with me.

I don’t ever want to abandon who I once was just so I can become who I think I should be.

My sensitive six year old self taught me that books and animals are friends, too. Important ones. I’m grateful to her.

My wayward teen self taught me that confidence can look different on each of us and maybe I’d find my true self in written words rather than being accepted into the cool crowd. I’m grateful to her.

My uncertain twenty-something self taught me that it’s possible to take steps forward even when you have no clue what you’re walking towards. I’m grateful to her.

My rock bottom thirty-something self taught me that when you unravel all the way down to a single thread, you can find a way to stitch yourself together again. I’m grateful to her.

My still figuring it out forty-something self taught me that success didn’t mean emulating others and that I could find peace and ease in celebrating my introvert nature. I’m grateful to her.

At 50, it’s been a breakthrough for me to realize that the way I choose to move my body is as personal to me as any other part of my journey. I don’t have to conform to a rigid routine or compare myself to anyone else. What matters more is how anchored I feel and how centered I am.

It’s also true that when I move my body in a way that feels good for me, I cultivate a space where introspection and release can happen. This brings strength of a different kind: a stronger connection to myself. I’m tethered to something true. And, as an interesting side-effect of this approach, I find that I’m naturally gravitating towards building physical strength, too.

Moving my body goes beyond the physical realm; it profoundly influences my emotional and mental well-being as well. When I discover my rhythm in one area, it creates a ripple effect, bringing a sense of ease to other aspects of my life.

Am I finally embarking on my “totally together” era? Not a chance! And that in itself feels like a gorgeous and liberating knowing. A true coming home. A once forgotten remembrance that I’m already good enough. All my previous selves are celebrating.