Old Lady Hands [Body UNshaming: 69-ish]

This body shaming thing is so insidious. That’s what aging and healing keeps showing me. Now, with my awareness in full gear, I see just how deep the self-shaming goes. 

At this point, I’m realizing that the work is not about catching every unkind thought. It’s about noticing the thought before it decides who I am.

The latest example was just last week when my executive assistant, Carsey, sent me a picture of myself and said, “Wow! I love this picture! Can we use it?”.

My response was immediate and visceral: “Old lady hand!” …shouting over our back-and-forth text messaging. Meaning, not on your life! I cringe at people seeing my pale, veiny, and wrinkled appendage. 

And yes, I know the skin changes that come with aging are completely normal, but knowing that intellectually doesn’t instantly undo the whole reaction.

If I’m being honest, underneath all that drama was anxiety around visible aging. It happens so fast that I barely notice it before I’ve decided my hand is the problem.

Immediately, my wise and perceptive colleague, more than 30-years my junior, quipped, “Isn’t that the point?”

SILENCE. 

Her words hung there, reverberating in my head: “Isn’t that the point?” I could feel shame and guilt about appearance rushing in, that old reflex that says a change in my body is somehow something I should apologize for.

I stared at the picture again. There it was: my hand, gesturing casually in the shot – pale, veiny, wrinkled. But also… mine. My hand, that’s written countless words, built a career, created projects, held onto loved ones, planted flowers, and learned to let go when it had to. How had I reduced all of that to just an “old lady hand”?

I know emotional triggers after photographs can make an ordinary picture feel like evidence against us. Apparently, I found one.

I wanted to type back some witty retort, to deflect the uncomfortable truth she’d just thrown at me. But the silence persisted, louder than any words I could think of. The pressure created by beauty standards had turned one tiny picture of my hand into a verdict. She wasn’t wrong. Isn’t this whole journey about “accepting” the things I instinctively want to hide or fix?

Maybe this is one of those spiritual awakening in everyday moments things, though I would have preferred it arrive with a little more glamour than an old lady hand in a photo.

Aging and Healing, Old Lady Hands and All

This obviously had to be an entry in this series. And the more uncomfortable a situation makes me, the more urgent it feels to put it out there. So here I am – unveiling the picture, the hand, and the unease that comes with exposing what I’d rather keep hidden.

There is a strange kind of personal empowerment through authentic expression in it, even though I would normally crop the evidence out.

Up to this time, Carsey and I have had plenty of discussions about pictures with my hands in them. I always, always dismissed them. No way.

Still Not a Self-Love Guru

I stared at this picture a little longer. My discomfort didn’t vanish. Let’s be clear: I haven’t suddenly become some self-love guru, glowing with unshakable confidence about my “old lady hands.”

Aging and healing do not mean I suddenly adore every last wrinkle. Maybe freedom from constant self-judgment starts with something smaller than love. Maybe it starts with not immediately attacking myself.

Maybe That’s Enough for Now

But in the early stages of this experiment, there has been a softening, an awareness of things I haven’t wanted to admit about myself. I’ve seen something similar in psychedelic integration following ceremony, when something I’d rather dismiss keeps coming up anyway.

That feels different from pretending I am confident. It feels more like giving myself a little room to be human, which is funny because I spend so much time encouraging other people to do exactly that.

If I can’t fully embrace my hands yet, maybe I can at least let them exist. Maybe healing with gentle self-acceptance is enough for today. Maybe I can stop hiding them – just once – and see what it feels like.

Maybe making peace with my hands begins with that small experiment.

This is a start. Another tiny step toward breaking the habit of shrinking myself to fit someone else’s – or even my own – definition of acceptable. These hands are a part of me. They’ve been through a lot with me. 

And I do wonder whether trauma related body dissatisfaction is part of why one little picture can still feel like too much. These reactions rarely begin with the picture itself.

So here I am, old lady hands and all, showing up. If you’re reading this, maybe you have your own “hands” to face – your own version of something you’d rather not acknowledge. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but maybe that’s the point. Sometimes, the hardest thing isn’t fixing or changing – it’s just letting it be.

With Love,
Becca