I Give Up

I’ve Given Up - And I’ve Never Felt More Free

There was a time when the phrase “she’s given up” would have cut deep. A quiet insult, a judgment passed in hushed voices or whispered between the lines. A woman who has let herself go. A woman who has stopped trying. A woman who no longer cares.

But now, I wear those words like a badge of honor. Yes, I’ve given up. Given up the endless war with my reflection, the silent pressure to erase every wrinkle, dye every gray, shrink every inch of myself that dared to take up too much space. I’ve given up apologizing for the natural course of my own existence.

I’ve given up chasing the approval of strangers. The idea that beauty is currency, that youth is a woman’s greatest asset, that my worth is measured in how well I can maintain an illusion of effortlessness while breaking myself to meet an impossible standard.

I’ve given up believing that aging is a battle to be fought rather than a privilege to be embraced.

But don’t mistake this for surrender. This isn’t giving up in the way they want you to think of it - defeat, resignation, decay. This is something different.

I’ve given up living for other people and their expectations. And in doing so, I’ve reclaimed my life as my own.

Now, I take care of myself, not for the sake of being looked at, but for the sake of feeling alive. I move my body because it feels good, not because I’m punishing it into submission. I nourish myself in ways that expand my well-being, not in ways that shrink me down.

The world will tell you that a woman who stops keeping up has stopped caring. But I have never cared more - just about different things. About the way the sun feels on my skin, about laughter that leaves lines on my face, about depth and substance and the kind of beauty that cannot be bottled or sold.

So yes, I’ve given up. And in the process, I’ve never felt more free.