Fashion and Body Image at 35

When I was in my twenties and trend-obsessed, I remember women in their 30s telling me that I wouldn’t care about trends when I got older. I wouldn’t worry so much about perfection. I would be more comfortable in my own skin.

The magazines I grew up with corroborated this sentiment. Somehow, turning 30 would bring about an interior change that would make me mature, measured, and endlessly self-assured.

I wish I could tell you that has been the case. In many ways, being in my 30s – and especially turning 35 – has made me more self-conscious than ever.

It is tedious to be a young woman in a youth-obsessed culture. You live in the tension of wanting to be given the privileges of youth (generosity, desire, freedom) while also being respected for your growing experience and maturity.

Even though I spent a lot of my 20s being angsty that people didn’t take me seriously, I also feel like I was given a lot of leeway because I was young. I was also very thin, which gave me extraordinary privilege. When it came to fashion, or really anything, I never had to worry about my body.

When I started seminary, I entered a social world full of youngins. As a 30-year-old, I was considered a second-career student. I was 6-8 years older than many of my colleagues, which was enough to highlight the generational differences. My Gen Z classmates were much more trend-conscious than me, and had a kind of carefree thing going that I hadn’t had since I was in my early 20s.

As I nitpicked my skin, body, and clothes through the pandemic lockdown, I began to understand what had been happening all along. I was getting older. And I was starting to look it.

People still think I’m 25 sometimes, and I am flattered. But the shape of my body and the elasticity of my skin have changed sufficiently to remind me, if no one else, that I am no longer a “young person.” I use Tretinoin and buy orthopedic shoes.

I never thought I would be the kind of person who shied away from the camera. But part of the reason I haven’t taken many outfit photos recently is because I no longer like the way I look. I’m not used to seeing myself in a body that is larger, in a face that is less angular, with eyes that are tired.

You can laugh and say, “Wait ’til you get to be my age.” You can tell me none of it is true. That’s not why I’m writing this. I’m writing it because it actually doesn’t matter what you think. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.

I’m the only one who lives in my body. And it matters to me.

It matters more than I’d like it to. I never thought of myself as a dazzlingly pretty person. But I benefited in unseen ways from my youth and my size. I think I knew that, even if I didn’t always admit it.

Someone once said that women disappear as they get older. I think I am afraid of disappearing.

I’m not hiding in a hole or anything. I am still buying and wearing clothes. I am still interested in street style and personal style blogs. I’m just not sure how this body fits into all of it.

Maybe those women in their 30s were right, in the sense that outside critiques cut less deep than they used to. I know who I am and I trust my instincts. Not always, but often. I know I’m more than my body or my clothing choices. I am a competent, passionate, whole human. I benefit from enough life experience to know that not everything has to be a big deal. Not everything is make or break. This too shall pass.

Yes, there are benefits to getting older. And I am lucky for the chance to get older.

But it’s not a simple thing to get older, especially as a woman. It is not a simple thing for your mind to imagine yourself one way and the mirror to tell a different story. It is not a simple thing to wear clothes in public, and not give a crap what others think about it.

I’ve still got some growing up to do.