I love my body.

Not in a posing and flexing, cataloging curves and muscle kind of way.
Not in a circa–early-aughts, paper-thin kind of way.

Rather, in a movement-adoration kind of way.

I first noticed my inner peace with my body in 2014, three weeks into a regular yoga practice in a studio that rewarded our heated classes with ice-cold, lavender-soaked washcloths in savasana. God, how I wish that place still existed.

Before that routine, I fully detested parts of my body, specifically my thighs. But one day, in a seated forward fold (paschimottanasana), I found myself hugging my legs with a newfound love. Mostly because I had no choice. To bring my heart to my legs meant to meet them exactly as they were: extended, solid, unavoidable.

In that act, I looked at them and felt something soften. Flexed feet. Strong calves. Even stronger quadriceps. I could kiss them. And I do. Because I can.

I was twenty-eight and still unlearning the language the media, our well-meaning family members, and our peers teach girls. Now, more than ten years later, I can finally say that language has been unlearned.

I fucking love my body.

So in tune with it that on my last walk of 2025 with my sweet Gigi, I felt every smooth, strong tendon inside those same thighs carrying me forward with a strength that makes you feel like a goddamn golden athlete. Why? Because I’d used them the day before to sprint against a twenty-year-old. Because I don’t take it for granted when my body is in a star state. And my god, I love it in a star state.

I struggle with writing about fitness because it’s something I once wanted to do with my life, and lately it’s taken a back seat to other projects and goals. But movement is still my favorite state to be in. To teach. To share. To advocate for. Not just for longevity or health, and not because we want to look good naked (all bodies can look good naked), but because movement is a feeling of aliveness I cherish and will never stop seeking.

And when my legs feel like they’re giving out on that last push, I tell them thank you.

We’ll try again tomorrow, body.

Here’s to 2026.
And to turning forty.