At 47, I tell my daughter to love her body but secretly cry at my own

I truly believe that all bodies are good, and never more so than now, at the age of 47. All bodies are wonderful; endlessly astonishing, fascinating and beautiful. All bodies, except, apparently, my own.

Recently, I was on the beach in my most colourful swimsuit, my husband taking photos. I tried to stay relaxed when the lens pointed my way; I’m aware that my daughter is of an age where she’s vulnerable to the kinds of bodily insecurities that plagued me coming of age in the 90s and early 2000s, in the era of Heat magazine and circled cellulite.

My daughter lives in a world where plastic surgery and tweakments have been normalised, and where the images she sees have been filtered and photoshopped as a matter of routine. With the advent of AI, many of the bodies she’ll hold in comparison to her own won’t even be human.

I know all of this. And yet, when I looked at photos of myself that night, I cried.

What makes it worse is that I see pictures of myself in a swimsuit on an almost daily basis. I co-host one of the UK’s top swimming podcasts, Wild Swimming Wangers; we aim to be funny, joyful and honest. Anyone scrolling through the photos I post online would think I was the embodiment of my beliefs; happy to be snapped in a one-piece, entirely carefree. I don’t want my social media to be a lie. And when I look back at family holidays, I want to be seeing our smiling faces, not fixating on my stomach.

It’s not like I haven’t given this plenty of thought; my novel The Fix, dealing with what it is to be a middle-aged woman in in our hyper-critical society, will be out next year. I know I’ve internalised misogyny, and I know that capitalism feeds on insecurity to make us reach for our wallets, whether it’s as apparently innocuous as a tummy-control bikini, or as brutal as the extensive surgery that constitutes a “mummy makeover”. So, why is it that I see one photo of myself on the beach, and it feels like all this knowledge counts for nothing?

“It’s amazing how deeply we absorb messages that we are not OK as we are,” says Brighton-based therapist Eleanor Wood. “‘Conditions of worth’ is the term for the expectations we internalise that tell us we are only worthwhile if we do certain things, or behave well, or look a particular way. It can be almost impossible to unpick what is coming from our own feelings and beliefs, and what is an external demand placed on us.”

“It’s deeply ingrained,” says Mary-Ann Ochota, a broadcaster, author and outdoors enthusiast. “I look at pictures of me hill walking from 10 years ago – I was slimmer and definitely fitter than I currently am. But I can clearly remember that at the time I was ravaged by the inner voice berating the chub rolling over my rucksack waistband, the chunky thighs. My body shape made me feel less credible, less skilled.”

I experience this, too; the belief that if I were a “proper swimmer” I would have a swimmer’s body, whatever that is. I feel it even though our podcast is about two non-athletic types who swim outdoors for pleasure and fun. Our kind of swimming is just as valid as any other. But I can’t seem to extend this belief to my body, something that leaves me both angry and ashamed.

“It often feels these days that being confident and body neutral has become another stick to beat ourselves with,” says Wood. “It’s easy to say we should love ourselves as we are, but it’s so much more complex than that. Not judging ourselves based on how we look takes a lot of unpicking.”

“I try to surround myself with images of bodies of all types, whether that’s through diverse social media accounts or going swimming with other people.”

“I think it helps doing an activity that is outside,” says Ochota. “Being in nature reminds me that I’m just a tiny bit of the universe, and nature doesn’t care about my thighs.” When it comes to social media, she tells me that: “I intentionally post pictures which I don’t think are very flattering – no make-up, messy hair, chubby bits. That’s the most powerful way I can be a role model and be part of the solution – restacking the balance to show women in everyday bodies.”

And how does she feel looking back at those photos? “I worry about if my tum looks big. But I post the picture anyway. I think it helps remind myself about what’s really important, and perhaps it helps someone else too.”

It’s not just me, then. And it’s not my fault. So, I guess I’ll just keep swimming, and pushing back against the tide of body shame. I really hope you’ll join me.

Marianne Levy’s book ‘The Fix’ will be published in February 2027. The podcast Wild Swimming Wangers is out now.