The beach is a million miles from my natural habitat. I don’t tan, I get bored easily and I hate wearing swimwear. But my kids LOVE the beach.  So, we’re just back from a long weekend in the mythical land of Cannes. I say mythical as this isn’t only a stunning part of the world, it’s truly a unique habitat. This is the sort of place where women very clearly curate their beach look, have perfected their beach hair and makeup and also drip in diamonds and jewellery to lounge around the Croissette. Dubai, Miami and other hedonistic idles have nothing on the overt glamour on display here. And that’s saying something.  At first the whole situation had me recoiling. But within a couple of days, the women around me actually freed me from my self-imposed feeling of inadequacy and limitation. After 40 something years of self-criticism, the bold, unbridled woman of Cannes inadvertently released me from my cellulite shame and imparted a quiet confidence I had been lacking for so long. This got me thinking about how I ever found myself loathing part of my body because of dimples under my skin, despite it having served me so incredibly well. Life has thrown some curve balls my way and yet this negative self-perception has been so deep set that even the harsh realities of actual life have failed to give me perspective on this most superficial of hang-ups. This of course had me questioning why something as irrelevant as cellulite had truly impacted my confidence.  I like to think of myself as a vaguely intelligent individual who embraces a broad view of beauty, but this seemed to stop with my own reflection. Why, oh, why was this case? And I know I’m not alone in this self-flagellation over perceived body imperfections. For some, this has been a long-term project, as it has been for me. For others this is a new development in Midlife as we embrace the physical and emotional changes that it brings. But it really shouldn’t be this way.

I can very easily trace my sense of what is beautiful to growing up. My mum was not in the least bit vain. But equally she didn’t celebrate her body.  She was entirely self-deprecating, which can also be detrimental when seeking to raise confident individuals. Cellulite and the like were written off as something you couldn’t do anything about and so it wasn’t worth worrying about. But the 1990s was an explosive decade and like all periods in time, it had its unique challenges. It heralded the birth of Girl Power, but also the rise of Lad Culture and the perpetuation of casual objectification of women. Oh, and let’s not forget the impossible beauty presented by the Supermodel Standard, which was entirely unobtainable for most mere mortals. And that was before all the air-brushing. Magazines also didn’t hold back in the publication of paparazzi shots of celebrities and Royals, nor did they hold back in their criticism of the bodies of said celebrities and Royals. All of this inevitably rubbed off on teenage girls navigating their way through the decade. If only I had heard Baz Lhurmann’s wise words, don’t read beauty magazines; they’ll only make you feel ugly before I became a teenager. The superficial ideology around what was beautiful, i.e. perfection, couldn’t help but infiltrate the psyche of young females. And I include myself in that count.  Basically, idealised unrealistic body images became entrenched and self-compassion was far from the agenda. It was a time for perfection and comparison. While some 90s girls have shrugged this off, others, like me, have struggled to address and change their practices in this regard. But no more!

It’s funny that in my 40s, there are so many things I have relaxed about and so quite simply, fail to worry about others’ opinions. A bit of an IDGAF attitude that has been so totally liberating. And yet, body image and finding self-acceptance has remained a hang-up. However, as I was getting ready to go to the beach and the familiar old niggles of holidays past started to return as I caught my refection in the mirror, there was also a sense of not this again. And as I spent time on the beach, it was clear that my lack of confidence left me very much in the minority. The women around me were all different shapes and sizes. Real women, I suppose you would say. Nothing close to the airbrushed ideals of the 1990s. Some with cellulite, some with bums and tums and the odd one with the perfect gym honed physic. But there was one common thread: they were all fully embracing their bodies and having the time of their lives. They were on holiday! Cellulite and other imperfections were absolutely not a reason to cover up or to influence your choice of swimwear.  It was is if they didn’t exist. It was totally inconsequential and far from an impediment to enjoying all that life had to offer.  And life on a beach in the south of France is pretty magnificent! This really was the wake-up call I needed to shake off my 90s-rooted hyper imperfection awareness and worry over comparisons. It was absolutely time to embrace a more body positive view that I don’t need to conform to any ideals. A bit like I’ve done in other areas. The time for worrying about others analysing my body had to stop. I mean, it was also time to get real. This isn’t the 90s and people nowadays are generally so disinterested in others, that your imperfections aren’t on anybody’s radar apart from your own. And so the question is then why would you choose to focus on something if it’s going to hold you back or undermine your confidence in anyway? Cellulite, like a lot of perceived imperfections, is one of those things that you can’t do much about. It’s not going anywhere, so it’s probably time to make friends with it. And from the minute I did, it was like a weight had been lifted. I’m not going to lie and say I suddenly loved it. I didn’t and probably never will. But life is so much better when you learn to accept your imperfections and this is easier to do when you appreciate all they represent.

The reality of all imperfections is they are actually part of our story. Cellulite is genetic, so most of the women in my family had it. It’s a connection to them. Also, my pregnancies exacerbated the situation, so it’s a reminder of how lucky I am to have my children. All of these little niggles are in fact proof of a life lived and a reason to celebrate, not shrink away. Despite growing up in an era where self-love and acceptance were linked only to perfection, I can confidently say, there is no good that comes from such an idealised, unrealistic and unnatural approach to life. My hang-ups were clearly a hangover from growing up in dark, not enlightened times. I’m not however suggesting we need to strive for 100% body positivity, 100% of the time. That could also be exhausting! But it’s looking at ourselves in a less critical, more accepting way. Often our perceived imperfections are not defects, but simply a matter of basic biology. So, at the end of the day, I’ve finally realised that confidence doesn’t come from fitting a mould. Confidence actually comes from owning who you are, imperfections and all, and being truly grateful for the story they tell.