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Over the last couple of years, I’ve changed — inside and out.
I’ve grown a lot personally. My physical appearance has shifted.
Not everyone has mentioned the personal growth. Nearly everyone has noted the physical one.
And that’s where things get… weird.
When someone says, “You look great,” I know what they mean. This isn’t about a haircut or a new sweater.
This is about my body.
And instead of feeling flattered, I feel evaluated. And uncomfortable.
I know. Stay with me.
The Compliment That Isn’t
“You look great” sounds harmless. Positive, even.
But it’s vague. What does “great” even mean?
Radiant? Rested?
No.
I know. Smaller than the last time you saw me.
Here’s what my brain hears: “Oh, so I didn’t before?”
Why?
Because 99.9% of the time, it doesn’t stop there. It’s followed by commentary about my “physical metamorphosis,” often accompanied by one or more of the following:
- The once-over.
- The slow, up-and-down glance.
- The lingering pause.
- Even the unsolicited touch.
All delivered with a beaming smile.
Again, I know most people mean well. Ulterior motives aren’t the point. But intent and impact are not the same thing.
I Don’t Say Thank You. Here’s Why
Most comments are awkward. Some are bold.
- “Your clothes must be falling off you!” (Nope.)
- “Keep up the good work!” (Excuse me?)
- “You lost a lot!” (Not really.)
That’s not a compliment. That’s a performance review of my body.
I don’t say thank you. I don’t smile. I change the subject, ignore it, or wave my hand like I’m shooing away a fly. Not everyone takes the hint.
I then say, “I know this comes from a good place, but I’m not comfortable with comments about my body.”
If they still won’t let it drop, I get more direct. I’ve had to do that with a handful of people.
It’s Not Your Business
Here’s what people forget: you don’t know why someone’s body has changed. It may or may not be intentional.
Consider:
- It could be stress.
- It could be illness.
- It could be disordered eating.
- It could be grief.
Bodies shift for a hundred reasons — some good, some hard. Regardless, how it happened isn’t your business.
I know — you’re just curious. You’re genuinely interested in me as a person.
It’s still not appropriate. This is my body. I’m not on display. I didn’t ask for your input.
I am far more interesting than my physical size. Or how I got here.
The Part That Actually Bothers Me
What’s underneath all of this?
It suggests that smaller equals better.
If that’s not what you mean, make the comments about me — not my body.
- Tell me you love my energy.
- Tell me I seem confident.
- Tell me you think I’m funny.
- Tell me I seem more like myself than ever.
Those land.
Because they’re about me, not my body.
That’s the kind of “great” that actually feels great.
Bottom Line
I know most people have good intentions when they tell me, “You look great.” Even when what follows makes it about my physical shift.
I’m not staging a war on compliments.
I’m simply saying this:
- I am not a renovation project.
- I’m not better now than I was before.
- I am a whole person — inside and out.
And the most important, most interesting parts of me are not physically visible.
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When I was in first grade, we had to make a paper mâché doll depicting what we wanted to be when we grew up.
I was thrilled.
Arts and crafts were my Super Bowl. Give me paint, glue, yarn, and I was in my glory. While other kids were still debating between astronaut and veterinarian, I already knew. No hesitation. No doubt.
I wanted to be a writer.
I was just learning to read, and it felt like magic. Words weren’t just letters on a page — they were doors. They could transport you, make you feel something, explain something, change something, and so much more. I didn’t fully understand the mechanics yet, but I knew I wanted to be the person who created that magic for someone else.
It was also, if I’m being honest, the perfect career choice for someone who was painfully shy.
I was the kid who rehearsed what she was going to say. The kid whose face turned bright red when called on in class. Speaking felt like exposure. Writing felt like armor. On paper, I could say exactly what I meant. I could take my time. I could be brave without my voice shaking.
So I made my doll.
She had a lumpy head and too much paint. Her bright yellow yarn hair leaned slightly to one side. In her pipe cleaner hand, she clutched a chunky red pencil. I was proud of her. She was messy, but she was certain.
There’s something so pure about the clarity you have at six years old. You don’t overthink market conditions or salary bands or “adjacent experience.” You just know what lights you up.
To this day, I think about that doll when I feel lost. When a job ends. When a plan changes. When I wonder if I should pivot, rebrand, or reinvent myself entirely.
That little paper mâché version of me didn’t care about titles. She didn’t care about industry. She cared about words. About meaning. About telling stories.
It was a simpler time — when knowing what you wanted (or didn’t want) felt obvious. Before the noise. Before the shoulds.
But here’s what I’ve come to appreciate: that little girl wasn’t wrong. I wanted to be a writer then, and I still do now. The mediums have evolved. The audiences have shifted. The tools and platforms look different. But the throughline hasn’t. I still believe words matter. I still believe stories help people understand the world — and themselves — a little better.
The doll is long gone. The certainty isn’t. I’m a writer.
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My health club sent me a full-on “Dear Jill” breakup email. Not because I broke any rules or posted snarky videos on TikTok, but because it was closing for good. The building it’s located in is shutting down. It’s going to be leveled for apartments that will probably have a “luxury gym” filled with Pelotons no one will use.
I’d been a member on and off since the 90s. This feels a lot like admitting I owned cassette tapes (which… I did). Back then, gym outfits were a neon crime, people drank from actual fountains, and no one filmed their leg day.
Like anyone in a long-term gym relationship, I went through all the phases:
- The “I will definitely go three times a week” era
- The “I still pay but emotionally I’ve left” era
- The “I only use this for the pool” era
- The “I just need one stable thing in my life” era
In short, it was a very well-rounded fitness journey.
My dad eventually became a member too, though not without some skepticism. At first, he teased me for paying money to exercise when I could do it “for free” outside or in the basement. Very dad of him. I finally invited him as my guest. He said the workouts were too “too easy.” A week later, he asked how to sign up.
Classic.
Once he joined, he stuck with it — even when I wandered off to try other gyms. He and my mom turned a spare bedroom into a home gym when they retired, but my dad still went there. I think he enjoyed being part of the gym community. Maybe a part of him just wanted to get out of the house, too. And he always used the same treadmill.
It was like his own reserved parking spot. But sweatier.
There he’d be: gray shirt, sweatpants, steady pace. Just quietly getting his steps in before “getting your steps in” was even a thing.
He only stopped going because of his health. He passed away four years before the pandemic. I eventually found my way back there a couple of years later.
The gym looked the same. His treadmill sat exactly where it always had. In my mind’s eye, I could see him on it, unchanged, as though time had paused just for him.
The gym was only supposed to be just a place to exercise, but it had quietly become a place filled with memories, feelings, and small pieces of an experience we had once shared.
Then something I always thought would be there… was going away.
I won’t pretend it didn’t sting. It did. But more than anything, I’m grateful it was part of our lives for as long as it was.
And if my dad were here, he’d feel the same way. Then he’d offer his familiar advice:
Things have a way of working out.
On my last day, I snapped pictures, said a quiet goodbye, and set off to find a new place to work out.
I was excited, but also uncertain. I’d been with that gym for so long. Familiarity is comforting, especially in a world that often isn’t.
The real question was whether I wanted more of the same, something completely different, or something in between.
The easy move would’ve been to join one of the gyms up the road — one I’d belonged to before, or another that felt almost identical to the one I’d just left. But part of me knew that wasn’t what I wanted.
What I did know — no matter where I landed — was what mattered: a genuine sense of community, supportive instructors, the chance to try new things, and solid equipment (yes, including treadmills). I wanted a place that would energize me, challenge me, and help me get stronger — without ever slipping into autopilot.
After sampling cardio equipment, lifting weights, doing TRX, finding my Zen in yoga, and pulsing through barre at various exercise facilities, I finally found what I was looking for. Along with the great workouts, I’m just as grateful for the people I met along the way in my search for something new. And so far, my new gym has been a great choice.
So, yeah. Things do have a way of working out, even when all you’re trying to do is work out.
A good thing to remember, no matter what life throws at you.
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Last summer’s vacation goal: unplug completely. No laptop. No phone. Just sunshine, food, beach naps… and, somehow, a 5K.
Let’s be clear: I. Do. Not. Run.
The last time I ran a race was sixth grade. I hated every second and swore I’d never put myself through that again. But this one supported a cause I love, lined up with my trip, and came with a T-shirt. So yeah, I signed up.
I set three goals:
1️⃣ Finish
2️⃣ Don’t finish last
3️⃣ Beat a beginner time I found online
(Okay, four). The last one was to prove to the naysayers wrong that I could do this. Aside from the biggest one (me), none of them knew I was running. This was for every time someone told me I couldn’t do something or underestimated me.
Training? I’m a gym mouse. I hit the bike, did strength training, and ran on a treadmill exactly once. Most of my cardio came from my dog, who treats every neighborhood walk like it’s Olympic time trials.
Race day energy was electric — people of every age, speed, and stride showing up to support something bigger than themselves. I tucked myself into the crowd, three-quarters back, excited but realistic.
When the horn blew, I took off: steady, focused, all in.
Halfway through, the doubts hit hard. What was I thinking? But I didn’t veer off course — I adjusted. I ran when I could, jogged or speed walked when I needed to, and made sure to high-five every kid with an outstretched hand along the way. My legs felt like Jell-O, but I just kept putting one foot in front of the other.
At one point, it was just me and the road. No crowd. No other runners. Just silence and effort. And in that quiet, something shifted. It wasn’t “I think I can.” It was “I know I can.”
Sometimes, you’ve got to be your own loudest cheerleader.
I was finishing this race — even if I had to crawl.
Then came a boost I didn’t expect: the race winner — on his third loop and now on his way to support his mom — spotted me and shouted encouragement as he flew past. He didn’t have to say anything, but he did. And it stuck.
Total boss move. Proof that a few kind words from someone on top can make more of an impact than they know. I picked up my pace as I rounded the corner to the finish line.
Final time? Four minutes faster than my goal. And nowhere near last. 🙌
Am I a runner now? Nope. But I’m someone who finished a 5K, and felt unstoppable doing it.
Will I do it again? All signs point to yes.
In fact, I’m already doing legit running prep. I’ve already got a tie for my hair, too.
I’m still going to slow down for every outstretched hand. Who knows? Maybe I was giving those kids a lift too, just like the race winner gave one to me.
Those split-second connections can make all the difference. Sometimes that’s all it takes to turn a tough stretch into a second wind.
It’s been months, and I’m still riding high. I can feel the shift — in my mindset, my energy, and the way I show up for everything — especially during tough times.
Crossing the finish line — especially one that took sweat, hustle, and a few “why did I do this?” moments — has a way of showing you just how strong you really are and remind you what you’re capable of.
The real win? Stepping out of my comfort zone and proving I could do it — embracing the stretch between start and finish, digging deep, pushing through, and walking away with lessons I can carry into every part of my life.
