I first heard the phrase “glow up” as a teenager while watching my favorite youtuber. She presented before photos of her formerly over-bleached hair, distasteful makeup choices, and slightly heavier figure, all while showing off her now flawless skin, silky natural curls, and hourglass figure.
From that moment on, my relationship with the mirror took an abrupt turn for the worse. I no longer glanced once in the morning to throw my hair up in a ponytail. Now, I stared into the glass, scrutinizing my less-than-trim figure, blotchy skin, and undefined jawline, and decided a glow up was just what I needed.
There is nothing wrong with a little self-improvement. The basic principles of hygiene, and the art of nurturing a beautiful body and face come naturally to most women and with good reason. But there is a difference between a woman quietly cultivating her God-given body and worshiping that stewardship into an idol.
At sixteen I began chasing the perfect life through a pursuit of the perfect body. Eight years later, I had tried every diet, every fitness bootcamp, starved myself for days on end only to binge afterwards, never reaching my goals, crying myself to sleep at night because it felt like my body had betrayed me.
I so far lost sight of true beauty that it took hitting rock bottom for me to look up and realize it. That day, I quit crying over my lack of progress. Instead, my own addiction to this game of diets and discontentment stopped me in my tracks
and terrified me.
The day I got married, I mistakenly thought I was the most vibrant, healthy, fit version of myself. In reality, my body had never been sicker. Marriage changed my life in so many incredible, beautiful ways. The most painful to date was when I realize just how disordered my eating habits had become and how much it hurt not only me but the ones closest to me. Suddenly the days I spent tearing myself down and the nights of tossing and turning over my guilt were hurting someone besides myself.
It was the wake up call I needed. Snippets from books, encouragement from others, mornings spent pouring my heart out in prayer journals…all of it led me to the shocking revelation that womanhood is so much more than the superficial, outward act I had been living.
The transition from childhood to womanhood is truly the ultimate glow up, if treated so. Girlhood is laughter and bare toes, and endless hours reading, drawing, playing, giggling under the covers with your best friend, wearing your favorite polka dot dress even though it isn’t in your color pallet, and caring more about finding shells along the lakeshore than whether your swimsuit fits just so.
Womanhood, on the other hand, has gained a bad rap. Especially traditional womanhood. It spells hot days in the kitchen, endless piles of laundry, grey hairs, stretch marks, sagging bodies, and worn-out spirits. But why? Why is this such a common narrative, the woman who is worn to a frazzle by the family and the home that should be filling her heart and life with purpose and fulfillment and joy?
The sight of such a transition scared me, I determined not to let that be my fate. I knew there was something more, something better. But it took a struggle, a fight with worldly expectations and my own human heart, to catch a glimpse of it.
Womanhood is beautiful because she herself beautifies the life around her from the inside out. It is full and creative, bursting with new ideas whether arranging a gallery on her bedroom wall or trying a new flavor of ice cream. It smells of fresh baked bread or crisp basil tucked in the soil or fresh linens piled in a basket. It is the sound of laughter in the kitchen, the brightness of a smile when her man walks through the door, the tickling of baby toes and kisses on dirty foreheads. It is messy buns and rosy cheeks and curvy, strong, energetic figures, not ashamed of the babies they’ve carried but rather more womanly and beautiful because of it.
Am I romanticizing? I don’t believe so. Traditional womanhood is romantic. I have seen it, and I don’t believe it’s out of reach, it is simply a lost art.
And not just an art, but a calling. A calling to stand strong for your family, to nurture their bodies and guide their minds, to fill their hearts with truth and cover every day in prayer. No matter the season of life or role a woman plays, be it in the home or giving her time elsewhere, her calling remains the same.
Nurture. Love. Serve. Strengthen. Comfort. Encourage.
Of course there are hard days. Jesus never promised perfection, but He did promise rest. All my years of struggle, hating my body, punishing myself for the way I look, never being satisfied, stemmed from the belief that I wasn’t good enough, and the fear that someday I might fall too far to be rescued.
The gospel says differently.
My vision for womanhood has become so much more than a fad diet. It is rediscovering what it means to truly nourish my body, and in turn, nourish the life around me. It is rewriting the script, owning my role as the heart of the home, shaping the life around me into one full of vibrancy, grace, love, and lasting health so that I can pour into others, and not simply myself.
This pursuit is not a quick fix. It is not a one-size fits all, slimmer by summer, 75 hard, kind of challenge. It is the shaping of a life. This summer, I am determined to dig deep, to finding out what it really means to be a woman, and rediscover true beauty in the process.
Maybe I’ll keep writing about it.
