The Day My Body Scared Me.
By Vania Primmer McMahon | Highland Health Club
It starts with a moment that shouldn’t be a big deal — and suddenly is.
Trying to get up off the floor after playing with your doggies or children… and needing the coffee table.
Walking a little slower behind them, thinking, I used to be able to do this.
Its THAT photo from your recent holiday or your best friends birthday.
It’s climbing stairs and feeling breathless — not dramatically, just enough to make you aware of your body again.
And awareness, when you’ve been avoiding yourself for years, can feel terrifying.
Somewhere along the way, you stopped looking in mirrors.
Or you learned how to glance — never really see.
You avoid shop windows.
You tilt your head just right on FaceTime.
You stand at angles that don’t show your stomach, your arms, your neck.
And when you do catch your reflection unexpectedly — bathroom lights too harsh, a photo you didn’t know was being taken — the voice arrives instantly.
Harsh.
Precise.
Relentless.
You say things to yourself you would never say to another human being.
Disgusting.
Pathetic.
How did you get like this?
If a gramophone were attached to your thoughts, playing them out loud, people would recoil — not from your body, but from the violence of the language you use against yourself.
And the most painful part?
You think you deserve it.
This is the stage no one prepares women for.
Not youth.
Not ageing.
But the moment you realise you’ve been at war with your own body, quietly, for a very long time.
So you cope the only way you know how.
You cover it up.
You joke.
You wear black.
You stay busy.
You tell yourself you’re “fine” — because being fine is easier than being honest.
Until one day your body interrupts.
A tweak that doesn’t settle.
An ache that doesn’t fade.
A physio who says, “You’ve lost strength here.”
A doctor who gently suggests movement… resistance… support.
And suddenly it’s not cosmetic anymore.
It’s functional.
What if I fall?
What if I can’t keep up?
What if this keeps going?
That’s when the fear creeps in — not dramatic fear, but quiet, adult fear.
The kind that makes you realise:
I can’t ignore this anymore.
Most women don’t respond to this moment with motivation.
They respond with resistance.
They don’t want to join a gym.
They don’t want to spend the money.
They don’t want to be seen.
They don’t want to try and fail — again.
And if they’re honest, they’d rather nap.
Or scroll.
Or eat something comforting and forget about it.
But they know — deeply — that they won’t actually do that either.
Because numbing stopped working a long time ago.
So they do what millions of women do when avoidance finally runs out.
They ask for help.
Not loudly.
Not confidently.
They join a gym.
Quietly. Reluctantly.
Hoping no one notices how out of place they feel.
And this — right here — is not weakness.
This is the first act of courage.
What’s Actually Happening (and Why You’re Not Broken)
When you’ve lived for years disconnected from your body — overriding it, criticising it, ignoring it — your nervous system learns that being in your body is unsafe.
So it numbs you.
Muscle turns off.
Sensation dulls.
Fat becomes insulation — physical and emotional.
Not because you failed.
Because your body adapted to survive the environment it was in — stress, self-judgement, pressure, responsibility.
When you start to feel scared by your body, it’s not betraying you.
It’s asking to come back into relationship.
What to Do at This Stage
Do this:
- Start somewhere structured and supported
- Expect discomfort — emotional and physical
- Let strength come before confidence
- Let someone else hold the plan for a while
Do not:
- Punish yourself into change
- Wait until you “feel ready”
- Talk to yourself the way you always have
- Quit because it feels awkward
Trust this:
- Discomfort ≠ danger
- Strength builds safety
- Self-respect grows through action, not mirrors
Seek support when:
- Shame is loud
- Food feels chaotic
- You feel frozen or overwhelmed
- Old coping strategies spike
Those are not signs you’re failing.
They are signs you’ve stopped running.
This isn’t the beginning of weight loss.
It’s the beginning of reconnection.
And it starts with a woman who looked at her life — her little ones, her future, her body — and decided:
I want to live strong in my body.
