The man in the mirror is a stranger these days. Not a new one, mind you. We’ve been acquainted for a while, this other me and I. But the relationship has grown colder, more distant, like old roommates who’ve run out of things to say and now coexist in the same space, passing each other in the hallway without making eye contact.
I’m 59. And for most of those years, my body has been less of a home and more of a project I’ve been failing to complete.
It’s a strange thing, being a gay man of a certain age. You grow up in a culture that, for all its celebration of diversity, often has a very narrow, precise definition of what’s desirable. It’s a culture of the gym, of the perfect V-taper, of the effortless glow that seems to be bestowed only on the young and the genetically blessed. I spent my twenties and thirties auditioning for that role. I had my moments, brief flashes where I felt like I might fit the mold. But it was always a performance. The real me, the one underneath the carefully chosen outfits and the flexed muscles, never quite believed the hype.
Now, the curtain has well and truly fallen. The performance is over. What’s left is the reality, and it’s… well, it’s a lot.
My body is a roadmap of bad decisions, good intentions that fizzled out, and the simple, unforgiving march of time. The softness around my middle isn’t just a spare tire; it’s a monument to a thousand nights of comfort food and a thousand mornings where the snooze button won. The lines on my face aren’t just character; they’re the topography of every worry, every laugh, every moment I spent squinting at a screen instead of looking at the horizon. My skin has the texture of a well-worn map, and my joints offer a creaky symphony of protest every time I stand up too fast.
And the shaming… oh, the shaming. The loudest voice in the room has always been my own. It’s a voice that sounds remarkably like my father’s, a critical gym teacher from high school, and the ghost of every hot guy who ever looked right through me. It’s the voice that says, “You’ve really let yourself go”. It’s the one that points out every flaw with the precision of a laser. See that? That’s what happens when you don’t try harder.
And here’s the part where I must be brutally honest, because anything less is a disservice to myself: that voice isn’t entirely wrong.
This is the part that’s hard to admit, even to myself. Some might argue this is on me, and I accept that. I accept the choices I made. I accept that I choose a beer over a walk. I acknowledge the years I prioritized work over wellness. I accept the times I looked in the mirror and, instead of seeing something to work with, I just saw a lost cause and gave up before I even started. The ownership of that is heavy. It’s a weight that’s just as real as the one on my scale. I can’t entirely blame society, genetics, or age. I was the co-pilot, often the lead pilot, on this flight to where I am today.
But recently, something has shifted. It’s not a dramatic, movie-moment epiphany. It’s quieter. More like a slow tide going out, leaving behind a different landscape to look at.
I’m starting to separate the body from the self. The body is the vehicle. It’s dented and rusted in places, the upholstery is faded, and it doesn’t have the pickup it used to. But the self… the self is the driver. The driver is the one who has the memories. The driver is the one who has loved and been loved. The driver is the one who knows the lyrics to every sad song from the 80s and can still dance like no one’s watching (and thank God they usually aren’t). The driver is the one who has built a life, made friends, and accumulated a wealth of experience that this beat-up chassis carries around.
This new awareness isn’t about falling in love with my body. That feels like a bridge too far, a lie I’m not willing to tell myself right now. It’s not about posting a defiant, shirtless selfie with a caption about self-love. I’m not there.
It’s about a truce.
It’s about looking in the mirror and, instead of the usual litany of failures, just saying, “Okay. This is you. This is the equipment you’ve got for the rest of the ride.” It’s about acknowledging the soft belly, not with disgust, but with a sense of neutrality. It’s there. It’s part of the landscape. It’s not good or bad; it just is.
This truce is about gratitude, but a gritty, realistic kind. I’m grateful for these legs that still carry me up a flight of stairs, even if they complain about it. I’m grateful for these arms that can still hug a friend and hold a cup of coffee. I’m grateful for this heart that, despite all the stress and neglect, keeps beating its steady rhythm.
The self-shaming hasn’t vanished. It still whispers, especially late at night or when I see an ad for some miracle cream or a gym filled with perfect, smiling men. But now, there’s another voice, a quieter one, that answers back. It doesn’t argue. It just says, “Yes. And yet, here you are. Still here.”
And for now, for a 59-year-old gay man who has spent a lifetime at war with his own reflection, “still here” feels like a victory. It’s not the victory of a perfect body, but the victory of a spirit that has finally decided to stop fighting a battle it was never going to win, and instead, just live.