She tells me as she looks worriedly away from me.

Her eyes, scared, tell me the story of too many a woman sitting at my office.
She tells me of the multiplying creases on her face, the extra weight she did not have to worry about years ago, her hair showing more and more silver threads as years go by, and how scared she is of finding a partner at her age.

She cannot see herself as the mature, wisdom-filled badass I see in front of me. I try to tell her of the relentless way in which the media attempts to destroy our self-confidence the older we get, how the models on the magazines keep getting younger and how all that is an illusion designed to keep us “in our place”, a bunch of lies… and even though at times my words seem to wash over her, I can tell a part of her desperately wants to believe in what I say. 

She wants to see herself as more than an aging body losing its glory, wants to resist the idea that her value is going down the more her face shows her years. For a moment I can see her holding on to that, even if by a thread.
But to my dismay, she can’t stay with me very long.

And I understand. 

It is not easy to stand against centuries of being told you’re no more worthy than your looks, than the number on the scale, the size of your waist.

But that glimpse of hope I saw when our eyes met, that fire I could feel in the room, even if still mixed in with fear —that told me my words were not spoken in vain. That showed me a woman eagerly trying to free herself out of a cage she hadn’t realised she was in. And as long as she continues to let the light come in, I will be holding it for her, for as long as she needs me to, until she is ready to come outside.