Happy International Women’s Day! With less than a week before my 55th birthday, I am finally launching my blog, at long last. Welcome!

On this day, I reflect back on my much earlier, idealistic days. I was a staunch feminist at age eight (this being the 1960s and all), dreaming of becoming a single mother with seven adopted children, one from each continent. I wanted to be working to ameliorate world hunger and poverty while raising said children. Yes, I was light years ahead of Mia Farrow and Angelina Jolie.

And what of me now? I am a 54-year old married mother of a 14-year old daughter and a 12-year old son, living in the semi-suburbs of Washington, DC. Aside from partaking in the Women’s March a few months back, and signing up to volunteer for the local Planned Parenthood chapter, the most feminist move I’ve taken recently was not global, but decidedly local – as in, inside my household.

Each year on January 1st, for as far back as I can remember, I’ve made New Year’s resolutions. And since having a family, I’ve imposed this tradition on my spouse and offspring. We would each write down our resolutions, share them with the rest of the family, then post them on the wall to remind ourselves throughout the year. This January, I did something different:  for the first time, I decided not to have a numeric body weight goal, something that’s been an integral part of my resolutions ever since my chubby teenage years in Kobe, Japan.

As recently as last year, I would write down a specific number – an impossibly low one (one lower than my wedding date weight) – which would become my holy grail for the year. It was a number I’ve dipped down to maybe once in the past decades, maybe for one day; nevertheless, I rewarded myself with a designer bag on the momentous achievement. I would weigh myself each morning, buck naked (because, you know, underwear is not weightless, and neither is a watch), before showering. I would write down the numerical verdict of the day in my agenda. And I would let the minute fluctuations of that number inform whether I felt good about myself – or not – on any given day.

Now that I had a teenage daughter in the house, continuing to kowtow at the foot of the scale tyrant didn’t seem like a good example to set, especially when I had been telling her that she was perfect, exactly as she was. I was also sick and tired of giving over so much power to that scale – and that number – to tell me how to feel about myself. I felt and looked pretty damn good, especially for a 54-year old!  Yet I was surrendering my self-worth to a piece of metal and plastic, every single day.

So…  I’ve stopped weighing myself altogether.  I know when I’m taking good care of myself. I know when my jeans fit me comfortably. And what matters most is how I feel about myself. And I started noticing that a super-skinny middle-aged or older lady was not attractive. I didn’t want to be scrawny. I wanted to be warm, inviting and huggable – not X-ray thin, regal and forbidding.  This is not to say I suddenly decided to let myself “go.” I was just ready to more fully embrace the food-loving, sensual woman that I have always been.

I realize how much I might have contributed to body- and fat-shaming, by my own words and actions. I realize now that it came from a place of self-loathing (a long story which I will share bit by bit). I’m ready to leave behind that part of me – except for the wisdom it has given me. I hope other women will join me in putting away that scale…  and in trusting the wisdom of our amazing bodies.