Rethinking Beauty: The Power Of Words

Photo by Margeaux Bestard

Seven years - that’s how long it takes our body to regenerate its cells. And that’s about how long it’s taken to change a damaging story I told myself.

My daughters grew up at a time when we emphasized smarts and kindness and a sense of humor. But I was raised during an era when the highest form of praise was pretty. Most women have early memories of strangers’ weighing in on their appearance: “Oh, she’s so cute!” “How pretty you are!” “She’s a big girl, isn’t she?”

So when our looks begin to change – parts of us wrinkling and sagging where they once were taut and perky – so too may the stories we tell ourselves. 

There was a day about seven years ago when I was brushing my teeth, glanced in the mirror and did a double take. I thought I must’ve slept on my face because I had what looked like pillow creases across my cheeks. For about a week I kept expecting the new lines to disappear but they showed no sign of diminishing. And pretty soon I had enough lines to play tic tac toe, along with a nest of gray hair at the base of my scalp. My daughter asked how she could make her forehead have a rainbow like mine.

So in April of 2023 when I broke my leg and subsequently learned I had osteoporosis, the image of an old granny became clear and that’s who I began to see in the mirror. It took time to recover physically and mentally from this setback.

After several months of rigorous physical therapy, my family and I were invited on a two week river trip through the Grand Canyon in July of 2024. I told my PT, I want to be in shape for the trip – to hike and to unload boats and to get up in the middle of the night to pee (this is more challenging than you might think in the wilderness). That became my goal. “I want to keep up with my active family.” And most of all, “I want to feel strong.” 

Finally launch day came and I felt ok – nervous, but as ready as I could be. I mentioned to a friend that even though I had lifted weights, hiked almost everyday, could even see tiny new muscles forming, I still felt old. 

About 10 days in, that same friend, who also happens to be the extremely talented professional photographer Margeaux Bestard, pulled me aside and asked if she could photograph me the following day. I shyly agreed, a nervous excitement bubbled to the surface. Margeaux had spent a good part of the trip photographing many people modeling various outfits for her commercial assignments. But this was different. She asked me to wear a long sundress I’d brought with me.

The following morning we had a layover day at Tuckup. One group was planning to hike the side canyon and another was sleeping in. As a few people filled their water bottles and made peanut butter sandwiches, Margeaux and I stole away to a stunning spot she’d scouted, where a quiet stream met the Colorado River. 

At 7 in the morning it was already hot. The sun was just beginning to peek over the red wall. And Margeaux told me to shake out my long hair and step into the water slowly. It felt cool and revitalizing. 

With each step I heard her shutter click several times. She was spare with her directions: turn toward me, reach your arms up, lift your chin. It felt strange to have this much attention on my physical appearance, especially at 51. I felt awkward in my body and second guessed which way my arms should swing as I walked.

Then she pulled the camera away from her face and scanned the images she was taking. And she said something I hadn’t heard in a long time. She said, “beautiful.” And she didn’t just say it once, but she continued to say it many times after each shot. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.” 

Photo by Margeaux Bestard

I didn’t realize that deep inside there was still a part of me – maybe the same part that compared myself to the girls in Teen Magazine growing up – that craved this word. 

Programmed or not by the world we live in, I couldn’t deny the power of it. I rolled my shoulders back and felt a lightness begin to grow in my chest. 

After we finished I hugged Margeaux and told her with tears in my eyes how grateful I was for this gift – not just the pictures but the way she made me feel about myself.

A couple months later Margeaux sent me the online gallery of images. At first I criticized how stiff I looked, how forced my expression was. Then I felt detached from them. Were these pictures really of me? But the more I looked, the more I saw a relaxed version of myself, someone who was strong, who’d made a comeback. 

When I shared them with my husband and daughters, they told me which ones they liked and wouldn’t let me criticize the way my shoulders rounded in one or how tired my eyes looked in another. And with their encouragement, I printed a few of the photos and just this weekend got around to hanging them on the wall. 

And now when I pass them, I pause and look. I hear Margeaux’s voice saying, “beautiful” and I notice a subtle shift in my mind and a budding kindness toward myself begin to bloom.