Why This Heatwave Made Me Rethink My Whole Identity

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about confidence. Not the “own the room” kind I’ve talked about before in work settings, but the get dressed without spiraling into a meltdown kind. The walk past a mirror without wincing kind. The not dreading a heatwave because your thighs now chafe like two over-friendly badgers kind.

Yeah, that kind.

Here’s the thing, I’ve always been fairly confident. I’ve done the work. I know who I am. But lately, since hitting 43 and entering the oh-so-magical realm of perimenopause, that confidence has taken a bit of a nosedive. And it started with my wardrobe.

This heatwave? Brutal. And not just because I’m constantly sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat. It’s because, for the first time in my life, I’ve had to completely rethink what I wear. Things I loved last summer - cute floaty dresses, shorts that didn’t ride up, tops that didn’t cling like a needy ex, suddenly feel… wrong. Tight. Unflattering. Uncomfortable. Small!!! And yes, confidence-crushing.

I’ve put on weight. Not in a dramatic, “you’d see me on a makeover show” way, but enough that I feel different. Heavier. Slower. Unfamiliar. And what’s really annoying is that I used to be one of those people who could eat anything. I never had to train hard or count calories. I was active, sure, but I didn’t try to be fit. I just was.

And let me be clear, I know I’m not “big.” I don’t claim to be. But this is where perspective matters. I’ve spent most of my life being told I was too slim, fielding comments like, “Are you eating enough?” or “You look like you’re wasting away.” I’ve had people assume I had an eating disorder when I didn’t. So for me, this body… this softness, this weight gain - feels big. It feels foreign. It’s not about numbers; it’s about identity. And when your body has always looked one way, any shift, even a subtle one can feel massive. It’s like waking up in someone else’s skin.

I miss feeling strong. I miss feeling like my body and I were on the same team. These days, it’s more like we’re passive-aggressively coexisting.

I’ve thought about getting back into the gym. I even used to have one of those fancy health club memberships… the kind with eucalyptus towels and lemon water and people who actually enjoy spin class. It cost me £100 a month, and guess how many months I used it?

Two. Out of eighteen!!!

It wasn’t for lack of trying. Or even lack of desire. I just… don’t do well with solo motivation. I can be a powerhouse at work, but put me in a gym alone and suddenly I’m a sloth in leggings who’d rather reorganize her email inbox than do a squat. I want to train. I want to feel good in my skin again. I just need a person. Someone to drag me there, laugh with me through the sweat, and remind me why I started. Basically, a gym buddy, life coach, occasional therapist hybrid.

Getting older as a woman is a weird cocktail of physical changes, shifting identities, and society still expecting you to have it all together. Sometimes you just want to scream, “Can I not be everything to everyone all the time, and maybe just wear something that fits?!”

And like at work, we thrive when we have people around us who get it. Who keep us accountable. Who show up, not to fix us, but to remind us we’re not broken.

So no, I haven’t rejoined that expensive gym. Yet. But maybe the next step isn’t just finding the right fitness class. Maybe it’s finding my team again. Because this season of life? It’s a tough one. And I don’t want to do it solo anymore.

Swanny xx