I Created A Body I Love With Plastic Surgery

Am I contributing to unrealistic expectations of how a middle-aged woman should look?

By Mia Hayes — Written on Jun 05, 2022

Photo: wavebreakmedia / Shutterstock

"You know you could easily fix that.” Miranda pointed at my mid-section. We were gathered under an umbrella at the pool, surrounded by middle-aged women with perfect figures. “You’re so thin that you’d recover fast."

I was perched on the edge of a sun lounger, wearing a bikini, and trying to look casual and comfortable. It was my first summer in Northern Virginia and the first summer since I was a kid that I hadn’t lived in the misty, summer fogscape of San Francisco.

"I know." I covered my bare, puckered stomach with my hand. I had had three eight-pound-plus babies, and my five-foot-tall frame hadn’t allowed much room for them. Stretch marks zig-zagged across my abdomen and loose skin draped over itself creating a "mommy pouch."

For years, I had struggled to embrace my mom body. While I appreciated that I had had the opportunity to experience pregnancy and childbirth, I hated how unfamiliar my body had become. It felt like it belonged to someone else.

Still, I wore bikinis to the pool. I liked how they looked on me and struggling with a one-piece in that bathroom was a pain. But Miranda’s comment reminded me that time I spent exercising, eating right, and trying to flatten my domed stomach hadn’t worked.

Nothing did.

I wasn’t a stranger to plastic surgery. Two years earlier, I had had a breast reduction and lift.

At a size 32G, my neck and shoulders ached constantly from the weight of my breasts, and my insurance covered the cost of the procedure.

After my surgery, I was a full 32C and no longer in pain. Even better, I could buy bras off the shelf and didn’t need to special order insanely expensive, ugly ones. And for the first time in my life, I felt like people noticed me and not my breasts. At the time, I said it was the best gift I had ever given myself.

As the years passed, Miranda’s comment stayed with me. My protruding stomach was a frustrating reminder that I couldn’t move in the ways I wanted. I couldn’t run without leaking urine, I couldn’t engage my core during yoga, and my lower back and hips hurt constantly due to a weak core.

Eventually, I booked an appointment to see a plastic surgeon to gather information on a tummy tuck. There, I learned I had severe diastasis recti resulting in a three-and-a-half finger gap. This explained why I struggled with lower body aches and pains, and a lack of strength.

Unfortunately, my insurance felt boobs were more important than creating a healthy, strong female body that could move without pain. I left the appointment disappointed but resigned to try to embrace my body as it was.

I tried. I told myself I should be proud of my extensive stretch marks and that my body created three amazing sons. I diligently did exercises to close the gap between my abdominal muscles, only to have my stomach look even more rounded.

Photo: Courtesy of the Author

Then, on my twentieth anniversary trip to Morocco, I had a hammam. My body was scrubbed, soaked in hot and cold water, and wrapped in towels while I sat in the steam room. When the attendant began scrubbing my stomach, she asked if I had just had a baby.

My youngest son was eleven years old.

That year, when pool season came, I bought a one-piece bathing suit for the first time and hid under my cover-up.

My stomach embarrassed me, and no amount of uplifting self-talk changed it. I had tried body positivity, but I saw nothing positive about a body that not only didn’t work how I wanted but that I also found unattractive.

All summer, I marveled at the women my age who had birthed multiple babies but still had perky boobs, flat stomachs, and glossy hair.

I listened as they discussed the marathons they were training for, knowing I could barely run around the block without wetting myself. When I practiced yoga, I had to adjust my mommy pouch during forward folds and couldn’t engage my core during balance poses. Buying new clothes required factoring in how my extra skin would fit.

Rationally, I understood that like social media influencers with great filters, these women were altering their images — only in real life.

After all, women twenty, thirty, and forty years ago looked much older in their forties than my peers and I do. As someone who frequently lambasts social media filters and the resulting images that give an unrealistic of what people look like (we are not hybrid anime-humans), I struggled with my desire to go under the knife.

Would I be succumbing to social pressure to look a certain way, or did I want a tummy tuck for myself?

Like many women I know, I regularly have small doses of Botox injected into my forehead, around my eyes, and between my brows. I’m often told I look younger than forty-six and am asked what I do. I could lie and say good genes (my mom didn’t gray until her 50s and has amazing skin with few wrinkles), but why lie?

Here’s the truth: when clumps of my hair fell out after having half my thyroid removed and from taking anti-psychotics for bipolar 2 disorder, I got micro extensions to fill in my thin and balding spots. I color my hair even though I don’t have grays, and I dye my eyebrows (as a natural blonde, mine are nearly invisible).

Last year, I tried laser resurfacing on my face and two weeks ago, I had cheek filler for the first time (jury is still out on that one).

I love great lighting, and I’ve used sunblock and moisturizer every day since I was sixteen.

I exercise 30-60 minutes a day doing a combo of cardio, strength, and yoga. I drink water and green tea and consume very little alcohol. I don’t eat a lot of sugar but love Taco Bell. I use The Ordinary skincare products many of which are under $10.

Was I already filtering my appearance with non-invasive procedures? Yes.

Did they make me happy? Yes.

But none of those things gave me what I wanted most: a body that could move without pain. A body without a skin pouch. An abdomen that held my organs in place so that they don’t protrude through my separated muscle wall.