At 50, it all feels different.

These are the preparatory weeks before a bodybuilding meet, when I am measuring every macronutrient, spending more time at the gym, and preening in front of a posing mirror wearing a fuschia rhinestone bikini. I’m declining invitations for social outings and trying mightily to conserve energy and stay focused.

It’s a process that’s always hard on the mind as well as the body. But this time it’s even harder. The aches arrive quicker. Recovery takes longer. My hormones don’t whisper anymore; they roar. Menopause has rearranged the rules, and I’m training inside a body that feels like someone moved the furniture without telling me.

I always approached this time obsessed with winning. Scouring the competition on social media.

This time, I honestly don’t care. I’m not doing it to prove anything. Not to others. Not even to myself. In earlier seasons, I chased goals to win. Driven by a motor of insecurity that I had to work harder because I wasn’t as good as the next person. I said yes to many things because they offered identity: a title, a paycheck, a clear lane to run in. I cared how I presented myself to the world. I needed to impress.

But the scaffolding of that life fell away. I lost my job. My sense of professional identity fractured. And in that quiet, something else started speaking up: the real questions.

Am I still relevant? Am I still beautiful? Is there enough time left?

There is less life ahead than behind. Which means there is also less time for bullsh*t. Less room for things that drain me. Less tolerance for roles that flatten me. And much, much less willingness to edit myself to make other people comfortable.

This time, I say ‘no’ quicker. I lift slower. I cry more easily. I’m not interested in shrinking—my body or my life. I’m interested in becoming more me.

There’s strength in that, I think. Maybe it’s a deeper kind that doesn’t need applause. One that isn’t defined by youth or metrics. It’s forged in the fire of loss and change and still says: I’m here. I’m not done. Let’s go.

And so: Why do I train?

I’ve been thinking about this lately: The older I get, the easier it would be to hang up my sneakers.

Training means saying no to ease. No to comfort. No to the things that come quickly.

But I find solace in the work of my body—the kind of work I believe our ancestors intended, the kind our bodies were built to do, and still function best when doing.

And yet, it’s more than that. There are deeper reasons I stay in the game. Here are a few.

AGING

Resistance training helps build bone. Up to 20% of a woman’s bone density loss can occur during the menopausal transition–that phase that I’m in right now! But activity that puts stress on bones—like resistance training—stimulates them to produce more tissue, making them denser and stronger. The risk of osteoporosis drops. Think of it like pruning a shrub: The stress encourages new growth, making it more resilient over time.

I want to live fully—picking things up, carrying children, hoisting luggage, and caring for myself independently. Bone loss leads to fractures, which reduce quality of life, cause pain, and increase mortality. In fact, falls are the leading cause of injury-related hospitalizations among older adults.

My partner is someone I truly love—someone I met the second time around—and I want to live life fully with him. I want to travel, lift grandchildren, carry groceries while laughing, hike, have sex, do things. And resistance training is how I keep saying yes to that life.

VANITY

I fell in love with the look of muscle in my 40s.

It was such a departure from what I thought I was supposed to want—to be smaller, thinner, softer, less. For most of my life, the goal was subtraction. Fewer calories. Lower weight. A shrinking body.

But then came the chance encounter of seeing another mom working out in a dinky hotel gym. And with it, a different kind of desire—not for less, but for more.

Soon after, I began working with a bodybuilding coach and found myself surrounded by women who were proudly documenting their physical development. They weren’t chasing thinness—they were chasing form, strength, volume. They flexed and celebrated one another. And it struck me how radical that was: to marvel at gaining, instead of obsessing over what you’re losing.

There was vanity in it, yes. But it was a vanity I hadn’t been allowed before. I loved the way muscle looked on my body. I liked looking good—this kind of good. Dense, defined, capable.

I realized how artists have long celebrated muscle—on men. Michelangelo’s David for instance is a monument to male physicality, every tendon and vein a study in beauty.

But what captured me more was seeing muscle on women’s bodies. For instance I discovered the work of photographer Robert Mapplethorpe who captured Lisa Lyon, a pioneer in female bodybuilding extensively in the 1980s. Mapplethorpe saw in her a radical fusion—feminine grace merged with sculptural strength. Lyon’s physique didn’t reject femininity; it expanded it. When I first saw those images, I felt something awaken. It wasn’t just admiration—it was recognition of what was possible.

Today, I love the look of muscle on my body. I love the curve of a bicep, the line of a shoulder. Not just for how it feels, but for what it says. It says: I’m here, I’m hot, and I’m not apologizing.

THAT FEELING

For me, the gym—that smell of rubber and metal, the clanging, the push of muscle against resistance—is my time to myself. I leave my phone in the locker. I stop scrolling. I drop into my body and out of my head.

What always amazes me is how quickly the shift happens. Even on the days I really don’t feel like it, after a few minutes, I feel more powerful. The first set is grudging. The second, I might throw on more plates. By the third, something clicks: a burst of energy, a mood shift, a sense of wanting more.

Yes, endorphins. But also: neuroplasticity —your brain’s ability to change, rewire, and grow through experience. When you lift a heavier weight than you thought you could, when you push past discomfort, your brain rewrites your sense of possibility.

By the time I get home, I feel like a different person. I have more ideas. More patience. More capacity. More life.

It’s the most powerful thing I know.

MY DAUGHTERS

Last but not least, I train because I want to be the best version of myself—and live as long as I can—for them.

I used to wonder if it was healthy for my daughters to see their mother so immersed in a sport that can be, at times, hyper-focused on appearance. But I’ve come to see it differently. I know they’re proud of me. They’ve even started lifting a little alongside me—nothing earth-shattering, and they lose interest after a while. But that’s not the point. The point is: To them, it’s not weird to see their mom training, crushing goals, and continuing to compete. I want it to not be weird.

The other day, I struggled to pull up my jeans, and my daughter quipped, “Maybe it’s your muscles.” I loved that.

Of course, I still worry. About TikTok and the relentless flood of images telling girls what they should look like. I realize more and more that I may be the most important role model they have.

According to a study by Common Sense Media, parents play an outsized role in how children perceive their bodies. Another study found that children as young as five to eight who noticed their mothers’ body dissatisfaction were more likely to feel dissatisfied with their own.

Bodybuilding can be an aesthetic, critical, self-focused pursuit. But it’s also given me something I never had as a teenage athlete: the chance to build myself up.

Strength has become my north star. My devotion to eating well, setting goals, chasing them—and staying an athlete in midlife—these are the messages I want to pass on.