When I was in my early 20s, I had a brief period of total confidence in my body. In my teens, I had been thin to the point of scrawny and almost completely flat-chested. I was also short (five four) and therefore painfully non-leggy; my hips were, in my opinion, too wide, as were my shoulders. Then, at age 18, a miracle of late development occurred; I grew breasts, put on weight, and, at 22, found myself sporting a bodily measurement of 35-22-35. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was as I should be, and it felt great!

But by 25 things changed. The reasons for this were more psychological than physical: I suffered a traumatic breakup and moved to New York City, where I struggled to get a decent job, let alone get published. And I was suddenly surrounded by stylish beauties wearing clothes I couldn’t afford. In these circumstances, it was easy to focus my dissatisfaction on my appearance. After all, I had gotten a little bigger in the hips, and I was still painfully non-leggy.

My bodily dissatisfaction wasn’t just about appearances. Although I was fit (I practiced a martial art three times a week) and very strong, I didn’t think I was sufficiently robust. I wore glasses and was pale, or, as I once “jokingly” described myself, “pasty-faced and four-eyed.” If I was sick too often (too often being more than twice a year), I was not merely dissatisfied by this supposed failure of vitality but impatient and even angry. I would actually lie in bed feeling rageful toward my body, which any sensible person would see was doing its level best to recover. (Possibly this had something to do with my age; in my late 20s and early 30s I was already worried about getting older and didn’t want to waste one youthful moment lying in bed.) I would try to counter with accepting thoughts, but the impatience lurked within.

All of this, I assumed, would only get worse as I aged. But, starting in my early 40s, the self-criticism began to quietly dial itself back. This surely had something to do with newfound stability: I was recently married, I was developing a sense of community, my work was growing stronger and more confident. How I looked became a more minor concern.

And to the extent that it was a concern, my standards had become more realistic. Shortly after I hit 50, I looked at my body and thought, That’s better than I expected. I don’t know if I actually was healthier or stronger, but I felt my vitality in a way that I had not before. Perhaps I benefited from the inculcation of age-dread; in comparison to what I had been taught to anticipate, what I got was pretty great. Part of this was luck. During the hormonal topsy-turvy of perimenopause, I lost weight instead of gaining it, my breasts actually got a little bigger. The more important thing was attitude change; I was no longer demanding anything like perfection of myself.

I expected this all to collapse in the next decade or so, and sure enough my appearance became, well, even less perfect into my 60s. However, there was another development that almost compensated, just in the sheer irony of it. At the age of 64, I went to the doctor because of roving pain in my right hip and leg. Eventually I got an MRI that revealed something apparently unrelated: severe spinal stenosis, which, the doctor helpfully explained, happens to a lot of older people, the ones you might see in the grocery store leaning on their carts or walkers. Mild stenosis is not a big deal, moderate is manageable, but a severe case—well, the doctor was surprised that I was walking without pain, let alone taking a dance class that required a high degree of spinal mobility. Watching in mild amazement as I executed a body wave, he recommended a “wait and see” approach.

A few months later I decided to get a second opinion from a spine surgeon. Looking at my MRI, this guy, a grim older man with a rigid countenance, informed me that my spine was a “time bomb,” and that I was going to need surgery sooner rather than later. I asked if there were any options other than surgery. “Oh,” he replied, “you’re going to be begging for it.” I asked when he thought this begging might commence. His “educated guess”: within four years, five at the most.

Five years later, still asymptomatic, I decided to get another MRI, just to see if there was some miraculous improvement. And maybe there was; the diagnosis at that time was “moderate stenosis” as opposed to severe. Nonetheless, said my GP, it was surprising that I was still completely pain-free. But the body was “mysterious,” he added, and found ways to compensate. Perhaps I wouldn’t need surgery until I was 80. For the first time in my life I had the thought, My body is awesome! It is resourceful and clever, and it cannot be stopped!

During the next three years, comparable blips occurred twice more: My hip suddenly hurt when I walked up or down stairs, causing embarrassing hobbling; my Achilles tendon exploded in pain after a particularly fast-paced workout. In both cases I thought, Okay, this is it; I’ve had a good run and now decrepitude is about to come down hard. And in both cases I was able to resolve the issues in a matter of weeks.

Of course, I know that my body is not unstoppable, and that, eventually, decrepitude will set in. In fact, in some ways it already has. I have an arthritic shoulder. I wake up some mornings feeling joint pain. And when I look at myself I see things that make me sad. Even so, at age 71, I appreciate my body in a way I didn’t when it was stronger and more attractive. It is doing its best with the hand it was dealt, and that is far more than I ever before thought possible.