
At 42, I don’t expect to look 25 again. Bodies change. Metabolism slows. The midsection softens.
But I refuse to dress like I’ve given up.
The problem was, every summer top I owned only made me look worse.
Fitted styles clung to every bump and bloat, leaving me tugging at my shirt all day.
Sizing up left me shapeless and frumpy, like I was wearing a tent—visually heavier than I really was.
I tried everything: suffocating shapewear, dark “hiding” colors, flowy tunics that swallowed my frame.
Nothing worked.
In Arizona’s heat, I was either sweating in tight shapewear or hiding indoors, too self-conscious to go out.




