“After 40: Trying to Find Control Between Hormones and Fudge”

Try opening Instagram these days. Everyone is either doing Pilates or yoga in matching gym wear, sipping on infused water with floating herbs, and looking like they just woke up at a spa. Every reel I watch makes me feel guilty, inspired, and slightly insane. So, like any normal person, I rush to buy new gym wear, sneakers, and water bottles that promise to “keep me motivated.”

Motivated till I see a giant hoarding for coffee on the way home. And just like that, I’m ordering an extra-large with condensed milk. I tell myself it’s “fuel,” but really, it’s dessert in a cup. How do these Instagram girls do it? I barely manage to pack school tiffins and make it to the bus stop in my pyjamas, while the other moms are already there in sleek leggings, buns perfectly tied, sneakers shining like they’ve just done cardio and had an energy shot. And me? I’m clutching my coffee like it’s life support.

But that’s where the inspiration struck. If they can, maybe I can too. So, I joined a gym. Not because I had some deep health awakening, but because FOMO and bus stop guilt are very persuasive.

Now let me tell you—losing weight after 40 is not the same as it was in our 20s. Once upon a time, I trained under Shiamak Dawar. Pirouettes? I could spin like a top, leap, bend, twist—no questions asked. Today? I lift my leg and then stop mid-air to think about how on earth to put it back down without breaking something. Balance? Negotiable. Flexibility? History. Core strength? Permanently out of office.

And then there’s that girl at the gym. You know the one. She enters glowing, full of energy, like she’s just had an IV drip of vitamins. She leaves looking even better, with more energy than when she came in. Meanwhile, I walk in hopeful, stumble through the class like I’m auditioning for slapstick comedy, and crawl out drenched, wondering if lifting my water bottle on the way home counts as bicep training.

But let’s talk about the real villain here—hormones. After 40, your body becomes its own soap opera. Metabolism slows down, food that once filled you now feels like helium, and fat migrates to random places like it’s buying permanent real estate. And the cruellest part? Every time I order avocado toast, my husband orders double cheese grilled sandwiches. Guess who ends up eating both? Spoiler: not him.

And if that wasn’t enough, I now have new partners in crime: Blinkit and Zomato. Earlier, at least I had to get up and go to get food. Now, cravings arrive in 10 minutes flat. At 11 pm, when nutritionists say don’t eat late, my stomach says, challenge accepted. Blinkit practically reads my mind: I think chips, and a notification pops up—“delivered in 7 minutes.” Honestly, between hormones and instant food apps, what chance do we even stand?

Then there’s the Hot Chocolate Fudge problem. All it takes is one thought. Just one. Suddenly, I’m on Zomato, scrolling dessert menus like it’s research for a PhD. I try to be good—I order a salad. But Zomato knows me. It whispers, add garlic bread for ₹60? Add a brownie for ₹80? Before I know it, my “healthy” salad is arriving with carbs on the side and chocolate on top.

And yet, through all this drama—pirouette fails, coffee hoardings, Blinkit betrayals, and gym envy—I’ve learned something important. For years, we women don’t prioritize ourselves. We’re too busy feeding families, managing homes, packing tiffins, running errands. By the time we finally look at ourselves, we’re already in our 40s. It feels late. It feels unfair. But it’s also the moment we realize that fitness is not about jeans size—it’s about sanity. A happy body makes for a happy mind.

And just when I’m about to order the ‘ultra-slim’ tights that apparently is made of magic fabric, my husband walks in with a hot chocolate fudge, non-guilty… and here I am, laughing at myself, debating control versus cheat, loving myself anyway, and reminding myself: don’t give up. Those abs? Slow, messy, chocolate-filled… but surely, they’re coming.