My name is Erin O’Connor, and I am fully intact (for the most part).
Over the years, I’ve willingly offered myself up to every type of health and fitness fad, convinced that I was committing myself to a life of divinity and abs, only to swiftly slink off again into the background, vaguely disappointed in myself for leaping off the wagon in stubborn protest.
When I was living in New York as a twenty-something singleton, Sex and the City was all the rage. Naturally, I signed up for a course in trapeze in a bid to recreate the scene in which Carrie Bradshaw catapults herself to dizzying heights. Her quest? To face her fears – which she did, with a little help from the sturdy hands of a Parisian hunk. Sadly, I left after the first session, most of which had been taken up with peeling myself off the net and climbing back up the ladder.
Back in south London, I took up salsa. I managed to master the basic moves, but my progress was ultimately hampered by the fact that no man in the room would partner with me – presumably on account of my height (or rather, their lack of it). The other women, thankfully, were more forthcoming, but I still lasted only four lessons.
My relationship with exercise was always a frantic one. Whenever I took up something new, I threw myself into it, but I wanted to be perfect. As a later in life ADHD diagnosis helped to explain, I’ve always been an all or nothing kind of person. Now, I’m 45, and mum to two exquisitely funny, fart-obsessed boys. They are extremely loving and all-consuming. Raising a family has taught me, in so many ways, that I am a mere apprentice to my own self-knowledge. In the past few years, I’ve also had to extend that apprenticeship to my body.
As was the case for most of my friends, family and peers, my life as I’d scripted it took a turn (violently, through a paper shredder), in March 2020, when we lurched into lockdown. In my case though, this also involved nine months of battling Strep A and glandular fever, and then a year of post-viral fatigue. The same illness that first struck when I was a teen (permanently halting a much longed for career in ballet), now meant that a walk downstairs into the brilliant sunshine to watch my kids play rendered me out of action for the rest of the day. It was like having my foot firmly down on the accelerator, only to find a brick wall in front of me. My high rev could go absolutely nowhere. The desire was there, but my body said, “No, thank you.”
After many months of medical assistance, supplements and endless Zooms, I had to confess to myself that I had well and truly flat-lined. Terrified at the prospect of a stint in hospital, I had to do something almost equally scary: break down my usual barrier of perpetual busy-ness. I had to learn to stay put, in my pit, until things changed. Shortly after this self-imposed slowdown, I also began experiencing perimenopause.
I marvel at the absolute majesty of the way my mind and body, when I needed it most (and against medical odds) were able to grow and birth two glorious humans in my forties. Now the night sweats are less than sexy, and the fatigue is sometimes off the charts. Mother nature’s rather sudden call to arms is quite awe-inspiring, but it has forced me to take responsibility for my body once more: not so much by finding a “new me”, but making it my mission to maintain some of the equilibrium I’ve been lacking since birth.
What the last few years have taught me is that I’m pretty much done with living in fear. Exhausted by it, in fact. As of today, I am determined to thank my 6ft frame for holding me up when I felt truly down. I want to treat it gently, to parent myself as much as my children. I realised that being very active with the kids (frequently goalkeeper, sometimes wing-attack) was and is fun, but not the type of activity that’s going to benefit my gnawing knees or outrageous hypermobility any time soon.
Instead, a flicker of light emerged towards the end of last year. One that allowed me to realise that I did not have to treat the maintenance of my mental and physical health as separate missions. That light? Classical Pilates, using the techniques of founder Joseph Pilates. My teacher, Gaby at Exhale Pilates London, is known as the “smiling assassin” for good reason. She pours everything into our sessions, strengthening me up and stretching me beyond my wildest expectations of myself. Her studios are welcoming and inclusive, the teachers passionate and knowledgeable in equal measure. I needed the belief and confidence they offered, as well as that sense of deep physical immersion that is as mind-based as it is concerned with the body. With each session, each elongation, I found myself literally ironing out the self-doubt.
It’s a tough discipline, but really satisfying. You are forced into submission. Think quiet moves with loud impact, muscles intensely kneaded, rather than merely addressing the surface. I’m beginning to feel the benefits of this deeper connection with my body. In previous years the focus was on aesthetic objectives alone, but here there is a calmness. It feels like strong work, as though I am developing powerful tools to sustain me for life.
Most of us who walk through Gaby’s door are looking for guidance and purpose. What we learn is that there’s no short-cut to perfection – indeed, that perfection is not the goal at all. In my case, I’ve come away with a renewed commitment to honouring the past, present and future, as my mind and body brace themselves for mid-life adventures and everything that lies beyond. Ageing can be a bitch in the same way that growing into oneself can feel like a myth, but somehow, with the insight and humility gained, I now feel genuinely in awe of my body. I want my vital organs to feel loved and gorgeous – or at the very least to guarantee them six to eight hours of uninterrupted sleep at night. I don’t care so much about crinkly eyes, or the gently melting jowls taking up residence along my jawline.
Instagram content
This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
As a fashion model of 27 years and counting, I am entering into a new career stratosphere. It’s exciting, unexpected and hardcore. I’ve always maintained that my “temporary” job would eventually reach the end of its cycle, but that cycle has continued on full spin. Reuniting with dear friends and close allies like Raf [Simons], Maria Grazia [Chiuri] and Riccardo [Tisci], all within the past year, has been a highlight and a continuing joy. The dual role of mother/model that maintaining these connections demands takes a little more work. Within the space of a quick phone call, I’m suddenly stripping off the football gloves and stepping into killer heels, bound for the Eurostar and my beloved Le Bristol. Emoji-filled messages, FaceTime calls home and the promise of presents upon my return are interspersed with the thrill of eating authentic pain au chocolat and the buzz of anticipation that comes with call time.
From this new vantage point, I’ve started to look back on my life with increasing curiosity, raking over the heady, often extreme scenes of a young woman who had seemingly reached her peak. Having worked hard to maintain resilience over the years, self-advocacy is a vital thing to develop. In the simplest of terms, I’ve had to learn to hold onto my own image, to manage a healthy relationship with myself.
Creating fantastical imagery for an intelligent and varied audience continues to be a complete and utter privilege. Now it feels all the more exhilarating because I know how to share in the fantasy whilst keeping a tight rein on reality. The journey to my overall wellbeing has and continues to unfold at a dizzying pace, but I’ve learned so much about how I navigate and interact with my body. I know what it needs, rather than focusing on what it can or can’t do. I feel its strengths and see its purpose, rather than its limitations. The mission continues.
