When I look at them now, instead of feeling ashamed, I feel proud. These are hands that know how to do things. These are hands that matter.

I think about the obsession with youth and beauty, with keeping your hands soft and unblemished, with hiding the evidence of work. 💚 But there's something that gets lost when we chase that. We lose the connection to what's real. To what actually sustains life. To the dignity of work that shows on your body.

My grandmother's hands looked ancient when I was young. Weathered, strong, capable of impossible things. She could grow food in soil that looked dead. She could mend anything. She could deliver a calf and comfort a grieving neighbor in the same morning. 💫 When I think about beauty now, I think about her hands. Not because they were soft or delicate, but because they were true.

I've realized that I don't want to spend my life trying to look like I haven't done anything. I want to look like I've lived. Like I've worked. Like I've created things and fixed things and grown things. 🙏 That seems like the truest kind of beauty there is.

The world will always try to convince women that their value decreases with visible age and work. But I've decided to believe something different. I've decided to trust that a woman who has lived fully, worked hard, and shown up for the people she loves—that woman becomes more beautiful, not less. ✨

What if the evidence of a real life is the most beautiful thing a woman can wear?