When I was 59, I went viral on TikTok. I was afraid of the comments, but I never expected that.

I squeeze my body between the crumbling structure collecting rainwater from the roof and a 50-gallon drum of yesterday’s wash water.

“Can you point the camera to avoid this mess, and put me and the washing water in the frame?” I asked Emily, the young woman I hired to photograph me.

I’m nervous, an insecurity I’ve felt since I started posting on TikTok three weeks ago. In the first few videos, I wore a little black club dress with a sexy neckline. But today I’m wearing an old-fashioned trapeze outfit: one shoulder, gold and shiny. Fifteen years ago, I cut 3 inches off the skirt so it wouldn’t wrap around the ribbon during the show. My thighs were firmer then, not wrinkled or blotchy.

“I’m afraid my legs will look flabby,” I say, staring into Emily’s iPhone camera inside the intimate zone. Emily is from the body positivity generation. I’m from Twiggy’s generation.

“You look amazing,” she says in a sincere voice.

I tell myself to trust her, and I’ve been criticizing myself for too long. I judge my waistline and beat myself up if I gain 2 pounds. It’s exhausting.

I know that my peers dismiss social media as a waste of time and a threat to mental health, and that TikTok receives the brunt of the criticism because it’s new and we’re supposed to be afraid of it. But for me, it’s a beacon of freedom – young, fun and a place to dance.

I’ve been so bitter lately, tired of faking “little miss agreeableness” to my parents and former bosses, for the sake of a rando I don’t even know. I was tired of trying and failing to turn myself into the sweet, soft-spoken lady that I imagined everyone would love.

I’m also in awe of that shiny gold mini dress. It’s too short, doesn’t hide my tummy, and my right breast wants to come out. Leave it, I say to myself. I don’t care if someone thinks I’m old and ugly. I have to believe in myself even if no one else does.

“Welcome to random bleep in my garden bleep bleep,” I begin. I present to you my system for collecting laundry water and pulling Emily into the bucket. It’s sticky and gross. We laugh.

I’m talking about drought-tolerant landscaping and keeping microfibers out of waterways. I sass the camera. I’m sarcastic. I myself.

Emily sends the footage the next day.

“I love it except for my legs,” she texted and added a screaming emoji. “There’s one shot in particular where my ass is hanging out.” I’m so embarrassed. “Can you cut the clips?”

I glanced at the phone, knowing that most people were too busy with their own lives to care about my flaws. However, I ask Emily to hide my legs behind the captions.

Post the video the next day. It’s one week before my 59th birthday.

“It’s getting crazy. Check the numbers,” she texted Emily minutes after going live.

It’s hard to see the video or numbers because a stream of comment banners moves across the screen. Thousands of people click the “Like” button.

“I would kill to have you as my mother,” one person commented. Another wrote: “You are an icon.” They ask questions about the composition of soil and laundry soap. It’s exhilarating. I wonder if the video will exceed 100,000 views.

I’m overloaded with endorphins. I can’t stop checking my phone or get off the couch. The video has exceeded 200,000 views. It will exceed half a million very soon.

I feel dizzy – the scrolls, the comments, the likes. A lot of people have told me I’m beautiful, I’m funny, and I’m the best thing they’ve seen on TikTok. People love my dress. They call me Wilma from The Flintstones, Jane from Tarzan, Chelsea Handler, and a better version of Carole Baskin.

I force myself to drink water and feed the dog, then go to bed and decide to do nothing but look at TikTok. I scroll through comments and reflect on a lifetime of insecurities about my appearance.

When I was a child, I slept under a white canopy in a bedroom covered in pink roses. My mother displayed modesty and body shaming in a flowing dress over a turtleneck. I criticized women with big breasts in front of me so much that I learned to believe that nice ladies have small breasts and that gazongas are bad. Throughout my teens and into my 30s, I chose loose-fitting shirts so I would appear flat-chested. I felt safer. I wanted to have a boy looking body. I still want a boy-like body.

Some comments are harsh. Some people act like they know everything. I watch the new commenters attack the cruel commenters on my behalf.

Over the next few months, my TikTok audience would grow, sometimes slowly, sometimes fitfully. The dopamine high subsides, and I begin to process attention. While my colleagues and the press continue to disparage social media, three friends I haven’t heard from in a long time messaged me to talk about my channel. Neighbors stopped me on the street to tell me how much they loved the videos. My brother opens a TikTok account so he can follow me.

I’m making more videos. I don’t know what it means to be sexy or conform to the rules about being a woman, so I break them. I harvest zucchini in a short skirt, herbs in pink shorts, and compost in a strapless dress.

“You have inspired me so much,” one young woman wrote, “and gardening is not as complicated as I imagined.” Another says: “I have become a better member of society because of you.” People ask questions about plants, seeds, and soil. They discuss flowers and non-toxic cleaners. Sometimes they tell me I’m beautiful.

The creators I follow on TikTok talk about the systematic belittlement and marginalization of women. It inspires me to practice taking up space. At a speaking engagement, I communicate more slowly and pause for drama. In the salon, I embrace the spotlight instead of feeling self-conscious about wanting attention. In a board meeting, I notice when I’m being talked to in real time so I can clarify and correct it.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve been told by my peers and peers, even by my yoga teacher, that I’m too bold, too loud, too much. Then I step into the world of TikTok, where boldness and brutality are celebrated as a quality, and here I find acceptance. And I’m also discovering what it means to be noticed – to have agency. It’s great.

During the holidays, I gain a few pounds. I stare at my midsection in a draft video. I didn’t notice the rosemary or bees that were also in the frame. All I see is my stomach. I’ve done thousands of sit-ups, millions of sit-ups, dance classes, trapeze and yoga, but for me, my abs weren’t flat enough. I know that this body shame is harmful and that I need to let my inner critic go.

I’m watching the draft again. I watch it three more times, focusing on my 2-inch belly area. I try to imagine myself through TikTok’s eyes, to see what these 20-30 year olds see when they look at me. Something in my mind is changing. I’m outside of myself, looking at the video with an objective lens. I see my whole body moving and interacting with the environment. It’s shocking. I think I look amazing.

The next morning, instead of judging, I saw a confident woman with a beautiful body in the bathroom mirror. On my date night, I don’t care about my clothes. And when Emily sends over a new video for review, I’m kind to myself.

At 59 years old, I never would have expected that just six months of interacting with the TikTok generation could impact the way I see myself so profoundly. And while I realize that posting on TikTok isn’t for everyone, for me, it has helped overcome years of insecurities about my appearance.

A week later, I walked into cardio class wearing a leopard-print sports bra, intent on looking at myself in the gym’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I notice my C-shaped breasts and rounded hips. I slink closer, turning to the side to check my ass. “I love your shirt,” says Stephanie—Stephanie is tall and slim. The loose-fitting top covers her slender figure. “You have no idea how hard I worked to wear this,” I replied.

Laura Faye Tenenbaum is a writer, public speaker, and TikTok creator currently working on a memoir about her love of the natural world and her fight for empowerment within the science community. You can also find her on Instagram @laurafayeten.

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