I’m nearly 50, but I still see the girl they called ‘elephant ankles’ and ‘rabbit teeth’.

The school bullies disappeared decades ago, but their words stayed with me. As I approach 50, I’m beginning to understand how much those teenage insults have shaped the way I see myself.

Some schoolyard insults stay with you for decades

I’ve spent much of my adult life looking in mirrors and finding something wrong. My ankles, my teeth, my stomach, the shape of my face. There’s usually something to criticise, even on days when I’ve made an effort with my appearance and left the house feeling reasonably pleased with myself.

As I approach 50, I’d love to say I’ve reached that wonderful stage of life where I no longer care what anyone thinks about how I look. Unfortunately, that would be stretching the truth. I care less than I did at 15, certainly, but the teenage girl who once dreaded being noticed hasn’t entirely disappeared.

My relationship with my appearance has been complicated for as long as I can remember. I’ve experienced persistent body-image concerns and the sort of distorted self-perception often associated with body dysmorphia. I can recognise that my thoughts aren’t always reasonable, yet still find myself believing them.

And much of that insecurity takes me back to two particularly unpleasant phrases from my schooldays.

The people who said those words may have forgotten them long ago. I haven’t.

Elephant ankles and rabbit teeth

Teenagers can be wonderfully funny, perceptive and kind. They can also be spectacularly cruel, especially when they discover that a few well-chosen words are enough to make someone miserable.

In my case, those words were “elephant ankles” and “rabbit teeth”. Neither was especially imaginative, although the people delivering them seemed pleased with themselves. My appearance became a source of entertainment, and I learnt early that attracting attention wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

I remember the embarrassment more than anything. The feeling of being watched, the dread of another remark and the exhausting business of trying to work out what was supposedly wrong with me. I cried, became painfully self-conscious and developed the habit of seeing myself through other people’s eyes.

The thing about bullying is how differently people remember it. Those responsible can make a remark, enjoy the reaction and forget about it before the next lesson. The person on the receiving end may remember it for the rest of their life.

A comment made in a school corridor can survive exams, relationships, careers, motherhood and several decades of growing older. It can become so much a part of you that you stop questioning whether it was ever true.

I sometimes wonder whether those teenagers have any idea that their words are still knocking about in my head all these years later. I suspect they’ve forgotten. I haven’t.

Growing older doesn’t automatically silence the criticism

I assumed adulthood would sort everything out. Once I had a job, relationships and a life beyond school, surely those ridiculous comments would lose their power. After all, grown women have more important things to worry about than the opinions of teenagers from several decades ago.

And, of course, I do. There are bills to pay, deadlines to meet, a family to look after and the usual domestic mysteries, such as why nobody else seems capable of replacing an empty toilet roll. Yet insecurity has an irritating habit of appearing when I’m already tired, stressed or feeling vulnerable.

Sometimes it’s a photograph that catches me off guard. Other times, it’s my reflection in a shop window or getting ready for a social occasion. I can be perfectly content one moment and suddenly find myself examining a feature I’ve disliked since adolescence.

I know how disproportionate that sounds. That’s part of what makes persistent body-image concerns so difficult to explain. You can understand that your reaction is excessive without being able to switch it off.

Body dysmorphic disorder, or BDD, is a recognised mental health condition involving significant distress about perceived flaws in appearance. It can involve behaviours such as repeated mirror checking, comparing yourself with others or avoiding situations because of concerns about how you look.

Not everyone who dislikes their appearance has BDD, and I think that distinction is important. Ordinary insecurities and clinically significant body-image distress aren’t necessarily the same thing. But neither should we dismiss someone’s experience just because we can’t see what troubles them.

Being told to stop worrying about your appearance is rarely the revelation people imagine. If it were that easy, I’d have sorted it out years ago and spent the extra time doing something much more enjoyable.

Perimenopause brings a few more things to think about

Then along comes midlife, bringing hormonal changes, a changing body and a new collection of things to think about. Just when I feel I’ve made peace with one part of my appearance, something else crops up.

Perimenopause has made me more conscious of how my body is changing. There are days when my clothes fit differently, my energy disappears and I don’t even recognise the woman looking back at me. I understand that ageing is inevitable, but understanding something and feeling comfortable with it are two different things.

I’ve always enjoyed exercise, especially the gym, Zumba and combat-style classes. I love the music, the movement and the satisfaction of finishing a workout that has pushed me physically. There’s something reassuring about discovering what my body can do, especially when my mind seems determined to concentrate on how it looks.

Yet even there, the old insecurities occasionally make an appearance. I can finish a demanding class feeling fantastic, catch sight of myself in a mirror and immediately start examining my stomach or thighs. It’s remarkable how quickly a perfectly good mood can be interrupted by a reflection.

I’m trying to change that relationship. Instead of measuring every workout against my appearance, I want to appreciate the strength, stamina and enjoyment it gives me. My legs have carried me through countless exercise classes, long working days and the physical demands of motherhood.

They deserve rather more gratitude than they’ve received. And as for my ankles, they’ve done an excellent job of keeping me upright for almost half a century. I know it’s time I stopped holding a schoolyard insult against them.

When did looking ordinary become something to apologise for?

One thing that troubles me is how much pressure younger women face to look a certain way. When I was a teenager, comparisons largely came from classmates, magazines and whatever happened to be on television. Today, there’s an almost endless supply of edited faces, carefully posed bodies and supposedly effortless beauty available on a phone.

I admire younger women who challenge these expectations and speak openly about body image. But I worry about the messages being absorbed by girls who are still working out who they are. Adolescence is difficult enough without comparing yourself with thousands of strangers every day.

Social media makes it easy to present an immaculate version of everyday life. Skin is smoothed, waists are altered and photographs are selected with almost forensic precision. Even the supposedly candid pictures can involve more preparation than a family wedding.

I don’t object to anyone wanting to look their best. I enjoy a flattering photograph as much as the next woman. What bothers me is the suggestion that ordinary bodies, ageing faces and imperfect features are problems that need correction.

Having spent years struggling with my own reflection, I know how easily negative messages about appearance can take hold. I would hate for another generation of girls to reach middle age still carrying the opinions of people who were unkind to them at school.

I don’t need to love every inch of myself

There’s a great deal of talk about learning to love our bodies, and I understand the sentiment. But I’ve never found the idea of standing in front of a mirror and declaring every part of myself beautiful convincing. Some days, I like how I look. Other days, I don’t. I’m beginning to think that’s perfectly ordinary. What matters is whether those feelings are allowed to determine how I spend the rest of my day.

Therapy, mindfulness and conversations with people I trust have helped me become more aware of the patterns behind my self-criticism. I’ve learnt that stress can make those thoughts louder and that repeatedly examining whatever bothers me doesn’t necessarily make me feel better.

I’m also learning to question the assumptions I make about other people’s opinions. Someone glancing in my direction doesn’t automatically mean they’re judging my appearance. A photograph I dislike isn’t proof that I look dreadful. And an unkind remark from decades ago certainly isn’t a reliable assessment of who I am today.

None of this happens overnight. There are still difficult days, and I don’t pretend that a few positive thoughts can undo years of insecurity. But I am getting better at recognising when my mind is being unnecessarily cruel.

The most useful change has been allowing myself to feel neutral about my appearance. I don’t have to admire every feature or spend my mornings celebrating my reflection. Sometimes it’s enough to get dressed, brush my hair, drink my coffee and get on with living.

Learning when to challenge the critical voice

Being kinder to other women starts with understanding myself

If there’s one thing years of struggling with body image have taught me, it’s that we rarely know what someone else is carrying around in their head.

The woman who appears confident at the gym might be painfully self-conscious about her stomach. The friend who looks immaculate at a social event might have spent an hour worrying about what to wear. And the person who seems perfectly comfortable in her own skin may have worked very hard to reach that point.

I think about this whenever I’m tempted to make a casual remark about someone’s appearance, even one intended as a joke. I know how long a few careless words can last. I also know how much difference a little kindness can make.

I don’t believe bullying made me stronger, nor do I regard it as some necessary part of growing up. I’d much rather have developed resilience without the humiliation, thank you very much. But those experiences have made me more conscious of how we speak to one another, particularly when it comes to bodies.

I want Cyrus to grow up understanding that someone’s appearance isn’t an invitation for public commentary. I want him to recognise that humour doesn’t have to come at another person’s expense and that kindness is far more impressive than finding someone’s weak spot.

That’s one worthwhile thing I can take from an experience I would never have chosen.

Nearly 50, and still learning to see myself differently

As I approach 50, I’m increasingly aware of how much time I’ve spent worrying about my appearance. Hours spent examining photographs, comparing myself with other women or wondering whether someone has noticed the very thing I’m trying to hide.

It’s time I could have spent laughing, reading, writing, dancing or simply enjoying being alive. I can’t reclaim those hours, but I can make different choices about the ones ahead.

I don’t expect to wake up on my 50th birthday and suddenly adore everything I see in the mirror. Age doesn’t automatically deliver confidence, despite what we’re often told. And longstanding body-image concerns don’t necessarily disappear because we’ve reached a particular milestone.

What I hope for is something quieter and more realistic. I want to look at myself without immediately searching for faults. I want to enjoy photographs because they capture a moment with people I love, rather than worrying about the angle of my face. And I want to remember that the opinions of a few cruel teenagers have no business occupying so much space in my adult life.

The girl who was called “elephant ankles” and “rabbit teeth” is still part of me. I can’t pretend those experiences didn’t happen, and I wouldn’t dismiss the hurt she felt.

But she’s no longer standing in that school corridor, and neither am I.

I’m curious whether other women carry similar memories into midlife. Were you teased about your appearance when you were younger? Do those comments still affect how you see yourself, or have you managed to leave them where they belong, firmly in the past?

Body dysmorphic disorder (BDD) is a recognised mental health condition that can cause significant distress and interfere with everyday life. It is different from occasional dissatisfaction with appearance and requires professional assessment for diagnosis.

If concerns about your appearance are affecting your wellbeing, speak to your GP. The

NHS provides information about body dysmorphic disorder
, including symptoms and available treatments.

This article reflects my personal experience of body-image difficulties and is not intended as medical advice.

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and questions from Saffron & Cyrus.