My legs have carried me through different phases of life—muscular during my varsity soccer, basketball, and track days; long and lean in adulthood. They’re pale in winter, quick to burn in summer. They’ve climbed countless stairs and even strutted down a runway. Lately, though, they’ve been swollen, bruised, marked with needle pricks, and—when I detach enough to see them objectively—strangely beautiful with thick brown veins zigzagging like Italian marble.

Those veins no longer work properly. My vascular specialist explained back in November that malfunctioning veins are worse than nonfunctioning ones—surprisingly more harmful. So we’re systematically closing them off, letting my body reroute blood flow through healthier pathways. The resilience of the human body is astounding.

Now, I can’t help but admire other people’s legs: Tyla’s glittering disco-ball limbs in a high-slit dress, Misty Copeland’s effortless grace in Flower, women flaunting Cecilie Bahnsen’s ruffled minidresses in Paris, or Lily Collins’ sheer-stockinged power pose in a Calvin Klein ad. Even my fitness instructor’s strong, dependable legs—the kind that never fail her. These days, everyone’s legs seem better than mine, if only because they can show them off without hesitation.

I’ve hesitated to write about this, not wanting to frame it as some grand revelation. I haven’t posted about my treatments online—partly because oversharing isn’t my style, but also because I know my situation could be far worse. Oddly, New York’s winters don’t bother me now that bare legs aren’t an option. The compression stockings I wear for weeks at a time are as warm as thermal layers, and I’ve enjoyed styling sweatpants in chic ways—pairing Adidas track pants with blazers for a “business on top” look. When I do wear skirts or dresses (midi or longer), my trusty Dôen boots cover what needs covering.

Beyond wardrobe adjustments, I’m just grateful my diagnosis wasn’t more serious. At this stage of life, so many friends are awaiting biopsy results or having cysts, fibroids, and other unexpected growths removed. One day you’re fine; the next, a shower discovery sends you straight to the doctor. Even if it’s nothing, the uncertainty is terrifying. So while I sometimes still don’t recognize my legs as my own in this state, I’m thankful they’re healing.

This all coincides with a year of adding more dance to my workouts—not because my body has changed, but because moving in new ways has made me appreciate what it can do. There’s a stupid, simple joy in realizing your body’s hidden capabilities. That awareness has spilled beyond the dance floor, giving me confidence to say I feel more at home in myself—and more in love with it, too.I’m more at peace with myself than ever before. The challenges my legs have faced during treatments have only made me stronger. So when my doctor said I needed another round, I didn’t cry like I did the first time. Instead, I counted down the weeks until June and made a promise to myself: this summer is for my legs.

If all goes well with this second treatment, my legs should heal just in time for summer. The idea of them looking “normal” again feels almost strange in this unpredictable world we’re living in. But time keeps moving forward, and between summer’s certainty and the hope of fully reclaiming my body, I’m holding onto that hope tightly. Bring on the sunshine! This will be my summer of showing off my legs – micro-minis, short shorts, anything that lets these 42 inches (which make up more than half my height) shine. My usual maxi dresses and linen pants will have to wait – they don’t fit the bold, leg-baring persona I’m embracing this season.

Considering how much these treatments cost (thankfully covered by insurance), how could I not show off the results? The price tag could have paid for two years of grad school, 155 pairs of compression boots, or enough luxury hosiery for a small town. Instead, I’ll be putting my money’s worth on display through my wardrobe.

Chloe’s spring collection offered perfect inspiration with its flirty, leg-revealing designs – from bloomers to bubble-hemmed miniskirts in soft neutrals. Even their longer dresses with asymmetrical cuts seemed to whisper “free the leg.” While Miu Miu’s ultra-short 2022 skirts caused a sensation, the Y2K revival continues through designers like Sandy Liang’s nostalgic schoolgirl styles and Ulla Johnson’s practical cargo shorts – perfect for summer adventures.

Lately, every new ache or skin change makes me hyper-aware of aging, bringing up that nagging question: “Am I too old for this?” I wish I could say age doesn’t cross my mind, but it does. We’re constantly told (especially women) not to let age limit us – that it’s just a number. But if that were truly how society worked, we wouldn’t need these messages in the first place.

The truth is, age does matter – in countless ways, both celebratory and humbling. Pretending otherwise feels dishonest. Nicole Kidman’s 2022 Vanity Fair cover, where she rocked a tiny Miu Miu skirt at 54, sparked intense debate about age and beauty standards. Some applauded her boldness; others criticized it. (Personally, I thought her legs looked fantastic.)

I’ve already spent more time than I’d like on vein treatments, ultrasounds, and recovery days. Life’s too short to waste feeling anything but grateful to be here – with results worth showing off.Here’s something I never thought about: since starting the treatments, I’ve noticed my legs actually feel different. They’re less heavy and achy by the end of the day. I don’t wake up from sharp, constant cramps anymore. My legs feel rested and strong, and there’s suddenly a new energy in my step. It’s amazing—and that’s all the reason I need to let them step into the spotlight.