Some days, this body doesn’t feel like it’s mine. Some days my face looks wrong. Some days my hair feels wrong. It’s an almost daily shift, certainly weekly. It always comes down to focusing too hard on what my body is not, instead of appreciating what it is.
I have never been the type of girl who feels comfortable in less clothing or more makeup. Heck, I wear cardigans in summer because it just feels safer. I’ve always done that. Baggier clothing to hide the plumpness my other middle school friends didn’t have. Cardigans to wrap myself up in my high school classrooms and avoid people seeing the rolls of my stomach when I sat, or the way my arms bulged out when at my sides. Now it’s purely habit and coziness that bring me back.
I was active. I had muscle. I was the goalkeeper for our Varsity Girls’ Soccer Team for 3 of my 4 years. I lost 30 pounds Sophomore year thanks to being pushed up from JV to Varsity. I heard family and relatives and family friends, and even acquaintances who saw me only once every 6 months comment on how good I looked after that. Even then, I never changed in front of the team. Always hid in the bathroom if we had to switch more than just our top jersey. Locker rooms were my own personal hell. I didn’t want people to see me.
It felt like all the body positivity rules were fine for everyone else, but didn’t apply to me. Hell yeah, my friends looked fantastic in whatever they wore. Screw those girls who bullied my dancer friend for having a larger costume than their XXS barely-developed child bodies when she was still smaller than I was.
I’m sick of feeling like this. I’m sick of the size and shape of my body completely controlling my feelings of self-worth and confidence depending on the day. So, I’m on a quest to build a body that feels like me. But, I’m not sure what “me” is.
In my mind, my body should be fit and muscular. So I’m weightlifting and focusing on strength over “snatch.” My thighs are huge, but they’ve always been. They are strong and built for power, not useless glamor.
I should have tattoos—sleeves of them! I love the look of people carrying around art on their bodies like they’re the Sistine Chapel. So, sorry Mom, but I will be continuing to cover myself in very permanent artwork, because in the end…it’s not permanent at all. I will, however, make sure it means something to me.
If my body is a temple, it will be one built for stories. Artwork on the walls, columns reinforced through hard work and time, smelling of fresh flowers and clean air.
More and more, I love what I see.
I see the same eyes as my parents and my siblings. I see the same thick hair in that familiar, familial brunette. I see the freckles popping up on my very slowly tanning arms and think of my mother. I see the straightened teeth that took pain and money, for a smile that is used often, and think of my father. I see my goofy expressions and think of my siblings—the sister I look nearly identical to and the brother whose sense of humor always brings out a laugh.
I said once that my body and I are coworkers, not friends. But this body has carried me through all of my worst days and all of my best. It reminds me of love, and family, and friends. So, how can I hate it?!
I am building a body that feels like me. Slowly. Mindfully. Because when I look in the mirror, I want to see me.
Subtle Stories 