I’ve hated my body my entire life. Maybe it’s something taught to young girls, to look in the mirror and say, “ew” at the reflection. We can identify all of the sources: society, ourselves, our spouses, our parents, the media that tells us that we’re supposed to be smooth and perfect and svelte. It takes bravery to look into the mirror self and say “I love you,” instead.
I learned far too late in life that it’s ok to love you. Yes, even your lumpy skin and your weird mole and squinty eye and the hair that will never lay the way you wish it would. You can love your cowlicks and the icky skin on your elbows, the one toenail that doesn’t grow right that you hope no one will ever see.
I don’t love myself in spite of my flaws. I love myself *because* of them.
When I look in the mirror and I see the crows feet framing my eyes and that crooked tooth that seems to be getting crookeder, I think “damn, look how adorable I am.”
In a fantastic track by Brother Ali, he sums it up perfectly:
“Depending on the day, and depending on what I ate
I’m anywhere from twenty to thirty-five pounds overweight
I got red eyes and one of them’s lazy
And they both squint when the sun shines, so I look crazy
I’m albino, man, I know I’m pink and pale
And I’m hairy as hell, everywhere but fingernails
I shave a cranium that ain’t quite shaped right
Face type, shiny, I stay up and write late nights
I’m not the classic profile of what the ladies want
You might think I’m depressed as can be
But when I look in the mirror, I see sexy-ass me
And if that’s something you can’t respect, then that’s peace
My life’s better without you, actually
To everyone out there who’s a little different
I say damn a magazine; these is god’s fingerprints”
He paints a vivid picture. If a balding middle-aged albino man with pale skin and a squinty eye can see his reflection and see the literal handiwork of god himself, why can’t I appreciate that my thighs are a little thicker now that I’m in my forties? Don’t I owe it to myself to love myself? Who else is going to do it? More importantly, how can I expect anyone else to love me, how can I be worthy of love if I don’t love me first?
As women, we’re inundated with SELF LOVE messaging all the time. LOVE YOURSELF is screamed at us from billboards and in skin care ads that promise to make those wrinkles disappear. Men are not immune. As we age, we gain wisdom and experience and perspective and grey hairs, yes. But we also start to feel invisible, diminished, ignored, uglier, subject to a society that values youth and flawless features and tells us that only the young can be beautiful. We make desperate attempts to regain the youth and vigor and skinny hips we imagine we had in the past. Botox and lip filler and “medical spa” procedures promise us the plumpness we’ve lost. On our screens, we watch celebrities transform into frankenstein’s monster of plastic surgery; we collectively learn what buccal fat removal is. We spend years, decades, lifetimes, trying to change ourselves, diets and dyes and miracle cures, all snake oil sold to us by the same industry that told us we were ugly and needed fixing to begin with.
My road to self-love has been rocky, and it was through self-photography that I finally fell in love with the body that I’m in. In taking my own pictures and viewing myself through the lens of my iphone camera, I was able to see that in every crooked scar and every flyaway grey hair, there’s so much beauty. That I’m not supposed to be perfect. I’m not supposed to be young. Because what makes someone beautiful isn’t how they manage to adhere to some arbitrary beauty standard. It’s exactly what the lyrics above say: it’s the differences that make you a masterpiece.
There is only one YOU, so everything about you is perfect, just as it is, right now.
You were born, you are here, you exist and unless you believe fiercely in reincarnation, you only get one body. You can spend your life hating the vessel that carries your soul around, only to one day look back at pictures of your younger self and wonder how you could have ever been so cruel and critical of the beautiful, unique and incredible creature that was a younger you.
I look back at pictures of me in my twenties and wonder how I could have ever thought I was anything other than glorious. I lament the years lost to beating myself up, I evict the bully that lived in my head that used to tell me to skip meals and relentlessly exercise, never rest. I resolve to be nice to myself, to encourage me, to know that I am doing the best I can and I’m proud of the person I am, regardless of my belt size.
I am working to be the best version of myself, and let go of the self-loathing of the past. I want to love myself, exactly as I am, right now. I want to be my biggest fan, the person that loves me the most. I know that I am not perfect. But finally, in the quiet peace of self-forgiveness and acceptance, I have found that perfect never existed in the first place.
I really get where you are coming from. For over half my life, I’ve been told my body wasn’t acceptable. It’s really taken its toll and caused me some self image issues. But I think with age comes a bit of wisdom and we learn we are gods as we are; we are who we should be. Thanks for sharing. 😉
You are beautiful. You are wonderful. Nobody is perfect, but you sure represent yourself like your are and that's close enough for me. I'd rather have someone that is comfortable with her body as is than try to modify it to suit someone else. You are quirky, lumpy, imperfect and gorgeous.
Robert