I have hated this shell and I have loved this shell. I fought to be seen for years, but have also preferred the blurry space of shadows. I picked apart my body for so many years it became a habit. It has only been in the last few years that I stopped looking in the mirror because I have been ashamed of the extra weight I have gained. I turned what I had gained into a story of loss. I lost love. Self respect. Self worth. My identity. The more I gained the more I lost. I let this awful self image teach me to doubt the words of a man whose heart is pure and kind and honest and who loves me. I let that doubt sneak into tender, beautiful moments together and turn them ugly. My body dictated my life. On nights I couldn't find something to wear that made me feel thin, I wouldn't leave the house. I wore my self-consciousness like a scarlet letter. The more I tried to draw the attention away from me, the more people would notice. The more makeup I wore, the less I recognized myself. I was a walking paradox, a woman who preached about holding space to love others, but couldn't find a way to love myself.
I wasn't always this way. I wasn't always so critical. But doubt is an insidious thing. It creeps up like smoke under a bedroom door, rolling slowly across the floor, billowing out to all four walls. You don't see it coming until it chokes you awake, setting off alarms. But then one morning you wake up sick of feeling betrayed by your own body. You pad to the bathroom in the half dark of dawn in your rumpled yellow tank top, the hands of sleep still covering your eyes, begging you to guess who. The floor is cold and your feet are bare. Your spaghetti arms hang loosely at your sides, and as you turn the corner into the bathroom you catch a glimpse of the vague silhouette of your body in the mirror. Your eye catches the "s" curve where the small of your waist gives way into the bend of your hips and starts the outward shape of your thigh. You squint into the dimness and blink. And all at once you see yourself with new eyes. You don't know it at the time, but that small instant of acceptance will serve to uncork the ocean of self-love you allowed to be confined to the trivial space of an unedited photo. To the thought that somehow because you were no longer a size eight that you weren't sexy. Or empowered. Or fun. And ultimately that day you will wake up in your own skin for the first time in a long time. And it will feel so good. And so powerful. You will have befriended again the soft being of yourself. There then, at the bathroom mirror in the half dark, you will forgive yourself. You will forgive yourself for your own limiting beliefs. For the hours you wasted not giving over to passion when it seared hot in your chest. For not acting on the ache in your soul for that connection, that intimacy, that you have deprived yourself of for so long. This is my story, my confession. I forgive myself for failing to see my own light. By doing so I dimmed myself so others couldn't see it either, keeping only an ember, barely smoldering, with just enough oxygen to not be extinguished completely. So here's to the awakened women out there. Here's to the new narrative you have written for yourself. And to the ones still asleep, let this be the alarm that rouses you in the middle of the night prompting you to get to safety, before self-doubt sets your whole life on fire. For the first time in a long time I feel compelled to let others see me the way I should have seen myself this whole time. For the first time I won't agonize over every detail in the mirror. The roundness of my belly. The lack of definition in my arms. How much bigger my butt is than the women around me. My double chin. I instead choose to see the softness of my body as feminine and womanly. These wide hips will easily give life to another human one day. My high cheekbones and olive toned skin belie my age and tell the story of my Mediterranean heritage. These calloused feet have walked the grounds of fairy tale music festivals, shores of oceans, and the streets of Indonesia. My shape has inspired Botticelli and Ruben. The goddesses of Roman literature were not depicted as waif-like damsels in distress. They were warriors, Amazons. Pillars of strength. I take all of this and I ingest it, swallow it deep down to the core of my being and promise myself I will never let my body deceive me again. That I will always treat this vessel of life for what it is. Beautiful and resilient. Comfortable and unrefined. Flawed and flawless. I love you. I love you. I love you.
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