Hopefully, this is a safe place, but I’ve seen many times in tweets and think pieces that have come before; this may not be. I’ll choose to tell this story anyway. Which is the story of daily learning to love my body, love me, love me through.
This past week I set out on an adventure with my sisters—a vacation in Mexico. Packing masks, Lysol wipes, vitamins, and even what books I would read was the easy part. I waited until the day before to pack clothes because weeks prior, I had tried on a pair of shorts. I purchased these said shorts summer of 2020, and they were now too tight. The terror I felt that nothing else I owned would fit me. This terror of my size changing has been a video loop in my mind since I was a little girl.
The first time I cared about my size, I remember sitting in church next to my grandmother and no longer being able to fit my thumb and middle finger around my arm. When my granny’s church friend would genuinely compliment my smile as I child, I was already thinking, oh, she’s just finding something nice to say. Then there was 5th grade. I switched households, changed schools, my freedom to run and play and ride my bike anywhere halted, and I ate. I still have a hard time looking at my 6th grade photo. In middle school, it all fell off. I played every single sport, and I remember my two closest friends at the time would always compliment my figure, but in my mind, I was still chunky obviously because none of the boys paid attention to beautiful me.
In high school, I got a boyfriend, and guys started paying me attention. However, yet and still, I remember the constant complaining about my size, my shape, what I looked like compared to other girls—outwardly complimented on my confidence. Inwardly and in my room changing 20 times because I lacked majorly in that area.
My adulthood has been an up and down of weight, workouts, diets, pant sizes. I can’t believe I’m sharing this with the world, but one time in my twenties, I ate an entire pizza then cried about it for two days. It’s been rough out here.
This year, however, I began practicing speaking well to and about my body. It’s been a journey. When I finally packed, I just went with what worked. This week has been a reset for my mind. Something about nature just puts me back in a place of clarity. As I lay on the beach and talked to God and talked to my body for all that I’ve taken it through, I decided to get a massage. Those that know me closely know I’m very conscious of my body but growing. I walked into the hut, unable to effectively translate my problem areas to the massage therapist. The thing about different languages is that tone is universal. As she asks me to lay down for my massage, she just stares at me and says a few times, “Muy Bonita,” taking a moment, she then says, “very beautiful.” She was unaware that I was struggling in all areas to feel that about me.
I have sometimes considered this body like the ruins. Disintegrating at times because of how I treated it, talked to it, devalued it. I thanked her in my minimal remembrance, quite broken, Spanish. I left feeling a bit lighter as I held onto the flowers she gave me in my heart.