A few weeks ago, my family came to visit. The first night at dinner, my mom kept looking at my belly "knowingly" and finally asked me if I was pregnant. I am not. SOMEONE BRING ME SOME TEQUILA RIGHT NOW SO I CAN SHOW HOW NOT PREGNANT I AM. Throughout the weekend, she asked me some thinly veiled questions about my "health habits", trying to figure out where things must have gone awry for me to look like this. Then came Mother's Day. I called her and she told me it was nice to visit San Francisco and that Curtis looked so slim and in better shape than ever. Kudos to him. It took all my willpower to not throw my phone through the window. When I hung up, I just sobbed.
I am not sharing this to malign my mom. She comes from a different culture where comments about weight are not unusual. Years ago, I told her these remarks hurt my feelings, and her response was, "if I don't tell you, who will?". (Umm... mainstream media? My mirror?) Somewhere deep down I know it comes from a place of genuine concern, though this particular expression of love happens to throw me into an ugly rage.
As I was crying and trying to explain to Curtis what happened (my mom loves you more than me!!!) I realized what was most upsetting to me was that this incident was bothering me at all. I know myself. I genuinely believe I am a good, kind, strong person. Yet there I was, reduced to a puddle, feeling small as ever (and not in a literal way), because my mother thinks I'm fat. That is not okay. I don't want to live this way.
Fat does not mean ugly.
Fat does not mean worthless.
Fat does not mean unhappy.
I've had to keep repeating these things over and over in my mind. It drives me crazy that, for women in particular, to be beautiful you must not be fat (though thin doesn't necessarily mean beautiful because you might be too thin or too lanky or have no boobs). And that beauty is most certainly a prerequisite to happiness. Watch nearly any movie or TV show and the message is pretty clear... a woman who is fat or unattractive cannot possibly love herself. Only a makeover can help her see her worth! Thin, happy, and beautiful have formed an inextricable threesome, making it hard to forget that they are not actually the same things.
I try, somewhat unsuccessfully, to stay away from the question of whether I really am fat or not. Because by some standards I am, and by some I am not. But more importantly, what would the answer really, truly mean for me? If I decided yes, would I live differently or make different choices? No. What if I decided I'm not fat- would it free me from self-doubt? No. So what is the point of asking, unless the answer can empower me in some way?
We give image, whether reflection or photo, so much power. But image is not reality. Day to day, living my life, I feel good in my body. I can do all the things I want to do. I feel healthy and whole. I respect myself and intentionally care for myself physically and emotionally. Yet one person's perception of my image, my outside, throws this all off course. I don't want anyone or anything to have that power over me. So here's my new affirmation:
Trust the inside.
About this time last year I was about to head off to Hawaii and talked about my bikini rebellion. I insisted that I would wear that bikini, not giving a damn whether society had deemed my body worthy of it or not.
This year, we're going to Mexico. (Side note: Curtis gets the best birthday trips!) And... I bought a one piece. My body hasn't changed. But this time around, I have not summoned up the energy for indignation. I feel resigned to just cover up so I won't have to think about the belly fat or dimpled skin or stretch marks. The polyester spandex will safely shelter them from my wrath. Part of me is disappointed in myself for not living by the principles I ascribe to on better days. But I'm also trying to have compassion for the feelings I have right now. I've got work to do to strengthen my core (beliefs) and lose the weight (of other people's opinions). I'll definitely still pack that bikini in case I come around.
I am not sharing this to malign my mom. She comes from a different culture where comments about weight are not unusual. Years ago, I told her these remarks hurt my feelings, and her response was, "if I don't tell you, who will?". (Umm... mainstream media? My mirror?) Somewhere deep down I know it comes from a place of genuine concern, though this particular expression of love happens to throw me into an ugly rage.
As I was crying and trying to explain to Curtis what happened (my mom loves you more than me!!!) I realized what was most upsetting to me was that this incident was bothering me at all. I know myself. I genuinely believe I am a good, kind, strong person. Yet there I was, reduced to a puddle, feeling small as ever (and not in a literal way), because my mother thinks I'm fat. That is not okay. I don't want to live this way.
Fat does not mean ugly.
Fat does not mean worthless.
Fat does not mean unhappy.
I've had to keep repeating these things over and over in my mind. It drives me crazy that, for women in particular, to be beautiful you must not be fat (though thin doesn't necessarily mean beautiful because you might be too thin or too lanky or have no boobs). And that beauty is most certainly a prerequisite to happiness. Watch nearly any movie or TV show and the message is pretty clear... a woman who is fat or unattractive cannot possibly love herself. Only a makeover can help her see her worth! Thin, happy, and beautiful have formed an inextricable threesome, making it hard to forget that they are not actually the same things.
I try, somewhat unsuccessfully, to stay away from the question of whether I really am fat or not. Because by some standards I am, and by some I am not. But more importantly, what would the answer really, truly mean for me? If I decided yes, would I live differently or make different choices? No. What if I decided I'm not fat- would it free me from self-doubt? No. So what is the point of asking, unless the answer can empower me in some way?
We give image, whether reflection or photo, so much power. But image is not reality. Day to day, living my life, I feel good in my body. I can do all the things I want to do. I feel healthy and whole. I respect myself and intentionally care for myself physically and emotionally. Yet one person's perception of my image, my outside, throws this all off course. I don't want anyone or anything to have that power over me. So here's my new affirmation:
Trust the inside.
About this time last year I was about to head off to Hawaii and talked about my bikini rebellion. I insisted that I would wear that bikini, not giving a damn whether society had deemed my body worthy of it or not.
This year, we're going to Mexico. (Side note: Curtis gets the best birthday trips!) And... I bought a one piece. My body hasn't changed. But this time around, I have not summoned up the energy for indignation. I feel resigned to just cover up so I won't have to think about the belly fat or dimpled skin or stretch marks. The polyester spandex will safely shelter them from my wrath. Part of me is disappointed in myself for not living by the principles I ascribe to on better days. But I'm also trying to have compassion for the feelings I have right now. I've got work to do to strengthen my core (beliefs) and lose the weight (of other people's opinions). I'll definitely still pack that bikini in case I come around.
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