On Body Image.

"...learning to embrace our entire selves is not just a spiritual or mental endeavor--it is also an incarnational one."

Aundi Kolber

When I was a little girl, I knew two great beauties in my life: my mother and my best friend, Keely. Both were lovely, blond, buxom, tapered, and sophisticated. Because I did not look like either of them (brunette, with green eyes instead of china-doll-blue or soulful brown, pear-shaped, pale), I did not believe I was beautiful. It's strange to see photos of myself as a little girl now. I was pretty. Then, acne showed up, and my lower body developed long before my upper body. As a young teenager, I often wear jackets wrapped around my waist to hide my hips. My friends teased me for my shape. I was painfully self-conscious about my face, my curves and lack of curves, and even my posture or pose. I'm currently working on a chapbook of poetry about that time called Woman from the Waist Down. 

When I was an older teenager, I realized that I was attractive in my own right, my own way. Boys reinforced this, and sometimes, girls did too. I remember leaving work, a '50s diner where I wore a concealing poodle skirt, to go on a date one night. One of my fellow waitresses said sincerely, "Oh! You have such a cute little body!" Girls are often their own and each other's worst critics, but this stayed with me. I stopped wearing jackets around my waist. I stopped bemoaning my thighs in dressing rooms. 

One of the biggest reasons I was able to make this shift was that my mother was never shy or critical of her body. She was aware, present, confident. She did not see attractiveness as a sin. She could appreciate her physical self without being vain. She felt good about herself. At least this is what I saw, what I perceived. I internalized those messages without her ever saying that I was beautiful or wonderfully made or physically delightful. By the time I neared adulthood, I was not shy of my body. 

My weight has always chosen a point and stayed there. In my twenties, I consistently weighed about 125 pounds and wore a size 4 petite in a curvy fit. I was comfortable with this. I had bigger, stronger legs and hips than a lot of girls, but my body evened out fairly well. I left an early marriage in which my partner did not appreciate my body beyond aesthetics. That was a disaster for a while, but I ended up in a better marriage (by grace alone, probably). 

Then in my late twenties, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and panic disorder. Suddenly, my body was flooded with antidepressants, anti-anxiety meds, anti-psychotics, and mood stabilizers. Side effects were terrible, but I knew my life and family depended on my embracing treatment. One side effect was that I gained about 70 pounds. 

I remember telling my dear therapist, Nancy, "I've gained so much weight. And I'm afraid that Josh--"

"Oh, honey," she said. "Men don't care about that. Don't even worry about it." 

I took her at her word. With a lot of swimming and with an antidepressant that happens to help with weight loss, I lost 20 pounds. While everyone was gaining weight at the start of the pandemic, I was losing, dropping from a size 14 to a size 10. Unfortunately, the meds that helped with weight loss were not good for my liver. I managed to keep those 20 pounds off, but I couldn't get anywhere near the 120s again. My body had made its home in the 170s. 

Sometimes I miss my thinner self. But my level of comfort with my body hasn't really changed. I still see myself as attractive. I still perceive my husband as thinking I'm attractive. I feel a little less visible out in the world, but that's okay. 

One day, I felt discouraged about my appearance and told Josh and my mother that I felt like I'd failed. 

My mom said, "You're not a failure because you need medication that affects your weight. You wouldn't call a cancer patient a failure because she lost her hair." 

These women's words stay with me. Cute little body. Men don't care about that. You're not a failure. Again, women are their own and other women's worst critics; I think straight women crave the approval of other women as much as they crave the attention of men. I'm also lucky to have a couple of men in my life who are happy to tell me I'm pretty, stylish, cute, great at applying makeup, and so on. 

My body deals with illness and the effects of treatment every day. But it has carried me for thirty-six years, grown and nourished a baby, and connected me to the person I love most. I love my body, and I don't mind saying so.