I’ve lived in my body for the last 44 years and, somehow, every single day, she is still surprising me. Rich with story, skin, stretch marks and some trauma; we are still in the process of making complete peace with one another. In the past, when I was heavy, I often thought my life and body would be perfect if and when I lost the weight. I don’t know if there could be a bigger lie that I told myself; that we tell ourselves because I know that I cannot be the only one. I think women tell themselves this lie, and I think men do too. But maybe the truth is, when it comes to our thoughts and self-image, that we don’t speak often enough about the lies we tell ourselves and the hurt we cause in return.

My back and I have had somewhat of a tortured and poetic relationship. At my largest size of 320 lbs, my back was wide and expansive. I often joked that in the genetics pool, I got my fathers broad shoulders and my mothers hips and rear end. What a combination. In my adolescence and until I was about 20 years old, my back was more fat than strong. But somewhere, below the layers of soft dough, muscle was hidden. Muscle from lifting friends on my back (it was great party and college dorm trick) and from lifting furniture. Go figure, at least my back was good for something. 8 years after losing the weight on my own I was left with heavy, sagging skin that was hard to look at in the mirror, let alone carry on my body. I always imagined had I lost the weight I would be granted the genie wish of a “normal” looking body. I decided to get reconstructive surgery and have the skin from my back and breasts removed, but I continued to struggle with looking at the scars and the way my large arms rested on the sides of my body, skin covered and weak. 9 years after that very surgery I met a young artist who was taking photos of women’s backs as a part of her art/body project. She believed that the back was an angle and side of the body that women often never observed, especially naked. Heralding the back to be one of the most, if not “the most beautiful and sensuous part of a woman.” Upon stepping out of this photographers bathroom in a beautiful robe and taking it off, I let her photograph my back, scars and all, revealing the stretch marks, cellulite and years of a story painted with shame. Days later I received the photos and I hated them. Well, I didn’t hate them, I hated the way my back looked. I hated everything about the photos, from the freckles on my back to the highlights in my hair, my tattoo. I scrutinized every part of myself. And while I tried, for 2 weeks, to look at the photos and craft an email of permission for her to include them in her exhibit, I couldn’t do it. Nothing inside of me was ready for my back to be seen.

The perception we have of our bodies, I have found, is what dictates how we show up to it. It took me years to look at my body through eyes of acceptance. And I have to wonder if we ever get used to having a body? If we ever truly understand the responsibility we have to it beyond vanity. That it’s our personal job to love it and no one else’s. For years I hated my body so I constantly dieted, didn’t eat carbs, excessively fasted, smoked, and had sex for validation becuase if someone would sleep with me, well then, twisted logic told me that my body was acceptable. And then when they only called at night or wanted to come over and not go out on an actual date, I convinced myself this was also ok - even though it wasn’t what I wanted.

No amount of dieting, professional photography, smoking or sex would change the perception I had of my body - but it took me more than half my lifetime to realize this. It took more than half my lifetime to turn off my mind. And even here and now I am not wowed or in love with the reflection of my naked body, in fact she fascinates and frightens me, but I do know that she is worthy of love and respect regardless of what she looks like.

The other day I caught a glimpse of my back in the mirror as I came out of the shower. I saw muscles I’d never seen before. Muscles under my skin. I dropped my towel and looked down at my belly, skin loose, stretch marked and a faded tan. I saw the tone underneath my stomach. I thought about how weird bodies are and how weird life can be, but somehow, if we just decide to accept everything about ourselves and our experiences, we can understand the fullness our stories in a broader context. We can belong to ourselves when we can see past not getting what we want. We can start showing up in compassion to our own stories and skin.

Bodies Are Weird And Also Amazing