I sat in front of a mirror last night. I stared at the folds in my skin without judgment, simply observing my body as if it were a work of art hanging in a museum. What does my stomach look like from this angle? What about my arms?
It was a practice in mindfulness that required me to set aside my beliefs and observe my body through an objective lens.
I spent a few hours this past weekend going through old pictures at my parents’ house. My mom and I laughed at some of the photos and treasured the memories evoked by others.
Then I came across a photo that struck me at a visceral level. My stomach dropped and I felt my eyes brim with tears. It was a photo I had never seen before. The little girl in the picture is probably four years old. Her eyes are bright. Her cheeks are full. Her grin is big. She looks utterly joyful, the epitome of innocence.
When did it all change? When did my smile fade? When did my cheeks start to sink? When did I begin to dislike, and then hate, my body?
The girl in this photo had no concept of what was in store for her — the successes and the losses, the joy and the heartache, the fullness of life.
I think of my nieces and my friends’ children and wonder what, if anything, I can do to stall the body hatred that seems inevitable in our society. What can I do to stop them from losing their smiles?
I struggle with telling them they’re beautiful because I want them to know their value isn’t hinged on their looks, but I also want them to know how beautiful they truly are: Beautiful human beings. Beautiful embodiments of light.
I want them to be able to, years from now, look at themselves in the mirror and see what I saw last night: Not just a body, but a person.
<3
I look at pics of myself at that age, and think, "Who would harm this precious creature?" But someone did: therein lies half of my problems.
Blessings to you, my sweet friend.