I stared at my naked body last night post-shower. And my friends, I had a moment. I had a moment as I looked at my softball boobs. My linebacker shoulders and arms. My c section scar. My flubby armpit from. My 11 between my eyebrows. My mascara, totally made of some sort of titanium-based substance, stained under my eyes like football paint. And my bum and thighs, totally a lumpy bag of mice.
I am all about self-love, body confidence, and knowing that, most importantly, our bodies do not define our souls. I know that. All of that. I PREACH IT.
But tonight I had a moment. A moment where I thought, “My body has become a scrapbook of all that has happened to me.” And for about 5 minutes, I lamented what story that scrapbook told. I found myself wondering how my husband could possibly find anything I was offering worth taking.
My butt. My thighs. I worked so hard on those girls after having the third babe. And we were in such a good place, weren’t we girls? Before cancer. Before chemo. Before. Before. We were in a place where we got lots of sunlight together and we enjoyed feeling taut and up. And now, it looks like mice are fighting around in a knapsack every time I move.
And my c-section scar. I mean, for real. I don’t hate it. But I birthed the first two vaginally {YES. THAT’S THE ONLY WORD TO USE THERE}. And then the third said, “Nope. Not good enough. The already used and preferred tunnel is NOT GOOD ENOUGH. Even though my two BIGGER {even at birth} brothers were just fine using that canal. I will not. Cut open her belly.”
And I have to tell you the truth. My belly has always been not so bad. I mean, it’s no six pack. But I’ve always gained “my weight” in my thighs and my hips. Not my stomach and chest. So the sort of situation that is currently taken to my mid-section is something this mama is blaming on menopause. Because that’s how it goes, right, we have to place blame for our body’s disobedience.
The lines on my face seem to be really wanting to profess their existence lately. I don’t know if that’s my age or this past year of living. But they are more pronounced.
And then… the scars from all this cancer biz. They are realllllly good considering. Like maybe scary good. I would 157% recommend my docs who did my mastectomy. But they are there. The scars And then, there’re all the scars I’ve earned from having mole after mole after mole removed over the years and keloid after keloid taking up occupancy in their places. And the tiny, striated stretch marks. There from four pregnancies. And beyond.
I just had a moment where I looked at it all and thought, eagads.
The hot flashes have arrived. The period has said, hasta la vista. And Blanche. Pair all that with all the aforementioned lacklusterness and one could really have a pity party.
But here’s the reality. I’m a 34 year old with fake boobs, after market hair, no thigh gap, and remains of the days.
And most days, I can say… BIG FUCKIN’ DEAL. {Sorry. I had to} Because truly. MOST of the time, I don’t care. I don’t look at my body through those eyes… The eyes that see things as the world might. I don’t see other women and think, I neeeeeeed to look like her. Because I know my story is different. All of our stories are different.
But every once in awhile, it catches me. It catches UP with me. And I think… will I ever be externally beautiful again?
I know. External beauty truly doesn’t matter. Not to our worth. But it matters to the person staring back in the mirror. In the moments when the devil gets into our eyes and whispers into our minds. It matters when we think we are mentally, 17. And yet the visual feels more like we are … fill in the blank… Years old.
I had a moment. Where I didn’t want her boobs. I wanted the pancakes I had before. I wanted my toned thighs back. I wanted the 11 to be gone. I wanted the scars to disappear.
But then… I know what I’d have to trade for that.
All the life that made all those things a part of me.
I’d have to give back the babies. The laughs. The years. The glass of red wine I have at night. The delicious food that I eat that fills my memory and nourishes my body. I’d have to give back the hair growing back in. I’d have to give back the third baby surviving. I’d have to give back me… thriving.
I had to have the c section. I had to have the years. I GOT to have the years, in fact. I’ve gotten to have all of the laughs and looks and expressions that have fueled the 11 that exists between my eyes. And the scars. Oh, the scars. I will take the foobs and the scars alllllllll the livelong days if it means I get to live the long days.
…
People ask me how I like my hair, “Don’t you just love it? The curls are so perfect!” It doesn’t feel like me yet, I suppose. But for the most part, yes… I love it. Because it’s hair. It’s no Rachel shag or Lauren Conrad lob. But it’s hair. ON MY HEAD. After months without. And while I, perhaps oddly, never got emotional over the hair loss, seeing it come back is a bizarre phenomena.
People ask if I’m so happy to have the foobs, “Free foobs!” we all joke. But I don’t think I, personally would have done the foobs… but I guess I’ll never know.Regardless, now they are a part of me. And in December, two other gals will be.
People ask if I love not having a period. I meeeeeeaaaaaaan… that means a lot of changes inside of this 34 year old girl. But of course, I’m happy to not have it if it means my hormones won’t feed my tumor type. You see, I had the option. The option to not go into menopause. I had the option to take Tamoxifen. And after my doctor showed me all of the research he’d found, I chose to start with “the most extreme route” as he called it. The route that he thought was the best for my original diagnosis. Shutting down my ovaries chemically. Suppressing them with a shot called Lupron, each month. Telling my period to take a hike. And also welcoming hot flashes {I’ve only had 3… and are they ever a trip?!} and apparently, decreased sexual interest {I refuse to let this happen. I’m thirty-four. Not ninety-seven}. Dryness {I’ll just buy stock in KY. And I don’t mean Kentucky} and general increase in bitchiness {not the medical terminology of course. My own interpretation}. Lupron paired with Aromasin {this is a drug within a type of drugs called “aromatase inhibitors.” These drugs are for post-menopausal women. They can cause joint pain, & bone and muscle aches}, can increase my odds. And so, I said, heck yes. I will give it a go.
…
Right now, my body is not exactly my spirit animal. But it’s doing a pretty good job keeping me alive. It could have sent me an eviction notice 12 months ago… but it didn’t. And that, well, that is pretty beautiful.
It’s beautiful that I can workout without being 100% out of breath. It’s beautiful that I can fill my stomach with delicious food. Healthy… delicious… home-prepared food. It’s beautiful that I have the means to have a glass of wine in the evening around the firepit with the hubs. It’s beautiful that nothing got to take my smile. Nothing. Not cancer. Not nothin’. It’s beautiful that my hair is growing in. And that it’s got a whole personality of its own. It’s beautiful that my thighs — these poor girls that I have been bagging on since I got them at 9 or 10 — it’s beautiful that they don’t just walk out on me after I treat them so shitily. It’s beautiful that I get to have a mind to process my feelings about my body. And that my stomach was kind enough to grow to hold those little peanuts until the world was ready to have them as theirs/
It’s all beautiful, really, when you think about it.
So. Tonight I just had to walk away from the mirror. I had to write down all the ways that my body has served me. All the ways that external beauty is so overrated. And all the ways that I will make the world more beauty-full by being a positive part of it. It can be easy. The easy thing is to hate our bodies. To take it all out on them. To treat them like they are simply disposable. Do the hard thing. Think about the million reasons that you should love that bag of bones you are carrying around.
And don’t worry if external beauty does matter to you. It matters to me, too. Are you kidding? I just told you about my fight with the mirror. But I have to say, “This is my body. Broken for you.” My body isn’t going to be perfect. It is broken. It is my God-given suitcase to carry around every part of the book of my life. And every chapter is written all over it.
…
I stared at myself in the mirror. I walked away. I gave it some thought. And I let it go. I let myself be beautiful. I have no other choice. I can’t let outer impressions steal my inner beauty. Not right now. Not ever again.
It sounds easy. I know. I make it sound like it’s no big thang. And for me, honestly, it isn’t. After years of re-training my brain and believing that the body and its image is meant for good instead of evil. After “rebelling” against magazines and TV and movies and on and on. After acknowledging that if I want to look like someone else, I have to be someone else… and it turns out, of all the things I love, being me is one of the top 10.
It’s not that easy for everyone, I know. It’s not that simple for everyone, I know.
But for me… the scars… the extra “weight” and rumples… the wrinkles… ohhhhh so many “bad” words, right? But all of it, for me, has resulted in goodness. Goodness that I wouldn’t have without their existence.
So instead of cursing my “flaws” I celebrate those things that the rest of the world might acknowledge as imperfections and carry them instead, under the heading of “CELEBRATIONS.”
The scars. The lumps. The wrinkles. The imperfections. Are all imperfectly me. All I am meant to be for today. I had to reagree to that with the mirror. After I let go I had to go back to the mirror and say, “You don’t get to steal my joy.” because I know my heart too well to let my eyes and mind make the decisions.
It’s all cha-cha-cha-changin’. Blanche. The hot flashes. The way the wine sits on my stomach. We’re in a time of transition. But it can still be the time of my life. Externally. Internally. Or otherwise.
And the scrapbook, well, it might not be perfectly pieced together but if it were, I suppose it would truly not be mine.
Last night, I had my moment. My moment of wanting to change the person who I saw in front of me. Wanting to tell her she wasn’t good enough. And then. we made up. But I know… Tomorrow may have different plans. Tomorrow might bring external differences. But the reality is, my soul will forever be mine. No matter what is carrying it around — as long as my heart is full of beauty, so will my body be. So today, and each day, this is why I choose to love the girl who lives inside of me.
