The mirror
Or photos of me.
There is only one time in my life I remember liking mirrors. My parents had a mirror on the wall behind their bed. Up to age 5ish, I would look in that mirror and make faces. I don’t remember looking in the mirror with an opinion of how I looked, but I do remember my parents laughing and saying “Lacey, always looking in a mirror.” A seemingly harmless observation. Unfortunately my innate negative bias for comments about me interpreted that as something bad. I should not look in mirrors and be happy. It hasn’t changed since.
If my body image came from what I’ve heard from others my entire life, I’d probably have an inflated ego. My parents never failed to tell me how beautiful I was. My mom especially loved to encourage me to dress in a way that displayed my beauty; I joke that I was my mom’s Barbie doll. My older sister always teased that I was “the pretty one.” That could have been a dig at my smarts, but I think it was more genuinely about how she saw me, especially in comparison to herself at the time. My peers from elementary school through college told me I was beautiful. In middle school, I even got a note from some boys telling me that they thought I was pretty, and they hoped I would choose to talk to them. I know peers and adults thought I was traditionally beautiful. As many times as Jonathan has told me I’m beautiful, you would think at some point I would believe it. I believe that they think I’m beautiful, but I have never been able to look at myself in a mirror and have that thought. Looking at photos of myself has very rarely offered a different perspective.
As I’ve gotten older and larger, I try to believe the honesty of others appreciating my beauty. Comments about my appearance never translated into pride or even body positivity. Prior to my very obvious body transformation, I never really doubted what others thought. Their views weren’t ever enough to convince my brain, but at least I could objectively know that I fit within one of society’s acceptable body types. I was decidedly never fat. My stomach was flat, my boobs were big but perky, my ass was a squeezable bubble. I know “fat” doesn’t actually mean unattractive, but it does to much of society. Even so, I’d look in the mirror and hate my chubby cheeks, my thick thighs, and my arms that seemed bigger than all my other skinny friends’. The one feature of my physical appearance that I actually loved was my eyes. All of that has changed.
My cheeks remain chubby, my chin has doubled, my thighs are thick and jiggly, my boobs have inflated so much that I can barely see over them to my stomach in its new apron-like state, and those damn flabby arms just complete the picture of a woman who has let herself go. Or so my brain and the world tells me.
Even my eyes. I tried to examine them in the mirror to try to feel something positive about this vessel for my spirit. Nope. I used to love my chocolate brown eyes. I would pretend that Van Morrison wrote “Brown-eyed Girl” envisioning me—yeah, yeah I know I wasn’t even a speck in my parents’ eyes when it was written, but obviously I came to him in a vision. The mirror doesn’t even let me have that anymore. Those chocolate drops look like year-old Hershey bars. Those bright orbs look like dying stars.
I know that my children don’t see me that way. They make comments about how soft I am to lay on. My daughter calls me pretty. My son loves my squishy hugs. My husband assures me he still finds me beautiful.
But here I am. I talk back to the same thoughts whether I am a 106lb bride or a 220lb mom. I’ve done the work. The coaching. I worked with a great body relationship coach. She moved the needle for me. She gave me the tools. It’s those tools that keep me from drowning in shame. Yet. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I think “yuck.” I see my large body taking up most of the frame of a photo, and I can’t see the memory. I only see those cheeks, that chin, those boobs, and those damn arms again.
One would think the solution is easy. Cut calories and workout. However, I have learned that I cannot go on a restrictive diet. My brain goes into all or nothing. I either completely lose my apetite, or I feel shame with every bite of food I take. During and after my coaching, I developed a healthier relationship with food and with movement. I was able to shift my mindset from “I need to lose weight” to “I want to feel healthy. I want to be able to even entertain the idea of kicking the soccer ball around again. I want to get my heart rate going and be certain that it’s because I’m moving and not because I’m spiraling into a panic attack.” I adopted intuitive eating to make food choices. I opened my mind to what qualifies as healthy movement (secret: it’s any movement, and then you just get to pick which types feel best for your body at that time). I was making progress.
I could frame the disgust with my body in more positive ways. I’m trying to give examples, but I am so far removed from that mindset, that I truly can’t. You know what is an evil trick? Finally starting to trust your body, starting to see it as more than something to be judged by yourself and society, and then fucking getting cancer.
Yes, I’m on what some may consider the “other side” of cancer. My body got me through it. I survived surgery and chemo. I should be grateful that I have a body to be walking this earth in. Sure, I don’t see my scars as flaws and imperfections. I guess that’s actually something I can frame positively about my body. My scars tell as story, a shitty story, but a story nonetheless. However, when one has struggled the majority of her life to appreciate and trust her body, I bet you could understand how a cancer diagnosis could destroy that relationship.
Why am I sharing this? Not for affirmations. Please, please don’t respond to this with ANY comments or compliments about my physical appearance, even if it’s the “true beauty is within” perspective. I know this, and I actually think I have a pretty attractive soul. I’m not for all people, but I do love who I am, most of the time.
Honestly, it’s just been on my heart. I know I’m not alone in these feelings. Sadly, I know my story isn’t even rare. I guess it’s just another example of beauty standards doing their usual damage. Maybe I worry for the kids growing up in a world being bombarded with messages of what will make you feel good about your appearance from the latest influencer. Maybe I have hope that the kids growing up will have a diverse enough algorithm to show them that “beauty standards” are bullshit.
In my case, the standards are ingrained deeply. Obviously I have a lot of work to do. There are many facets that contribute to my negative body image, and I will continue to explore them. For now, I dwell more on my mind and spirit. The mirrors can keep their reflections to themselves.