Body Love

For any body that needs it

I stopped loving my body about a year ago. It was the first time I looked at myself, naked in the mirror, and didn’t like what I saw. The bubbling cellulite at the back of my thighs, the extra folds of skin that didn’t used to be there, the puckering tissue beneath my shoulder where a wound used to be. I’m aware I’m lucky that I only stopped loving my body a year ago, and that these perceptions of myself are most likely distorted ones. But this doesn’t make the matter any less, well, sad.

I felt okay withdrawing affection, because I assumed that my body would ultimately be okay. Because I knew there were others who still loved it. My boyfriend, for one, the one whose eyebrows sunk at the words that fell from my tongue and onto his chest. Sometimes it’s hard not to hate yourself these days, I told him. It’s funny how bad I felt when I saw how upset the admission made him, and yet, when I revealed the same truth to myself just a couple of days earlier, to my teary eyes, I showed no remorse.

Then there’s my mother. I never say these words to her out loud, because I know that they’d hurt her, or worry her at the very least. Be careful with that body, she’s often said to me, I made it out of scratch. And now I try to imagine how much I’ll love the body, or bodies, that my body makes one day.

Recently, I had one of those moments. The ones that make you question whether your life is some kind of simulation. I was on the train, silently criticizing my posture in the reflection of the window, when I heard the woman next to me consoling someone on the other end of her phone call. You’re so kind to others, she said softly, why don’t you try being kind to yourself?

I did a double-take, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this woman was speaking directly to me. That she’d overheard my thoughts and responded to them. She didn’t. I learned later that her friend was actually going through a nasty break-up, and so I decided that this was the universe speaking to me instead.

So, I listened to the universe, and it made me think of all the bodies in my life that I love. The bodies that I’m kinder to.

The one whose arms I used to bury my baby cheeks into to hide from the world. That smells like and is home.

The one that used to put me on its shoulders and swing me around. That would throw itself in front of my own to protect me. That I get my smile from.

The one that’s another version of my own. That doesn’t always see its elegance, its beauty, and its poise. The one that I see as art.

The one that holds a heartbeat that lulls mine into a similar rhythm. That feels whole when pressed up against my own. That walks around as my other half when our bodies are out all alone.

I need to stop listening so closely to every body harbouring their own kind of pain. Because I don’t want my fifteen-year-old body back, and there’s a certain irony in the fact that I didn’t even want it then. Because when I was fifteen, I wanted what I perceived to be a woman’s body. I wanted hips, and thighs, and glutes, and boobs. And now that version of a woman is here, waiting for a welcome that I have yet to fully extend to her, because no body will be the body that pleases every body. Or at least, that’s how it feels.

But bodies don’t have criteria. They’re bundles of tissue, muscles, skin, and bones. They’re the evidence that proves a life was lived. So every lump, every scar, every blemish, and every wrinkle is just a body’s way of telling a story, of telling our story, whatever that may be. I’m so busy writing stories that I never stopped to realize that I am one.

So I’m going to be kinder to my body, the one I had then, the one I have now, and the one I will inevitably have. Because when I look at baby pictures of myself, and see the tiny body that my mother pasted together, I understand why she tells me to be careful. Because that little girl is beautiful, and she probably would think I’m beautiful, too. Because there’s an older woman waiting for me, one that probably doesn’t see the beauty that her body holds. That the harsh lines in her skin aren’t harsh lines in her skin, but the blueprint of every smile, the etchings of each laugh. I’m going to start admiring her now. Because even getting the chance to meet her will be something beautiful in and of itself.

I started loving my body again today, and I’m aware that, like any relationship, there will be ebbs and flows. But we made a promise to each other that I’m willing to see through. You take care of me, I’ll take care of you.