How Meditation Changed the Way I Saw My Body
Letting go of society’s body expectations set me free
When I was 19, a few boys discussed my body in the comments section of my profile picture.
Wow she’s a 10, a solid 10.
No way, she’s a 7 tops… with makeup on.
Look at those tits! She’s a 9 no matter what her face looks like.
I blinked at the screen, digging my nails into the flesh of my thighs. I threw away my shorts. I bought low-cut tops and lured eyes to my best, and only asset. I covered my bare face with the protective mask of creams and powders and paints. I stayed home on Saturday nights if my skin blemished red with imperfections. I ate cake at parties and then excused myself to the bathroom. I swallowed pills that churned my stomach and warped my voice in a cartoon-like speed. I wove around sticky machines in gyms like a house cat between legs.
Around the time I turned 30, someone DM’ed me a picture of myself. The DM wasn’t meant for my eyes… They quickly realized their mistake and deleted it. I could feel their panicked shame curling around the phone from across the ether. But the damage was done… I’d seen the words.
omg look how fat she got!!
My first thought was to run to the kitchen and throw away the bar of chocolate in the cupboard and the stick of salted butter in my fridge. Like cigarettes, I’d dump the vices from my cabinet down the toilet, leaving behind only broccoli florets and the diet pills I used to eat for breakfast. I thought about setting my alarm clock an hour earlier to get in more exercise, sacrificing even more of my precious sleep for another dose of self improvement time. I studied the photo for flaws: the fullness of my cheeks, the width of my arms, the peaks and valleys of a body I’ve tortured for 30 years.
“I can be xxx pounds by Thanksgiving if I put my mind to it,” I said to myself.
But then I closed my eyes and conjured the photograph in my mind. I saw a genuine smile across my mouth, a smile that I hadn’t worn for awhile. A smile my newly born nephew placed on my face with his curious fingers. I thought about all the work I’ve put into actually being healthy: both physically and mentally. I remembered the lines from a poem I wrote and I repeated them to myself over and over:
In order to gain my mind’s freedom, I had to sacrifice my bones.
In order to gain my mind’s freedom, I had to sacrifice my bones.
In order to gain my mind’s freedom, I had to sacrifice my bones.
If you know, you know. I think about my body daily. Hourly. Sometimes minutely. Once these types of thoughts latch on you, they never pack their bags and leave.
I learned how to meditate for the first time last year. Imagine your thoughts as clouds, my teacher said. Just let them pass you by. I looked inside my head and what I found was dark and gray and cemented shut. What I found there was scary. It was a place I’d never visited before and, in my core, I felt its energy pushing me away. Metal chains encircled a safe, locked and tucked in a corner. Signs hastily taped to the outside pronounced: BEWARE, KEEP OUT, DON’T LOOK IN HERE!
That first time, as I tried to peer into the place inside of me, I couldn’t manage the weight of control I’d been clutching onto. I began to cry uncontrollably, sobbing big messy toddler tears. But slowly, a release and a calmness settled over me like a weighted blanket. The tears happen sometimes, my teacher said. You’re letting go.
Now, when I meditate I walk along the folded pathways of my brain. The sky is blue. The walls are indigo. The glow around me is pink.
Along the path, I see myself at 8 years old sitting crisscross on the front lawn and picking dandelions. I give her a hug and tell her she can be anything she wants to be when she grows up.
I see myself at 15 and I tell her that she’s smart, creative, kind, sensitive.
I see myself at 19 and I tell her to trust herself.
I see myself at 25 and I cup her face in my hands and I tell her “it’s okay.” I give her permission.
I walk around the winding roads until I find all the versions of myself — giving them what they need to heal and to move on. And I’ll do this over and over and over again until they all know. Until they all believe that what I’m saying is true.
I’m no longer interested in how men might rank my body and my beauty. I’m not interested in people who make comments about other people’s weight, whether positive or negative. I’m interested in how my body moves when I do tree pose. I’m interested in how my nephew rests perfectly on my hip when I carry him. I’m interested in how my lungs contract and my mind slows when I close my eyes and look inside. I’m interested in how my body remembers. How my body has held on to those memories for decades. I’m interested in how my body heals. How my body says thank you. How my body communicates.
