Know Your Worth: A Journey of Self Love and Self Care
Before the mirror became my enemy, it was my friend. It was where I styled my hair as a little girl, free to express myself. It was where I watched my grandfather shave, as I emulated his actions with a toothbrush and water. I could be silly, but I could also be myself.
I could be a carefree, little Blaxican girl who wasn’t preoccupied with clothes, but more concerned with sports, music, and books. I didn’t always have time to worry about pretty things. Dresses were uncomfortable, and while they looked sweet on the hanger, they just weren’t optimal for basketball or skateboarding. After all, I just wanted to be comfortable.
But there were other times when school pictures and holidays meant sucking it up and donning a dress. School dances required semi-formal wear, which shoved me out of my comfort zone yet again. Entering high school also meant coming face to face with my striking differences.
As somebody that was multicultural, I had to recreate language. That is how I coined the term “Blaxican” to describe myself. Yet initially, I didn’t grasp the concept of tokenization. In order to feel some sense of belonging and importance, I needed to possess thick skin. The reassurance I longed for from my peers was fleeting.
Racist and sexist jokes seemed to come at me from all directions. Unwarranted comments about my body shape and size served as a reminder of the ways in which I was ultimately perceived and judged:
Wow. Are you actually trying to look like a girl today?
You should really gain some weight.
Maybe try wearing your hair up to look a little more feminine?
Real women have curves.
How can you be a black girl with no booty?
It wasn’t easy being myself without some form of dismissal or attack. Was it so wrong to like to wear boy’s clothes? Why did it even matter? I was still the same person regardless of what aisle I shopped in.
I didn’t comprehend how much was assumed of me by the way I presented myself. I didn’t know why my peers, and sometimes even teachers, were making assumptions about my gender identity because of my style and interests. What seemed so trivial to me was the subject of many harmful and untrue rumors that followed me into young adulthood.
Yet, I was reluctant to conform. I tried to preserve the parts of me that were still mine. But it felt impossible to carry on.
The growing confidence that characterized my childhood somehow disappeared during these years. I was always on edge. What I wore was too big, too boyish, or too grungy. I was harassed time and time again. I was threatened with violence. I was humiliated with words.
I didn’t embody the European standard of beauty. By nature, I was designed to be defiant. I was rebellious. I couldn’t find a way to fit in without compromising my self worth or exposing myself to dangers that I couldn’t control.
Throughout that period of four years, I couldn’t look in the mirror without criticizing myself. There was always something that I could fix or hide. That was wrong or crooked. That wasn’t girly enough.
I didn’t even know how to accept a rare compliment without delivering a sarcastic remark in return. I internalized negative experiences to the point where I believed them and blamed myself. When I wasn’t belittled by someone else, I made it a point to throw the punch.
And the target was always the mirror.
The reflection before my very own eyes.
Over time I picked myself back up and confronted every lie and every doubt that infiltrated my mind and body. I made the decision to love myself. It didn’t happen overnight and in many ways the hurt returns; but now I know what it means to be authentic and unapologetic.
Anytime I feel shattered, I remember that I can be put back together. I remember that it’s okay to fall apart, to feel my emotions in their entirety, since my experience was constantly denied and overlooked. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize the signs of depression and anxiety that were present in me. I wasn’t being heard or considered beyond superficial representations of value. Representations that didn’t acknowledge my existence indirectly excluded me, but regardless I learned of my personal agency and vowed to uplift myself and others.
Anytime I feel ignored or misunderstood, I take to the pages and write. I surround myself with reminders of my importance through the narratives and perspectives of others who may share some thread of my sorrow or isolation. I take ownership of my identity and resolve to love myself wholly and unconditionally. Even though I have a tendency to bottle up my emotions and heal in private due to fears of being hurt, I know that it’s okay for me to lean on others when trust is established.
Anytime I feel alone, (which is part of being a writer, eek), I allow myself to let loose. Stress can weigh heavy on the shoulders of professionals and students. But what can relieve that stress may be something as simple as a groovy tune, gardening time, or herbal tea. (I hear some like wine too so, if you are of age, there’s always that option.)
Anytime I feel doubtful, I express my concerns with the goal to quiet them down:
Thanks for your concern, brain. But I got this.
I know it’s a risk, but it’s worth it.
Maybe I am being too ambitious, but it’s worth it.
And to address the naysayers who may have put me down, who tried to invalidate me because of my uniqueness, I say,
Keep it moving!
I am a woman.
My weight is fine no matter what the scale says.
My hair, my choice.
“Real” women (who came up with this phrase anyway?) don’t need permission or approval. They have the freedom to be whoever they want to be in whatever size, shape, or expression.
My body is not an object to consume or degrade.
I know that I cannot be measured by a scale or jean size. I know that the color of my skin is not criminal.
I know my worth.
Do you know yours?
