Undoing My Body Hatred at 40
I need to love myself in order to be a role model for my teen daughters.
I’m learning to hate myself less. I know you are thinking, come on! Do you hate yourself? Hate is a strong word. I know. It is. I tell my two teen kids every day not to say that they hate someone. It is such a powerful word.
Nothing positive comes from hate. Hate is destructive, it is harmful, it is insidious. Hate is anger on steroids. Bridges are not built on hate. Creativity is not driven by hate. Lives are not improved or saved or nourished with hate. Hate burns bridges. Creativity is killed by hate. People are destroyed, trauma is developed, and lives are lost, with hate.
I have these powerful feelings of hate about myself, but I’ve never really been in touch with them. It has been a deep, dark secret. If I have been taught not to hate others, and now teach that to our children, I feel I have erred deeply for feeling hate about myself. If I have been taught to treat others with empathy and compassion, to re-frame my jealousy, to channel my anger into positive change, and to seek understanding for others, why can’t I do that for myself?
It sucks to look myself in the mirror and admit that I’ve not been the ally, friend or support to myself that I’ve been to others over my life, but I’m committed to changing that relationship no mater how hard it is going to be.
One of the things that I’ve always hated about myself is how I look. From the time I was a kid, I learned that I didn’t possess stereotypically popular or attractive traits. In elementary school, I had knobby knees and hairy arms. I wore glasses. I had freckles and thin, mousy brown hair. And, the ultimate in the ugly face-a a big nose. My nose, bumpy, with extra cartilage between my nostrils, was much larger in proportion to my small face. When I would look in the mirror, I saw Mr Potato Head’s face staring back at me. When I entered middle school, the time when all of us are ugly and hate ourselves, I found even more reasons to be disappointed with my looks. I continued to be very scrappy in size and I still had to shop in the kids’ section for clothes. I had chapped lips and big, plastic glasses. I did well academically and it seemed that my looks mirrored the stereotypes about smart girls.
By the time I hit high school, I was relieved to find strategies to mitigate my homely appearance. I was completely flat-chested and saved up my part-time job cash for weeks in order to buy Victoria’s Secret padded push-up bra. Mom let me get fitted for contact lenses. Hallelujah! No action liberates more than ditching the four eyes (as we all know from watching any 80’s rock video or 90s’ teen movie with a nerdy librarian type turned sex pot as soon as she ditches her glasses for lenses). As an emerging feminist, I was only willing to take look at enhancement strategies to a certain level. I bought face wash but wouldn’t wear makeup. I bucked the feminine, flowy hair for a pixie cut. I shaved my hairy legs and waxed my brows, but I told a guy I wouldn’t shave my arms, despite his request for me to do so.
Into adulthood, I told my outer world one story and my inner world another. I continued to espouse my feminist views that society imposes unnecessary and unrealistic expectations upon girls and women that are dangerous and lead to unhealthy behaviors, body dysmorphia, eating disorders, and even death. Yet, each morning, after stepping out of the shower, I’d glance in the mirror with unspoken disdain. I pinched my belly fat and tilted my head to examine the profile of my nose. This became part of my morning routine- for life: the daily disappointment that I hadn’t become someone more visually appealing.
I went head-to-head with women who said they wouldn’t have kids because it would “ruin their body”. After having kids, I said I exercised to be strong and have the stamina to raise my children, but that was about 20% of the truth. I started exercising as soon as I could after having both of my girls, and I exercise almost every single day because I tell myself a story: I need to stay looking tight and fit and sexy because, if I don’t, I could lose my man. I need to minimize my baby belly and make sure my arms don’t flap when I wave because other women will respect me more. I need to wear a padded push-up bra because I must defy time (and of course, gravity). I wake up a 5 a.m. every day and do jumping jacks and burpees, while my family sleeps because I have to prove to myself that I can have it all and I can’t lose it all. I wear Spanx under my dresses. I use eye serum at night. I slap makeup on to brighten my eyes and hide my wrinkles and sunspots. I feel sad about my day and sneak a candy bar into my mouth while cooking dinner then feel sick about it. I’m forty. I should know better. I do know better. Yet…
I tell my daughters to focus on making healthy choices and never use the word diet. I tell them they are beautiful. I tell them to practice self love and encourage them to be comfortable in their own skin. Because I’m not and I don’t. And kids are smart. It won’t be long before they start using social media, and noticing how others perceive them, and picking themselves apart in front of the mirror. And see right through me and my self love BS.
A few weeks ago, I wore a tight-fitting, knitted dress to work. I was concerned about how snugly the material clung to my curves and especially my belly. Before leaving the house, I walked back to my bedroom and grabbed a long sweater. I was in a meeting with a female colleague who commented on how much she liked the dress. Without thinking, I immediately made a comment about how it wasn’t modest enough for work, aka, it showed my body shape. My colleague replied, “No, you look awesome but I can’t see the dress under the sweater.” She encouraged me to take off the sweater. I baulked. “What? Really. No. People will see my belly and my butt.” Then, I took off the sweater. For the rest of the day, I left it off. When I glanced at myself in the mirror in the bathroom, I noted my belly. Yes, it was there. So was my butt. Yup. I told myself not to suck in. Not to stand taller and tuck in my bottom. I told myself not to look down and grab my belly when I sat down. I told myself not to hate my body because I’m tired of hating myself. And, I listened.
It turns out that liking myself (it’ll take some more time to love myself), and liking my body is a really awesome emotion. I am building bridges with myself. I am nourishing my life. As my daughters embark on their own journeys and relationships with themselves, and their bodies, I hope that is what they see in me.
