PERSONAL ESSAY
An honest look into female body shame
Envy aimed at another woman is really just a choke-hold on myself.
When I was going through the hormonal woes of middle and high school, I can’t remember once being ashamed of my body.
Of course, I dealt with normal struggles; I had bad hair days and shyly paraded around in a cringe-worthy wardrobe that included a long-sleeved top from Victoria’s Secret with feathers rimming the neck and sleeves, a white sleeveless number featuring a sparkly tiger face with blue eyeshadow, and a bell-sleeved wrap-around lace shirt made to flatter a woman much more developed than I ever was.
I wore sparkly eyeliner and flirted with boys shamelessly, never afraid to let a boy know I thought he was cute. This caused my fair share of heartbreaks; my crushes were usually stationed well above me on the social hierarchy. I wore braces, which were covered in wax during band hour so I could play my trumpet. I once gave myself a pixie cut that I was sure would be adorable, not considering that my curly hair would turn my haircut into a helmet.
I fought all the expected battles of an American teenage girl.
But never once do I remember feeling ashamed of my body with its slim hips and breasts I’m sure were called ‘mosquito bites’ behind my back. I was not necessarily bony and lanky, but I didn’t have a hint of the soft roundness of the fairer sex, the kind that promises to blossom into juicy temptation for the grabbier sex.
I went about my middle and high school years blithely flirting, each swing-and-miss turning my aching heart into pudding until I found a new crush and shy hope found root once more.
Through all this, I never once blamed my body for my absent dating life. My body woes came long after my hormones evened out and my heart learned not to blindly beg for the attention of boys.
I was 19 and working my first restaurant job when it first came to my attention that my lack of a robust bust was a problem.
My best friend revealed to me that she was working two jobs, one of them with me at an upscale deli and the other in the restaurant inside a posh hotel just down the road. I was jealous. I begged her to put a good word in for me at the hotel, and she did.
I elatedly joined the team. One day, some of my more well-endowed females co-workers began talking about breasts. One of the more seasoned servers said she would gratefully accept a smaller bust and I shook my small chest around proudly.
She absent-mindedly threw out, “oh honey, not as small as yours”. She meant no harm, but the first barb landed and stuck tight in my still-developing self-confidence.
It took many years for my shame in my body to really take root, finally settling in at an age where women supposedly discover the self-confidence they were missing in high school.
No male has ever said anything negative about my breasts; it’s always been women. Women who, pointedly or casually, discussed breast size and body shape and molded my understanding that small breasts are bad and big breasts are good.
I learned how to join in the body-shaming conversations as a way of bonding with other girls and women; I became a shaming addict, passing around veiled compliments that hid their true intention of tearing down other women to try to bolster my own worth.
Women would bemoan their dress size, saying “I wish I were as tiny as you.”
I’d puff up with pride and say back at them, “but at least you have breasts”, and they’d pass it back to me, “oh but your ass is fantastic.” And so it went, building each other up but not so much so that we rose above each other’s shaky platform of self-confidence.
I loved hearing other women self-shame, because it meant I was not the only one to feel like her body was all wrong.
I have since come to realize that every woman is truly beautiful and all body shapes admirable. I am slowly letting go of my tightly-clutched purse full of poison barbs ready to toss at other women.
In me has awoken an awareness that hard eyes full of envy aimed at another woman is really just a choke-hold on myself.
I still find myself looking at women with envy; it’s hard to grow out of something that is ingrained within us. When walking with my boyfriend and we pass a particularly striking woman, my stomach heaves as if punched and I casually glance at him to make sure he’s not sending surreptitious glances her way, eyeing her up and down.
I know I am not alone in this, and it brings me sorrow.
My conversations with other women have turned from those self-and-other-shaming conversations to honest talks about how easy it is to hold regret about our bodies. I feel us collectively attempting to pull ourselves out of the muck our culture has made for us, but society doesn’t help.
The beauty industry powers on, eagerly grabbing on to the ‘body positivity’ movement.“Yes, you are beautiful, but there is still room for improvement and we can help.”
Women are still sold as sex objects in movies and TV shows, only now they’re sold as ‘smart and capable’ sex objects. They still wear clothes that fit their body like a glove. They are still enhanced via makeup, CGI, and Photoshop to have a more preferred figure.
(Most) Men are still wired to prefer women with fuller breasts. That won’t change.
We as women have to start to see ourselves differently, in a kinder light.
I’m still working on cultivating more loving lens myself to replace the critical one I’ve been wearing ever since that day at the restaurant, when I learned that some bodies are better than other bodies.
I still cringe when I catch sight of my small breasts. I glance with eagle eyes for any changes throughout each month. Are they bigger? Yes I think they’re bigger. Look, they jiggle a little when I bounce. I shamelessly eat as much high-calorie food as possible, hoping to gain weight enough to fill a new cup size.
When my boyfriend shifts sleeping position in the middle of the night, my insides contract with shame and I automatically go to pull his hands up around my collarbone and shoulders rather than allowing them to accidentally rest on my breasts. Even when sleeping I don’t want to remind him of his misfortune in choosing a small-busted woman.
But, I am patient with myself.
I practice changing my words when I notice them, heavy with negativity, seeping through me.
At 33, I am mature enough to realize the damage I’ve done to myself and the damage other women do to themselves.
Crafting self-love takes time and it cannot grow anywhere except inside my own heart.
I will rise from this, and I will extend a hand to help others rise also.
