I Wonder What I Could Have Done with all of the Time I Wasted Wondering if I Was Good Enough, Pretty Enough to Exist.

Pick, pick, pick. All you do for me, and all you allow me to do – I will still tear you apart every day. I prod and poke you; I would rip chunks from you if I could. I have pulled you apart to see what I’m made of. Nicks and freckles align over skin stretched tightly, little markings of a life lived. Stretch marks scattered here, there, almost everywhere. What does it matter? You are my home. You belong to me. Only you and I will truly know where we’ve been. We have dipped our ten toes into salty oceans, hot sandy dunes and trod upon dew drop blades of grass at dawn. We have kissed loved ones on the brow, on the cheek and ones we have loved all over. You let me do this. I know, I do know, how fortunate I am to have you. I apologise for tormenting you.  You bring the bully out of me – but it’s not your fault, it really isn’t. Something has gone very wrong along the way if I think you’re not good enough for me.  

I wish I could change the way I see myself. I wish I could remember that that is the true root of the problem; it isn’t what I actually look like. There would be flaws to find even if I were a dream version of myself. I have been slim. I have had long, beautiful red hair, blonde hair, brown hair. I’ve had smaller boobs, bigger boobs, a teeny waist and a face with cheekbones. These past versions of me were no happier than I am now, not really. But – they were more accepted and celebrated in society. I conformed to the idealistic western standards of beauty and didn’t feel the sting of judgement that I now do because I am overweight. I remind myself, daily, how fortunate I am to be happy and healthy. I know that when I look in the mirror, I shouldn’t feel disgust or shame. The language I use about myself shouldn’t be spiteful or malicious. I shouldn’t feel such hatred for what in the simplest terms is a shell to carry me through this life. However, there are days when I do. There are more days I do than I don’t. Isn’t that so wrong? It is so sad. I can’t even imagine the time I waste worrying, endlessly worrying about something as simple as the way I look.

I hope you know how beautiful you are. I hope I learn to tell myself the same, then believe it too. The shame I feel about my appearance endlessly impacts my mental health, and that alone is a reason to curb the bad habits and start to be kinder to myself. There are so many things worth worrying about, but our bodies and the way we see them should not be one of them.

“Tell your daughters how you love your body.
Tell them how they must love theirs.

Tell them to be proud of every bit of themselves—
from their tiger stripes to the soft flesh of their thighs,
whether there is a little of them or a lot,
whether freckles cover their face or not,
whether their curves are plentiful or slim,
whether their hair is thick, curly, straight, long or short.

Tell them how they inherited
their ancestors, souls in their smiles,
that their eyes carry countries
that breathed life into history,
that the swing of their hips
does not determine their destiny.

Tell them never to listen when bodies are critiqued.
Tell them every woman’s body is beautiful
because every woman’s soul is unique.” 
― Nikita Gill