A year ago, I was thin. I weighed just enough to be considered healthy, but little enough to (sort of) measure up to today's cultural standards of beauty (meaning I was just a few pounds above "underweight"). Now I am curvy. Voluptuous. Chubby. Plump. This is something I have never been before, but it is something I am now. Thank you, medication side-effects; thank you, lupus; thank you, seizure that left me house-bound for six months. It is not something I'm happy about, but in spite of my emotional rebellion, my larger body has been teaching me.
I am a slow learner, and resentful, but nonetheless I am learning.
I am learning to enjoy experiences regardless of what I look like. I think that I used to believe, subconsciously, that I had to be beautiful (by our society’s standards) in order to deserve to enjoy life. Maybe I still believe that a little. But I’m learning to recognize it, and to recognize (at least on a cognitive level) that that belief is inaccurate. I'm learning that it is ridiculous to let my size stop me from enjoying anything.
I am learning to find beauty where before I thought there was none. In spite of myself, sometimes these wider hips make me feel like I could take on the world, blowing smoke from my nostrils; these thighs thick and solid pillars holding up a body that the wind will never blow over; that waves break against. Curves like a classic painting, and who’s to say they are any less beautiful than the wispy women on television? Just in a different way.
I’m learning to be less afraid of taking up space, as a person and as a woman. By necessity I am learning not to apologize for the room I occupy; being constantly apologetic is exhausting. And on principle I am learning to be proud of being a woman that, however accidentally, does not conform to our culture’s narrow-minded standards of beauty.
I’m learning that even self-love is an effort you make, not a feeling you feel.
I’m learning that I am not the only one I hurt with my self-loathing.
I am learning that my body is more than an object for the visual pleasure of those around me. That is not my body’s main purpose. In fact, that’s pretty low on the scale of importance regarding the functions it performs.
I’m learning that no matter my size I can still look pretty ok, when I wear clothes that fit me well.
I'm learning that both the secular culture and the church culture alike will make snap judgments about your level of promiscuity or "modesty" based on the size of your boobs and the prominence of your cleavage, regardless of whether or not you can help these things. And I'm learning not to be ashamed of my natural anatomy and the way it presents itself as I gain weight, no matter who gives me either judging or leering looks for it.
I’m learning that the only one human being on this planet that can truly make me feel beautiful is me.
But I am learning that, in order to feel beautiful, I must also feel rebellious and fierce. I must feel like fighting. It takes balls to step out into culture where, for a woman, thin = beautiful and beautiful = valuable. Especially when you do not measure up to the first element of the equation. It takes balls to step out into that and then dare to not pick at yourself and actively—constantly—hate every one of your flaws. And sometimes I’m too tired to nut up like that.
But, like a muscle that needs to be worked over and over, consistently and for a long period of time, slowly I’m learning self-acceptance.
None of these lessons are fully-learned. Most of them are just now breaking through the fog in my brain as I get used to being in this body. It’s a big change (no pun intended), and not one I saw coming. And to be honest, I hope it doesn’t stay this way.
But honestly, I also hope that soon I get to the point where I’d be ok if it did.
