The perceptions we have of ourselves are ever-changing and built over time. The moments big and small that form the way we see ourselves begin before we’re even conscious of them and so often come by way of outside forces.
The perception I have of my body feels to me like a patchwork quilt, each square a different memory, sewed together as I age, accumulating rows as I do years. Some squares I remember more vividly than others. Some squares bring back happy memories of my body and others make my chest tighten.
I want to share some squares with you.
I am seven years old. I’m at recess with my best friend. We hear an older girl has started a club in the corner of the playground and we go to check it out. She tells us it’s a Skinny Club, and glares at me as she says that my friend can stay but I cannot. My best friend grabs my hand and storms away.
I am nine years old. I’m wearing a black and neon two piece bathing suit that I love, but for the first time, I take in how my body looks different from other girls in their suits. I decide to stop wearing two piece bathing suits.
I am ten years old. I am shopping with my mom and all her tags say small, but mine say large and none of the clothes fit on my body like I think they’re supposed to.
I am 12 years old. We are visiting family and something happens involving me and food. I don’t remember if I was caught eating something I shouldn’t or if I was whining about being hungry, but I do remember that, in his frustration, my dad snaps, “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?!” We tour a chocolate factory later that day and I won’t allow myself to taste the free samples at the end.
I am 13 years old. I’m a freshman in a brand new school. A boy yells “MASSIVE!” after me in the hallways for weeks.
I am 14 years old. I grow a few inches and lose a little baby fat. Tanned from a summer in California, I secretly think I look good in the pictures from my trip, but I don’t think I’m supposed to admit that out loud.
I am 17 years old. I listen to one of my best friends turn down compliments over and over again and it bothers me. I decide to accept every compliment that is paid to me and say thank you, even if I don’t believe it myself, and in doing so I slowly start believing.
I am 18 years old. Immersing myself in theater makes me feel accepted, inside and out.
I am 20 years old. I pose nude for a friend to paint me and am shocked to find that I love the finished product. Seeing myself through her artistry gives me new appreciation for the softness of my body.
I am 21 years old. I’m asked to lose weight for a role, but it doesn’t hurt me the way I always anticipated it would. My parents help me buy groceries because I can’t afford to eat well on my own. I eat whole foods and take yoga classes and lose a small amount of weight in a healthy, well-paced way. My director is pleased.
I am 23 years old. I’m in my first relationship and I feel sexy and powerful. I am walking taller and wearing tighter clothes. I feel so good in my body.
I am 25 years old. My boyfriend asks me to lose weight. He doesn’t even get the full sentence out, but I know what’s coming. I can hear the words before he’s even said them because they’re my worst fear and I’ve whispered them to myself a thousand times before. He’s talking about taking up body building again and says, “I’d like to be bigger, and well…I’d like for you to be sma…“ I cut him off before he can finish and sob in disbelief.
I am 25 years old. I’ve told no one what my boyfriend’s said, because I’m afraid they’ll tell me to leave him. Friends and family watch me develop an addiction to exercise and highly disordered eating habits. I run a 5K race while on a diet that has me consuming 900 calories a day. I fall in love with sweating and getting stronger, but very quickly lose 40 pounds in six months and am unable to sustain it.
I am 27 years old. I complete my first Whole30 and I feel a subtle but certain shift in myself. I don’t realize that the food I eat has my stomach in a near constant state of discomfort until I’m on the Whole30 and everything feels…comfortable. For the first time in so long, I start to consider how food can be a tool to nourish my body rather than punish it.
I am 28 years old. I cross the finish line of two Spartan races in a summer and I feel strong and accomplished. My focus in fitness shifts for the first time from trying to lose weight to trying to acquire new skills.
I am 29 years old. I am having a particularly good day, feeling centered and confident after a yoga class, when I’m blindsided by a text from an old trainer that reads, “You looking a little soft.”
I am 30 years old. I still think about what my ex said to me all the time. I think about it every time I’m about to go on a first date, fearful that the man will look disgusted by the large body walking toward him. I think about it when I overeat, actively hoping to grow bigger to spite him.
I am 31 years old now. I wish I wasn’t so preoccupied by this quilt, but I know I’ll take it with me throughout my life, to every new apartment, to every bed. I hope at least to have a larger part in its creation moving forward, ignoring squares that others try to give me and covering myself instead with appreciation for my body and its gifts.
She Always Has Shit to Say 