October 2020

How many of us desperately want to connect, want to have a sit-down serious conversation with someone, want to talk about our fears and hopes and worries and secrets and stories, but we just don’t know how?

Once we’re in the environment, our mouth and our hearts open and we talk. But initiating can make us feel anxious, unworthy, shy, tongue-tied, or all other things.

So, if you are sitting there thinking, “I would love to talk to this person about issues in my relationship” or “It would help so much to tell someone about my struggle with alcohol” or “My anxiety is through the roof and I want to vent”, but you’re stuck or obsessing over how to get the ball rolling, here is what I suggest:

Simple is best. If you are like me (well, more like how I was – I have improved significantly in this domain), you might be stumbling over the perfect words, rehearsing them over and over, not wanting to sound too needy, not wanting to bother anyone, and so and on so forth. And before you know it, it’s a month later and you still haven’t said anything.

So, keep it simple.

“Hey – I’d love to chat for a few at some point. Could we find a time?”

See? No obsessive apologizing, no worrying about how much info you’re giving, just straight and to the point.

You don’t have to put disclaimers, you don’t have to apologize, you don’t have to self-deprecate (“I know I’m a mess” or “Sorry I always bother you”). Also, let me remind you: it is not your job to worry about burdening or overtaxing the other person. Your job is to ask for what you need. Their job is to be honest about what they are able to do. If someone isn’t free and can’t talk, it’s on them to set a boundary and say so.

Keep it simple. Take a breath. And press “send”.

I have had several conversations about bodies and body love (or lack thereof) lately, which usually means it’s somewhere out there in the collective consciousness of the world, which means we have to talk about it and address it so people aren’t just dealing with it alone.

Many, many people struggle with body image. That’s a broad statement. It could include anything from body dislike, disordered eating, eating disorder, not loving what they see in the mirror, trying to attain a different body, etc.

Both personally (friends/family) and in the wide stream media (professionals, campaigns, etc), body love is preached. “Love your body!” “Bodies come in every shape and size!” “There’s no weight limit on beauty!”

And that’s super well-meaning. The idea being, you don’t have to be so hard on yourself! You can just love your body, however it looks, whatever size it is.

Except what I’ve been hearing from others is that sometimes it’s not that easy – and sometimes those well-meaning pieces of advice turn into (unintended) additional pressures. Because here is what some people then feel:

I don’t love my body. I hate how much time I devote to thinking about it and obsessing over it. AND I’m supposed to be loving it. I can’t even do that. I suck. I’ve tried for years and I just can’t love it.

The pressure to love their body actually makes things worse. Because they don’t, and they can’t, and then they judge themselves for it and feel bad. So rather than them feeling self-love, now they feel even more self-hate.

And I get it.

There’s a large movement to embrace your postpartum body. “Love your body!” “Your body did amazing things for you!” “How lucky are you to have grown a child in your body!”

Again, all from a good place. The idea being, you shouldn’t be expected to have the same body you had before you grew a baby and gave birth. The idea being, be gentle with yourself. You don’t have to “fix” your body. You can love your body now.

Except what about when you don’t?

3 months after I had Maya, I fit into all my clothes again. My body went right back to where it was, and that’s just a fact. When pregnant with Maggie, I gained more weight. Due to some issues and complications, I didn’t exercise. I had an emergency c-section that healed weird and left me with thick, ropey scar tissue that’s itchy and uncomfortable every day. Diastasis recti left me with a bulging stomach. Nearly a year later, I still don’t fit into most of my pants because I have more fat and skin on my stomach, thighs, and butt, and that’s just a fact.

And I don’t hate it. But I DON’T love it. I know people who love their soft skin, love their new size, love their scars and stretch marks, and that’s wonderful. It really is. But it’s also okay that I don’t love it.

I love my daughters, and I am thankful every second of every day that I grew them and birthed them, and I wouldn’t change anything that happened for anything. And I’m not obsessing 24/7, constantly counting calories, spending 100% of my mental energy on it. But. I wish I had my body back.

The thing is, that’s okay! I shouldn’t feel pressured to get my pre-partum body back, but I also shouldn’t feel pressure to love my new body. Neither serves me.

I guess what I am saying is: maybe the goal doesn’t have to be body love. If we get to that state, that’s wonderful. But if we don’t, that’s okay. It’s like a ladder and there are different rungs. Maybe the highest rung is body love, and the lowest one is body hate. But there are rungs in the middle. Like I said to a few people last week, maybe it’s okay to be on the “eh” rung or the “take it or leave it” one or the “it’s okay” one. Maybe if we just accept that’s where we’re at, we wouldn’t be putting as much pressure on ourselves one way or the other and we wouldn’t constantly feel like we’re failing one way or the other.

(I also just feel the need to say – if you are dealing with significant mental health issues because of your body image or eating disordered behaviors, etc., this is something different – please, please don’t accept where you are, and don’t accept that has to be your life. It gets better, I promise. I just mean, you don’t have to get to the “I love my body so much!!!” point to be considered “healthy” and “okay” and “better.”)

Loving our body is great. But be gentle with yourself. If you’re on a different rung, as long as it’s not the very very bottom, it’s okay to be there. It feels horrible to have an unattainable goal. Make it more realistic.

I feel “decent” about my body, AND I wish it looked and felt the way it used to, AND that’s okay.

Month

Reaching Out 101

On (not) loving your body