The Awkward Years
Understanding the lies we believed
I’ve had an interesting relationship with food, weight, and body image since I was a teen.
In junior high, I was a bean pole and felt insecure that I didn’t have any curves. When the curves finally came I was embarrassed by it all, so I lived inside of oversized hoodies.
My mom at that time was a 30 something gorgeous, confident fashionista. She never seemed ashamed about her body and always seemed to find clothes and outfits that accentuated her curves in a flattering and sometimes sexy kind of way.
Every Saturday morning, my mom had this way of exuding a delight in herself, in her femininity, her sensuality as she danced around the house shaking, shimmying, and singing with the broom as she cleaned.
My brother and I would laugh, as she’d squeal and snap her fingers–pausing to close her eyes and sway as the music engulfed her and took her away. Our laughing never stopped her; she'd smile at us, laugh, and we’d return to our Saturday morning chores.
My mom also coached sports at my school, and my pubescent male peers told me if I looked like her, they would date me. They joked and asked if I was sure she was my mom. Junior high can be so cruel. I didn’t believe I’d ever look as good as she did or have the confidence she had. I was awkward and unsure, even when my weight was within the "normal" range. Something was always not quite right. My feet were too big, my hair too kinky, my skin too dark, too skinny, too heavy—just never quite enough.
In reflecting I can see how then I was envious of my mom, wishing I was as beautiful and attractive as she was. I turned that envy into spite and would say some mean things to my mom, the way hormonal teens often do. I’d criticize her and say, “Mom, I wish you dressed more like a mom.” And I know that crushed her.
I also turned that envy in on me hating my body, hating the way I looked. I wish I had the emotional intelligence to recognize what I was really feeling instead of poking holes at my mom's self-confidence. I know now my mom had her own journey to get to where she was back then.
When I look back at my pictures I realize I really was cute and have always been beautiful. The only problem was I didn’t believe it, and I lacked confidence in myself, something my mom lived in.
Beloved, confidence doesn’t come overnight. It takes time to cultivate and it begins with learning to love ourselves.
Before you can love yourself you have to start understanding and naming those things you believed about yourself early on. Maybe it was the numbers, media, or junior high. Maybe you were compared to your sibling, parent, or peers–making you believe you needed to constantly measure yourself against others in order to be worthy.
I encourage you to begin to name the narratives you've believed.
For each of those narratives I’ve believed about myself, I’ve had to spend time unpacking where they came from and learning what is true.
The truth is I’m more than enough.
The truth is I’m gorgeous.
The truth is the numbers don’t matter.
Over the years as I begin to not just simply say these things but truly believe and embrace this truth, I’ve been able to love myself more and more each day.
Beloved, What have you believed? What's your truth?