the way we view ourselves

I always dreaded the day I would finally have the courage to sit down and write this. In denial of what I would say and patiently waiting for the moment I actually meant every word of it. 

But, this morning, I was walking to class and realized that this fear I had was the whole damn point. 

I remember with vivid detail the first time I decided I hated the way I looked. I was in the fourth grade and about to leave for a beach trip with my brother’s baseball team. Being only one year younger than them, I was adamant to always impress them and tagged along for way more than Brady would have ever wanted, he made it clear, as every brother does, don't you worry.  

I remember walking into my mom’s room and begging her to let me shave my legs because, for some odd reason, I decided that was the only tangible way I could up my appearance in such short notice. Excessive amounts of arguing later, she slathered Nair on my legs and I was a happy little camper. Yet, the day I put my justice tankini on, I didn’t feel any better. 

What had happened to the little girl who shoved her stomach out in every picture and had a grin that stretched to her ears? The one who never passed up an ice cream or baseball field snowcone? The girl who never felt the need to look in a mirror or care about the letter on the tag of her shirt? 

And the worst part about it all? This is normal. Everyone has their own moment of this “self-discovery” and they are all equally shitty. I wish more than anything that I could tell her that she was as cute as she was chubby and the hair on her legs didn’t matter when she was in the fourth grade. But, the more I tried to act like I didn’t care, the more I did. 

Now, at almost 21, I fear nothing but my knowledge has changed about it. 

There’s something so weird about the way our brains work. The way I can convince myself in one second that I am not enough when I should be the one who knows more than anyone else how false that really is. 

I could write you a novel about how social media ruined our minds and gave us these false expectations for how we should look, feel, and present ourselves. At the end of the day, I think it was my fault all along. 

Only I had the power to make myself cry going shopping for jean shorts, a cannon event I now know. Only I had the ability to tell myself that my favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream is a privilege. Only I gave myself the power to speak down to myself every morning and only I have the ability to change it. 

I spent high school the same way, debatably worse. I compared my legs to every other girls’ as I passed them in the halls. I compared myself to how fast I could run next to every girl on my team or how well I did on the English paper compared to my neighbor. I looked at what the girl in front of me was getting for lunch and was hyper aware of when someone would snapchat me sweaty from a run. 

I never understood the fact that “comparison is the thief of joy.” 

It’s a phrase I've wanted to be my mantra for forever. To have the ability to not wish for anything other than my “tree trunk thighs” that my first boyfriend told me I had. Too long for a tiny waist like the girls in the movies. To not wish to be in any other skin than my own. I felt so uncomfortable in who I was because these comparisons never seemed to leave me alone. 

I’m writing this today not to make you feel bad for me or tell you that I have it all figured out, I don't. I'm writing this today because I need to. I need to remind myself of all the beautiful things I tell everyone around me yet never save enough for myself. 

The way we view ourselves is a product of the words we say to ourselves everyday. A product of the expectations you hold near and dear and the sum of all of those small details you can choose to either love, or to hate. 

Today, I'm choosing to love them. 

I’ve been through enough trial and error to understand both ends of the spectrum here. I’ve learned that running everyday to “get in shape” or “slim down” only makes me exhausted and wake up not being able to walk down the stairs because I was so damn sore. I’ve watched my friends starve themselves to only realize that it makes them really grumpy, sad, and even lower than they were before. I’ve watched myself cry in dressing rooms all because of the number on a pair of jeans. I’ve felt myself get so anxious over an exam that I can’t sleep the night before and run off the pure adrenaline and 4 cups of coffee. Or the feeling of throwing a towel over my stomach at the beach or pool for no reason at all.

As I look back on all these ways I saw myself, not one of them makes me happy. Not one of them makes me proud. Happiness never came from trying to be a version of myself I wasn’t. 

It's taken me almost 21 years, but I think I get it now. Life has never been about a number on a scale or how my arm looks in a picture. Turns out, I never thought again about the horrendous grade I got on my math exam from high school or whether or not my run was slower today than when I was 16. 

Life is way too short to ever deprive ourselves of the little joys in life. Like a batch of your favorite chocolate chip cookies or laying in bed on a rainy day for a good rotting session. 

Life to me is about the person I am, not the body I am always hyper fixated on. People don’t love me for my clothes, my hair, or my skin, they love me because I am kind and caring. They love me because of the stories we share and the laughs that make our bellies sore. They stick around because of who I am, not what I look like. 

The moment I separated my appearance from my value felt like I was sighing out a physical weight I didn’t know I had been carrying around. Like the release of that morning stretch or taking a sip of water after being outside. It was blissful. 

I’m crying writing this because it’s scary to share. My first feeling though is embarrassment. Embarrassed that I ever thought this way about myself and allowed myself to be my own greatest enemy. I’m not perfect. I have never been, I never will be. Perfection is intangible. It’s something we strive for yet never reach. 

What’s beautiful about that though? All my imperfections are what I love most. Like the dimples I used to hate being my iconic trait. Or the little birthmark on my butt that my mom points out, without fail, every time we’re at the beach because she thinks it's “so stinking cute”. Or how my legs were never “tree trunks,” they are just strong as shit and I really should’ve just kicked him for saying that in the first place. 

I saw a quote the other day that kind of inspired me to actually write this. It said, “people take pictures of the sunset and say, ‘it’ll never do it justice.’ Why don’t we say the same about ourselves?” 

There are millions of things I love in life and a trillion that I can point out in other’s. What thing do those two have in common? Not one of them is about appearance. 

I love my roommates because they are my comfort

I love my dad because he makes me want to be a better version of myself in every way imaginable 

I love my mom because she knows me better than I know myself 

I love Izzy because I have, and always will, share the best memories with her. 

I love Abby because she holds me accountable and never lets me think less of myself. 

There are a million little joys everyday, don’t let comparison steal them from you. 

The way we view ourselves is subjective. Never forget that you have the power to be kind to yourself. I am no perfect person, but that’s the coolest part about me. 

Love you all, 

P