I’ve never been the kind of woman men so affectionately refer to as “high maintenance”. I do not insist on branded clothes. I will not be seen in heels and full face at the grocery store, or with acrylic nails and false eyelashes. I envy those women in many ways- so prettily prepared. So fully done. In my mind, these women exude more self-assured confidence and femininity than I possess. They are photo ready and flawlessly coiffed and accessorized.It is powerful magic they perform just to get out of their houses every day.
It is this envy and appreciation at the core of my own rituals of self-enhancement. For many years I tried to hide from family and romantic partners the lengths I went to in the private temple of my bathroom to make of this raw clay something like their sculpted perfection. I agonized over every hair, pimple, mole and ounce out of place. I plucked, shaved, scrubbed, buffed, painted, weighed and measured incessantly.
I beat back the things I hated about myself again and again- and like anything so strongly resisted they continued to show up to try to teach me their lessons of self-appreciation, self love and acceptance.
The changes in my mind, heart and body since the birth of my daughter have made both the noise in my head, and the peace in my soul stronger by turns. I have struggled mightily to love this body and the inevitable changes wracked upon it by pregnancy. This loss of “control” over the vessel of my body has brought to bear all the mean and ugly things I have ever said about myself as well as an incredible awe and gratitude for that of which it has proven itself capable.
I step from the shower or bath and see before me in the mirror the extra pounds, the looser skin, the tired eyes. I rise from sleep stiffly and bend more cautiously to lift my daughter than I would have done before. There is a grief. A deep and quiet sadness that creeps over me sometimes as I judge this Self to be not enough- pretty enough, young enough, thin enough, “mother” enough…
It would be so easy to let those judgments define me- sometimes when I am too tired to do better, they do define me. But at my core, I know I am not the sum of all those criticisms I heap on myself. I know the voice I hear mumbling and screaming is not my Voice- not the Voice of the powerful loving expression of the divine that I know my soul to be. It is merely the sounds of the insecure animal trying to name, define, and label its world in a way it can grasp and control using the limited vocabulary and ideas it has been fed. I try to find love and patience for that scared and struggling animal at the same time I try to tame it and silence it.
So I still pluck, if somewhat more haphazardly. I try to watch what I eat, but most days I’m jest relieved when I find time between diapers and naps to feed myself at all. I look at my face in the mirror and I say to her the loving things I say to the other mamas I know-
You are strong, loving and kind.
You are patient and forgiving of others and yourself.
You are powerful, courageous and amazing.
You are beautiful.
Some days I believe me. Other days I just take it on faith that I’m no bullshitter and trust that tomorrow will be better.