This, oh this – this is something I get up in arms over.
My heart aches and breaks for you, you who hates what she sees in the mirror. You who wishes that this here was a little less jiggly and that there was a little more curvy and all of this was just a lot less.
I want to rant and rave at this world for making you buy into the lies, scream and shout about the head games and the judgemental words and the impossible standards.
I want you to know that you are worth more than your weight, your body is so much more than a size, and you are beautiful in ways that you don’t even know. Girl, you need to own that skin you’re in like it’s a custom-made couture gown, because it is, and it was made for you by a master tailor who deals in muscle and bone, hearts and souls instead of silk and satin. You might not know it yet, but he sewed strength into your limbs and grace into your lungs, and he measured you for patience and kindness. He wrapped you in dreams and hopes, and they look better on you than sequins and lace.
You’d better own that skin you’re in, because it’s the only one like that in this world and no one else could ever make it look as good.
My heart hurts from all the hate that’s been thrown around. All the hate you’ve been thrown and all the hate you’ve been throwing back at yourself. Girl, there’s a whole world out there and you ain’t got the time to waste with all that.
And if I could, I’d invite you over. I’d bake you cookies and we’d eat half the dough before it went in the oven, and the other half as soon as it came out, and there would be no talk about regretting or running off those cookies. I’d make you a cup of tea, strong and sweet, and I’d make you space to be. Just be. Be full of thoughts and secrets and desires and all those things that give you your you-ness.
And in that space, maybe you can find the courage to claim beauty. To believe that the words I’m and beautiful could snuggle together in the same sentence without that cold hard not shoving itself in between. To slip on confidence like your favorite pair of jeans and wear it out the door and right into the world.
Because maybe, maybe if you can start to see the beauty that you have, if you start to believe it – well, maybe then I can, too.
Because the truth is, as much as I rant and rave, scream and shout, I buy those lies. Because as much as my heart aches for you, it has little forgiveness for me. I can’t find grace in the mirror, only thighs.
Because I can tell you to love yourself all day long, but I talk the talk a whole lot better than I can walk the walk.
And I’m tired. I’m tired of constantly being at war with myself. I’m tired of not liking what I see. I’m tired of wrapping myself in insecurity and doubt. I’m tired of hating. Cause there is a whole world out there and I ain’t got the time to waste anymore.
Here’s the thing about loving yourself: loving. In the verb sense of the word. Loving yourself is not a magical state of elevated being that you somehow achieve. Oh, no.
Loving yourself is work. Loving yourself isn’t easy. Loving yourself is waking up in the morning and claiming beauty. Loving yourself is telling your tummy that it is fearfully and wonderfully made. Loving yourself is running because you want to, not because your mental calculations of cookies consumed + calories burned aren’t equal. Loving yourself is eating peanut butter straight out of the jar sometimes. Loving yourself is a daily decision to walk out of those lies and walk into the truth and work that custom-made skin of yours.
Loving yourself is stubbornly, persistently, consciously believing that you are Beautiful. and Strong. and Worthy of being Loved.
Because oh, you are. and so am I.