Welcome!
I’ll be sharing essays; love notes to our bodies; wise women to follow; media to watch, listen to, or read; and invitations to join me in learning how to accept, respect, and love our bodies.
I’m so glad you’re here with me. <3
I was recently selected as an Ignite Charlotte 11 speaker.
May 11, 2021, you and I will be dancing onstage together to deliver a talk called “Be a Rebel: Love Your Body from Your Crow’s-Feet to Your Pinky Toes.”
Thrilling, yes!
But I’ve entered the phase of your cycle where I think my talk sucks, and I’m about to tiptoe into “I suck” territory.
By now, I’ve written enough to have moved through your cycle multiple times. I also coach writers on how fickle their feelings are when they are working on something important with you. I have seen hundreds of authors move through these very same phases.
And while the experience does help me know that I won’t wallow in the despair forever, it doesn’t make it less difficult. I thought if I wrote to you about what I go through every time I sign your dance card, it might help me move through your cycle with a little more flow.
The creative-process phases, as I see them (based on the work of many other creative souls who’ve documented their own phases):
I’m in! I was selected to be on the Ignite stage May 11. They are giving me a mic, and I am going to say the important things about loving our bodies.
There’s no April Fool’s joke here. This is legit.
I can’t tell anyone but my family yet, but holy moly, I am so stinking excited. I am going to light up that stage with all my sage wisdom about self-love. Word-maven extraordinaire right here. Of course they chose me. I am dynamite. And my talk is going to be the best Ignite talk that has ever been given on any Ignite stage ever in the world.
I know I’ve only got five minutes, but that’s all I’m gonna need to convince the audience to offer their bodies more love. Five minutes means less to memorize. Five minutes means I can get right to the point.
This is an amazing opportunity to open up my public speaking career.
I am awesome!
I wrote the entire talk in my head while lying in bed the other night. I even visualized myself on stage, hitting just the right tone, making people laugh, moving them to think about their relationships with their bodies. So how come what I’ve written feels so flat?
I need to liven it up. I’ll throw some notes in the comments and let them marinate.
Oh, dang—what are the three points I’m supposed to cover? What did I say again? Oh, here they are. Looks like I missed the mark a bit.
Okay, no big deal. This is just a draft. Let me revise.
Images! What images am I going to use for the slide show? Don’t worry, just throw possibilities in a folder and revisit once you’ve finalized the talk.
I haven’t worked on my talk in a few days. I gave it to Terry, my husband and my alpha (first) reader, because I need somebody else’s eyeballs on it.
Nothing is working. It’s still flat. I know it needs more personality, more personal connection, but everything I try to add still reads more like a lecture than an engaging talk. I can’t see what to cut. It’s all important, and also, I know it doesn’t all need to be there.
I feel stuck on the images, too, because I feel like I can’t really work with them until I have the words finalized. And I’ve got to get them finalized because I’ve got to start memorizing them.
Terry came back with his initial feedback last night. My talk sucks. He didn’t say that. He was kind and encouraging, but he’s also truthful, which is why I ask him for feedback. And what I’m hearing is that the talk sucks.
I don’t know how to fix it.
Well, hello. Didn’t take long at all to arrive here. I knew I was close to the line, but this feels like a harsh arrival. Did you push me? You pushed me, didn’t you?
I can’t believe that I applied to give a five-minute talk on a stage. With slides that autoadvance every fifteen seconds. Why did I do that? I don’t know what I’m doing. Why did I think I could handle this?
And oh my god, I’ve told so many people already.
My talk sucks. I have no idea how to fix it. How am I supposed to deliver a sucky talk? Cause that’s exactly what’s about to happen. I’m going to get on that stage with a sucky talk that I’m embarrassed to give, and I’m going to probably forget half of it because it’s so bad my brain refuses to hold onto the steaming dung heap. Then I will be forever known as the woman who literally ignited on the Ignite stage because her talk was so bad. I hope they have fire extinguishers.
I could quit. That would feel like a relief. And also shame. I am not wired to break a commitment I’ve made. Quitting would be a mercy for the audience. Oh god, the audience. What if my talk is so bad they ended up hating on their bodies more? What if my talk inspires them to ramp up their nastygram narrator? Why wouldn’t it? Mine is running wild right now.
I feel like a hypocrite. With a sucky talk.
I have done this to myself with my grandiose notions of being a public speaker.
I suck.
Okay, I don’t suck. I know I don’t. It just felt that way for a short bit. Thank you for staying with me through the hard part.
Because you were still weaving your inventive magic behind the scenes while I was melting down, I figured out that the structure of the talk was off. I’ve added clear through lines and transitions, so the audience will be able to follow along.
There’s a lot more revision work ahead. I’m going to have to make the talk more personal. Part of what was missing was my own story, or at least a peek at it. So now I’m adding color and telling microstories. Making connections across gender identities and different body types, finding the common threads while honoring our different experiences.
I’ve got lots more image ideas now too. I’m still stuck around this, but now that the talk is moving forward again, I know I can make progress on the slides.
I recorded myself reading what I’ve got. The timing is solid, which is a huge relief. I can work with this.
High five, me! And you, dear creativity! We are doing this thang!
The talk is complete. And it feels good. Sounds like me.
I’m so grateful for the feedback that helped me refine it. After a family car trip where they patiently listened to me deliver the talk, Terry and the girls gave me stellar advice. Then a longtime edibuddy (talking about you, Shannon!) went above and beyond to give me helpful editorial feedback and some brilliant suggestions for images to use.
One of the things I enjoyed most about receiving their feedback was listening to myself and deciding yes, that’s a really good suggestion or mmm, no, that doesn’t work. I love that I can trust myself to make the best decisions for me and for my work.
I was still stuck around my opening. The joke I’d conjured early on, while funny, didn’t quite fit my vibe or match my message. Terry was an excellent sounding board and helped me figure out where the dissonance was so I could decide how to tweak things.
The slide show is close to complete too. I’m ready to source some feedback on that, but I think any changes will be minor.
Thank goodness, I have a coaching session with Ignite 11’s speaker coach, Sonja Stetzler. I’m in great headspace now to really listen to her expert guidance.
Time to rehearse. And rehearse. And rehearse.
I just got home from the Ignite Charlotte walk-through rehearsal, and I am so excited. Well, nervicited (nervous AND excited a la My Little Pony).
Bridget B. Sullivan, the founder and event producer of Ignite Charlotte, has such a calm presence, and she’d set everything up so that I could rehearse with confidence. She nodded in encouragement as I spoke and gave wonderful advice. I’ll be in good hands tomorrow night.
Even though, during the rehearsal, nerves made my voice shaky at times, and allergies made my throat scratchy, a shaky, scratchy voice will always win out over a silent voice.
I know my talk inside and out. There’s a solid chance everyone in my family could give this talk now that they’ve all heard it so many times. I’ve even taught a workshop in the space where I’ll be speaking, so I’ve confidently spoken in that space before. And best of all, I know that someone listening needs to hear this message about loving their body.
When I had the coaching session with Sonja Stetzler, that was one of my two takeaways. She reminded me that I wasn’t speaking for myself. I’m speaking to be of service to the audience. This was a concept that I knew but had lost hold of as I’d spiraled through the harder parts of the creative process.
Shining a light on the path of body acceptance and love so others can begin their own journeys has always been my why. This talk is just a new way to spread the message to more people.
So I’m surrendering my nerves to Divi.
I’m using my second takeaway from Sonja’s coaching session, which is to use my breath to calm my nerves, something else I knew but still need reminders for when my energy is so high.
And I’m going to be so kind and compassionate to myself for the next 30+ hours because I have done my best, and it will be enough. It may even be wonderful.
Let’s talk about your rosacea.
I’ve been thinking of writing to you for a while about this, but I’ve put it off. Then yesterday, an acquaintance’s Instagram post about her own rosacea got me thinking more about your struggles.
I remember the shame I felt the first time I realized that strenuous exercise would turn you redder than hot lava. I was almost fourteen, and I was trying out for the high school cheer squad (team?). In addition to Lungs sucking wind because they weren’t used to so much intense aerobic activity, you flushed a deep purply red.
I castigated myself as an overweight, uncool loser with no business cheering if you were going to signal my distress to the world with such a loud broadcast. When I didn’t make the team (squad?), I made it your fault rather than my lack of skill.
But as time progressed and you flushed red at every athletic endeavor, I realized this was just your thing. Once, during my short running career, a little girl in the neighborhood stopped biking to ask if I was okay because you were so red. Remember that? She must have thought Heart was in danger of exploding. I was embarrassed but not as ashamed as I’d been back in that high school gym.
Now, as more years have progressed, you are tinted some variation of pinky red most of the time. It’s been eons since I’ve worn blush because you don’t need any help adding “color” to Cheeks. Summertime is nice because I can attribute your color to kissing the sun. Although it aggravates me to no end when someone assumes I’m sunburnt. Do I explain? Do I leave them to their assumption? Do I care? Why do I care?
Heat and alcohol are triggers for your rosacea, as is exercise still. Wearing a mask really revs up the redness. Makeup is great to tone down the scarlet show, but it also seems to aggravate you.
You’re flaming as I write this, your heat warming Hand when she touched you.
Perhaps, you’re thinking about the debacle that medication was. When I finally decided that I had lived with the redness long enough and asked the dermatologist for help, she confirmed your rosacea diagnosis and prescribed medication. The first medication was expensive and had little effect. The second medication was more expensive and caused you to break out in a rash that traveled down to Neck. The third medication prescribed cost hundreds of dollars. I didn’t even fill that prescription.
I decided that your redness is a part of who you are, as much as Freckles are. I don’t love that you’re red, but I accept it. I know that a consistent skin care routine with gentle, organic products makes you feel best and does a darn good job of controlling the worst of rosacea’s symptoms of breakouts and dryness. I’m committed to your care, and I’ve got plenty of compassion for you.
On that same IG post, another acquaintance shared additional ideas we can try to soothe you. I’m most excited about moon bathing. You too? Let’s make a date under the next full moon.
Every time I see one of these phrases, most often in memes, I cringe.
The offenders:
You are not your body.
Your body is just the keeper of your magic.
Before I write more, I want to acknowledge that phrases like this can be incredibly helpful for people recovering from eating disorders.
If this is you, keep using them! Keep showing up for yourself. Keep healing.
If these phrases help you stay well, please stop reading and have a lovely day.
***
The phrase “you are not your body” is meant to remind us that our worth and value have nothing to do with our physical bodies. So true. We are inherently worthy.
But this phrase makes me cringe because I actually am my body. And my body is me.
Pretending otherwise reminds me of all the years I spent dissociating from my body, living from the neck up, pretending like my body didn’t exist whenever I could avoid it.
I lost touch with my body’s innate wisdom. Rather than look inward for answers, I often crowdsourced what I should do. And I ignored any signals my body sent to get my attention and tell me that sometimes those plans were the exact opposite of what I needed.
After spending so much energy to reclaim my connection with my body, I don’t ever want to make her feel like an unwelcome part of me.
She is the miraculous machine allowing me to experience life. She’s my home. She’s my lifelong companion, the one who will be with me until our very last moment.
My body is the keeper of my magic, but there’s no room for “just” in this sentence. “Just” implies her role is somehow diminished in comparison to my magic. But how sacred a vessel is my body to be the container that can hold my magic, my magic being all the wonderful effervescence and creativity and ingenuity and more that is an essential part of my makeup.
As my magic’s keeper, she is loyal and steadfast and trustworthy. I can show up as my full self, and she never says, “Tone it down, dear. You’re too much.”
She offers me a safe space to expand into my full potential, always assuring me that she’s on my side.
My body is the kind keeper, the courageous caretaker, the magnificent magician wielding my magic.
Am I more than my body? Of course, I am. I’m a complex creation.
But my body is an integral source of my complexity. Without her, I’d be a spirit who couldn’t fully experience all that this human life has to offer.
Her physical manifestation of “me” allows me to connect with nature, to inhale all that my senses encounter, to hold close the ones I love. She gives voice to my soul’s messages and embodies all the unique bits that make me who I am.
Because of my body, I get to be a human being.
No pithy phrase or meme will ever be able to fully describe my relationship with my body.
Our connection is a nuanced mosaic that continues to evolve. And now that I’ve rediscovered how powerful our relationship is, I want to celebrate my body as an integral part of my existence.
Photo Credit: Cass Bradley, Find My Fearless
How are you? Last I checked, you were still a little tender to the touch, but the bruises were fading. Isn’t it amazing how you heal? Is there anything more you need?
I’ve been thinking so much about pain and healing since our massage last Thursday. About how I make repetitive choices that create tension and tightness in you that I ignore until I can’t. About how I am so familiar with your tightness that I don’t even realize how constricted you are. About how I overlook you when I’m stretching.
And mostly, I’ve been contemplating how the fastest way to release your tension was to sit with some intense discomfort as the massage therapist used a special tool to break up all the knots in your fascia. The sensation created a synesthetic crackling that reverberated in my body. And of course, it’s left you tender and bruised. And also looser. And healing.
I can’t help but compare this experience to what happens when I come against an old wound that’s ready for healing balm. The emotional pain rises sharp and swift. It hurts in its intensity, and I question why I agreed to this. But I sit with it. Teeth gritted. Body tensed. Tears flowing until I surrender. And I breathe. And breathe again. And breathe once more.
As I hold on for another breath, the pain lessens until eventually it’s transformed. I’m tender and bruised. But also lighter.
Healing sometimes comes with pain, but it’s a different kind of pain than what I’ve been holding onto. And it’s worth sitting in the acute discomfort for a while in order to find myself in a new space with a little more clarity about what I need going forward.
And for sure, there are moments of divine grace that bring healing with complete ease. I celebrate those gifts. But however the healing happens, I’m grateful for its miraculousness to create change.
I began following Rebekah on Instagram about a year ago, and I was immediately captivated with her turns of phrase. She’s a natural storyteller. When I found out she had a book coming out, I put it high on my wish list. Sitting Pretty did not disappoint.
I felt an immediate connection with Rebekah. I call her Rebekah as if we’re buddies. We’re not. But I feel like we easily could be. We’re about the same age, and memories she shared of growing up often sparked similar memories for me, such as playing house and imagining fantasy romances after watching soap operas.
She writes about living as a disabled woman in a world that often doesn’t consider her needs at all. I appreciated her honesty and her encouragement that we look at even the most uncomfortable aspects of disability, such as the complications of kindness and the way that the cost of healthcare forces people to make hard decisions.
What I most appreciated, though, was her gentle yet insistent urging that we use our imaginations and bring people with diverse bodies to our conversations to improve everyone’s experiences. Rebekah shared her experience as a teacher and how exhausting and grueling the workload and expectations often are, which is amplified for her because her campus’s accessibility makes a task as simple as grabbing lunch an ordeal.
This resonated so deeply because I left teaching because the workload and expectations weren’t sustainable for me, and for so many others, as evidenced by the teacher shortage in many areas. But as Rebekah posits, what if we imagined teaching differently? Could it look different? Could it be kinder to our teachers’ physical, mental, and emotional needs? Could it grow into a more sustainable model that doesn’t burn people out? Of course it could. We just need to imagine it and then work to create it.
Read Sitting Pretty. It will make your ponder a more accessible world long after the you finish the last essay.
Over the holidays, I read two books, one nonfiction (What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk about Fat by Aubrey Gordon), one fiction (One to Watch by Kate Stayman-London), that described the experiences of women living in larger bodies. Reading these two books back-to-back amplified their messages of inclusivity and body positivity and showed with poignant clarity the problems with fat phobia.
In What We Don’t Talk about When We Talk About Fat by Aubrey Gordon, creator of Your Fat Friend, Gordon writes a series of essays about navigating the world in her body. Her essays are both personal and academic and very readable. She writes about her experiences flying, the assumptions society at large has about her desirability, her medical-care history, and much more.
I appreciated her candor and vulnerability, and I felt like I was attending a master class in how to honor other people’s experiences without being an asshole. The chapter “On Concern and Choice” was a powerful sermon about how much harm we cause when we tell people in larger bodies that we just want them to be “healthy,” a word so loaded in this context with condescenion and righteousness that it’s a weapon.
Gordon writes, “I did not come to body positivity for self-esteem. I came to it for social justice.” And her phenomenal work makes clear why we should all look at body positivity through this lens.
One to Watch, Kate Stayman-London’s debut novel, invites the reader into the fictional life of Bea Shumacher, a plus-size fashion blogger. Bea is charming and smart, and she upends her life when she agrees to be the star of a reality TV show similar to The Bachelorette. Bea knows this is a brilliant career move, and she hopes to inspire women who have never seen a woman with a body similar to theirs, in the role of the romantic heroine, on TV. She’s also committed to not falling in love. Her journey is tender and funny and heartbreaking, and I was engrossed from the first page.
When I heard echoes of Aubrey Gordon in One to Watch, I was pleasantly surprised to find that author Kate Stayman-London thanked Aubrey Gordon for her fat activism in the acknowledgments. I highly recommend both books, and if you can read them in close proximity, I think it will deepen your appreciation for both.
Some people, like Gordon, have chosen to reclaim “fat” as a body descriptor, as an adjective for their bodies, similar to tall, brunette, or thin. You may cheer this on and encourage their empowerment. But there are also lots of folks who have been brutalized by the word and will never choose to use it. For them, that is an empowering choice. As with so many things, this is personal and individual. Let’s honor everyone’s choices. And only use “fat” to describe a body if that body is your own and you’re comfortable with the descriptor, or the person you’re describing has invited you to do so.