Love Notes to My Body

Dear Voice,

by

Your worth can never be measured in a mirror.

Nicole C. Ayers

It’s been a month since you stepped onto the Ignite Charlotte stage, and I think I’m finally ready to reflect on the experience.

The weeks leading up to the event were a predictable roller coaster of emotions as I moved through all the steps of the creative process. Because I cared so much about this talk, each stage was intense—the highs were high and the lows were low. I’m so glad I chronicled each part of the journey because I know it will be a shining beacon for our next adventures.

I want more than anything for you and me to have more adventures like Ignite Charlotte.

The day of the talk, Nerves made an appearance, of course. But I used every tool that I have to keep them in the back seat while I drove.

I pampered myself and did things, like painting my nails and getting my hair styled, that make me feel beautiful. I’m sure you’re wondering why I spent time beautifying myself when my whole message is about not needing to look any certain way to be worthy of self-acceptance and love. I get it, and I promise I’m not being a hypocrite.

I chose to do things that make me feel beautiful and cared for because I wanted to radiate my shine. Having fancy hair and wearing makeup and nail polish all help me tap into my sparkle. As did my choice to wear glitter sneakers rather than high heels. Heels make me feel unsteady, so I didn’t wear them. Choosing jewelry that made me smile felt as good as the playlist I blasted on my way to the venue.

Each of my choices was designed to help me FEEL radiant, not LOOK beautiful.

So what else did I do to prepare?

I prayed. I asked Divi (my nickname for the Divine) to use you to spread the message of body-loving liberation through the talk. I sang and danced on the car ride. I chatted with my fellow participants. As show time neared, I took myself to a quiet(ish) spot, plopped myself in the floor, closed my eyes, and breathed. I sweet-talked myself and soothed Nerves.

When it was finally our turn, Hand made a deliberate effort to hold the mic gently. I took one more grounding breath. And you rang out.

You were glorious and steady and strong. You said everything I wanted you to say, and you were magnificent. I am so proud of you, so proud of us.

You took every moment I’ve prepared for public speaking—starting with that speech in fifth grade about Mrs. Woods, the school cafeteria manager, and her chicken noodle soup that warmed hearts as much as bellies—and you announced to the world that you are ready for more.

I don’t know yet what more looks like, but I’m dreaming wildly about the possibilities. I envision us speaking to small, intimate groups of women and standing on brightly lit stages in packed auditoriums. And podcasts and IGTV interviews and opportunities that I’ve yet to even dream up.

We are going to change the world, one talk at a time.

Nicole C. Ayers

Dear Creativity,

by

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

The creative-process phases, as I see them (based on the work of many other creative souls who’ve documented their own phases):

  • Everything is wonderful. I am wonderful.
  • Hmmm, this is harder than I expected.
  • Wow, this sucks.
  • I suck.
  • It’s still bad, but I think I can work with it.
  • This is wrapping up nicely. I might even be proud of it.
  • Hot damn, I’m finished. It just might be wonderful. Even if it’s not, it’s enough. I am enough.

April 1, 2021: Everything is wonderful. I am wonderful.

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!

April 10, 2021: Hmmm, this is harder than I expected.

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.

April 20, 2021: Wow, this sucks.

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.

Still April 20, 2021: I suck.

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.

April 23, 2021: It’s still bad, but I think I can work with it.

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.

May 2, 2021: This is wrapping up nicely. I might even be proud of it.

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.

May 10, 2021: Hot damn, I’m finished. It just might be wonderful. Even if it’s not, it’s enough. I am enough.

Nicole stands in front of an Ignite Charlotte sign. She is smiling and holding a microphone.

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.

Dear Face,

by

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.

Nicole C. Ayers

Artwork by Mica Gadhia

Dear Forearms,

by

a painting of a dark-skinned woman's arm. She wears a red bracelet on her wrist. The background is yellow.
Art by Mica Gadhia

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.

Nicole C. Ayers

Dear Bladder,

by

I am making a commitment to you that I will pee just as soon as I feel your first tingle. I will no longer ask you to wait until you’re uncomfortable. There is no need to create stress for you and my pelvic-floor muscles.

I realize that emptying you is a simple way I can love on myself. It’s also such good practice for me to pay more attention to Body’s subtle communication. I don’t want to make you scream for my attention.

I’m sorry for all those years that I held you past good reason. Taking a break to relieve you while teaching always felt tricky. Leaving a class of kiddos unsupervised is never a good idea, but why didn’t I ask my teacher neighbors to keep an eye on them more often? Here’s another way I hurt myself because I’ve struggled to ask for help.  

Making you wait for hours sounds so silly, especially because I preached at my daughters, when they were potty training (and after), to go as soon as you nudged them. So here’s my promise to you: I will pee just as soon as you tell me too. Even if it’s inconvenient, like on a road trip or in the grocery store. You’re worth it!

Artwork by Mica Gadhia