To All My Friends Who Struggle with Loving Their Bodies
So there I was, staring at a little sticker on a table with the words, “I hate my body” written on it. There were lots of stickers on that table with many different things written on them like, “I want people to like me,” and “I’m not a good mother,” but I was staring at the one that said “I hate my body.”
The instruction at the workshop was to pick up 6 small stickers from a table covered in stickers, all of them representing some shadow side of ourselves, the part that you kept hidden and didn’t want people to see.
“If you see one that you don’t like, and are even repulsed by, definitely pick it up,” our leader suggested.
It was a pricey workshop. I’d gotten on a plane for it, and I wanted to get my money’s worth. Plus, for as consciously evolved as I like to think of myself, this body issue, this trouble with my body, this war of self acceptance was something I hadn’t made peace with.
Still, there was no way I was going to pick up the I hate my body sticker, so I walked by it, moved on to something I could tolerate, like “I want people to like me,” and “I’m a bad daughter.” Those lines were so much more socially acceptable.
But then I remembered what our leader said, and so I circled back to I hate my body. It wasn’t technically true. What might have been truer was something like, “For the last 64 years I’ve been chasing those last five pounds.” But there was hate in those words too.
I’d been rejecting my body since I was a teenager. It was in the culture of L.A. where I grew up. It was in my family. The first words out of my grandfather’s mouth when he saw me each week for family dinner were either, “you look good,” or “you’ve gained weight.” Every Sunday dinner was a psychic weigh in, a testimony to my rise or fall, and it started when I was 12.
In college, I’d starve myself two weeks before I went home just to keep him quiet. I can only imagine why the size of my body troubled him so much. A couple of times he screamed at me in restaurants in front of others about how god damned fat I was, and how I’d never marry. All I remember from those evenings were the bright lights of the restaurant, the heat rising in my face, and my sucked in breath so I wouldn’t collapse and show him that I knew he was right, that I had failed. He wasn’t the only family member who weighed in on my size. There were dinner table measurements of thighs in my home. But those are old stories and I’m tired of telling them. They deplete me.
The message was clear; there was something wrong with my body, but if I just worked hard enough, just deprived myself a little more, I could be beautiful.
So I took a deep breath and picked up the I Hate My Body sticker and put it on my chest, along with a few others that spoke to my fear of failure, my desire to be liked, and how hard I have always been on myself.
The workshop was focused on Finding our Wisdom, and damn if I wasn’t there to find it.
The next thing we were instructed to do was to stand across from another person, silently stare into their eyes, read the stickers on their chest, and then look up into their eyes again. Then we hugged. At first I didn’t see anyone else with I Hate My Body, and I started to feel exposed. In the group of 27 people, I saw two people who had chosen that message, though we were told that if someone had a sticker that you didn’t choose, but you related to, to point to it to let them know they weren’t alone. A bunch of people touched my sticker, which was a relief.
Of course, the real problem with my body isn’t what it actually looks like. It’s what I think it looks like in my imagination. It’s the dysmorphia, the rejection, and something that I didn’t want people to know about me.
I’ve done a lot of personal work. I’m a teacher, I lead community. What would people think if they knew I struggled with accepting myself? Would people still want to work with me if the woman who asked her students things like, “what if we already loved you?” as a way to get them onto the page, also struggled with loving herself?
It would be an understatement to say that shadow day at the retreat disturbed me. Sometimes outing yourself brings you closer to people, closer to yourself. And there were a few solid hugs with women in the group who made it clear to me that they struggled as well. In fact, many of the people in the workshop – men and women – struggled with their bodies and spoke of it during the week, but for some reason the way I exposed myself, the way I outed this deep grief stung hard. I felt like I was wearing a hair shirt.*
There were a lot of successful folks at the retreat. CEO’s of large companies, people who had made a positive impact in the world and lived big lives. People who also reported that some of the things they were sharing at the retreat were things they hadn’t told their partners and close friends. That’s no small thing, and I appreciated that they got this chance to drop the mask and let go of whoever they felt they needed to be in order to be valued. It had me appreciate the life I’ve built, the circles I’ve been a part of creating for years, where this kind of transparency is the air we breathe. Keeping things in makes us sick, and this body issue thing was big, one of my final shames, but it wasn’t an easy release. The fucker had teeth in me and I felt bloody all week.
What can I tell you? I stayed with myself. I didn’t reach for a drink, which I’d done for 100 years of my life. I started the mornings, and ended the nights with my hand on my heart, trying to connect with something loving inside of myself. And it wasn’t hard to find. I think one my greatest heartbreaks is how sweet I am inside. That, in contrast to how hard I have worked on myself to be perfect, to hide the parts of myself that I was ashamed of. It’s hard to admit you struggle with your body in a culture of body positivity – to still be holding onto so much deep grief and to feel shame around that.
Those old stories about my grandfather and my father, I used to lead with them because they’re so dramatic, so horrifying. I know I’m not alone. I’m going to a large family gathering in a few weeks and I know that all the women there will be looking at each others bodies to see who has lost and who has gained. Some might even be dieting right now. That would be my tendency. We won’t be looking at each other with unkindness, but mostly trying to make our way through the thicket of grief that was pervasive in our family, in the culture we came from.
The workshop in Santa Fe was brilliant. The facilitator, the material, the people, all amazing, and it was also incredibly hard for me. I wasn’t the shining star, the evolved one who carried the bright light of wisdom, which is a persona I prefer. I was the woman who struggled with the hair shirt. *
Toward the end, I called Mark, my former husband to tell him that I’d really gotten a lot out of the workshop, that I’d leaned in, worked hard, “really gotten my money’s worth,” I said.
“No,” he corrected, “you got your self worth.”
And it’s funny. It’s not like I feel the truth of that yet. I’m not on the other side of this thing, but I did have the courage to sacrifice my facade, to pick up that painful sticker, and drop my social mask so I could get a little closer to this old trouble. I brought my shadow into the light, and if that’s self worth, it’s a fine start, and I’ll take it.
Listen to Laurie read this piece:
* A hair shirt is a garment made from rough, coarse animal hair, often worn as a form of self-punishment or penance. It is typically worn close to the skin to cause discomfort, serving as a reminder of penance or religious devotion. The practice of wearing a hair shirt has historical roots in various religious traditions, where it was used to practice humility, self-discipline, or to atone for sins. The term is sometimes used metaphorically to describe someone who is unnecessarily harsh or self-critical.
I bow to your bravery and beauty. I love you so much.
Beautiful, Laurie. There’s so much that’s relatable in what you write. We all struggle, in so many different ways. Oof! I was musing about purpose in my daily journal writing this morning. And I wrote, “what if my purpose in life is simply to understand myself?” That’s not really a “simply” is it?! Anyway, I love this…thank you.
I so love reading your truth Laurie, and I relate. We’re so hard on ourselves. I even want this comment to be witty and well written. FFS!!! lol
I point to that sticker and hug you tight. I would be wearing one as well. I know that family dynamic, the “Youlookgoodyoulostweight” greeting (or silence), the feelings of self-consciousness, grief, rejection, shame. You are a brave soul, and yes, a wise one, voicing what too many of us grasp and hide inside. And bravo to your ex too: self worth is more valuable than anything, and esp challenging to build upon a wobbly foundation. An important, raw, resonant piece worthy of sharing with a wide audience.
Thank you for writing this, for sharing it with us. So many of us could point to your sticker! I was just starting to do yoga, thinking about how I grew up thinking the only reason for exercise is to avoid being fat. It was the No pain No gain era. And now as my body softens, I am trying to soften too. You wrote that you weren’t the shining star, but maybe you were — shining light into shame that so many of us hold. So grateful for you.
Oh baby. Remember when we were in SMA, the time I broke my pelvis and I had trouble figuring out how to get out of the door of my room? I probably wouldn’t have remembered either if you hadn’t said, “if it doesn’t work one way, try another.” Imagine how many times I’ve said that to myself in the last nearly six years. You’re a truth teller. Keep on telling yourself the true truth.
Oh Laurie! And to think…you’ve always been good enough and perfect enough and lovable enough! We all have been and we’ve wasted so much psychic energy not to mention time and money chasing reality! I love you exactly as you’ve always been♥️
Thank you for sharing this. I needed to hear it. And I definitely would have touched that sticker and hugged you though I’m not brave enough to wear it, yet.
God I love you, your body and I love this!! XO
Grateful to be reading this and mostly more and more grateful to be in your wild writing group. You have opened my interior world I so many ways.
Thank you, wise Laurie. I’m glad you recognize how sweet you are. I’m wearing that sticker. It’s a weighty thing. Here’s to gaining more self worth alongside you.
Thank you for this writing. Over my lifetime I have struggled with never feeling right in my clothes. Either too tight or too loose. Your words helped put words around this feeling. I never feel like I will be dressed in trend with everyone else. This anxiety hurts and your story soothes, Grateful.
Right there with you! Thanks for sharing this with such vulnerability and love.
Beautiful and so relatable. Hugs.
I’m making a button that says “ I hate that you hate my body” and I give it to your young self to wear on her jean jacket.
That dark hidden thing. So painful to hold. I cried relating to this and in reading this I knew what I had to do next–start to be ok with my darkness. Bring it the love and attention it needs. I also think you are so brave. This is so important to bring into the forefront of any community offering.
We are watching Normal People again, you know that sexy series with amazing lovemaking scenes? I keep wanting the kids to be rounder, fatter. I’d like to see an erotic sex scene where a real belly rolls over another, where a lover nibbles on a thick thigh, where some back fat gets caressed. I think the center of why we never see this is white supremacy, the inherent way that whiteness asks white women (and later men too,) to control their impulses as a show of restraint. To control them. Sabrina Strings writes about this in Fearing the Black Body. Fat phobia has a racist past and present. I found Strings’ work on NPR, read her great work, wrote it into my book. But most importantly knowing this connection broke me from seeing my body-hating as personal or even familial, though it certainly has those elements too. There seems to be massive interest in control of women’s bodies these days, including its size and what roles they can force us into. This is to say I love you, and I am for you, 100% with you in this wild self remaining free.
Love you Laurie and always love your personal stories xo
Let that light shine into you. XO
Laurie,
Thank you for sharing yourself in this well-written piece. It’s powerful.
I feel you, my friend, and am right there with you. You are courageous, beautiful, and bold. Don’t change a thing.
Thank you thank you, you’re a beautiful lite carrier! Reading your words, your heart drops me into my pain, my sweet soft insides. Transparency as the air we breathe!
So good. Sooooo sooooo good. A wonder tale that weaves all the way through to fashion a mandala of Self! What I love about mandalas (from what my western mind knows), is how they reflect the whole of our complexity. The stories we carry with us, the shadow demons dancing and laughing overhead. Dakinis of Fury brandishing fiery swords injustices. And yes, the vulnerable self in the center being shaped by it all.
Thank you for picking up that name tag. Thank you for always staying so close to the heart of the reality of your matter. All of this is the gentle yet powerful guidance we ever receive from you, moving us to a fuller embrace of our whole selves!
my love love love to you, dear Laurie.
i really could feel the pain, shame, and a bit of terror when picturing going to my own family reunion soon and having all those eyes — oh, all those eyes — women on women – ouch – all the comparing and needing to size up, what? the competition? our own blood and bones and bravery at even showing up in a size 8 instead of a 6 or 4 or 2 –ouch!
this touched such a nerve. thank you laurie. one more hug coming your way from the east coast.xo
This is a great piece!
And I love this line: The fucker had teeth in me and I felt bloody all week.
Could apply to so many things. OMG,
Incredibly moving and authentic. I remember that moment.
L – I’m very touched by this piece. Thank you so very much for your sharing and your beautiful vulnerability.
I also have issues with my body. You are so brave to share this and your experience of being in the workshop. More power and love to you. Thank you for all your kindness. Love from Nepal!
Beautiful and well-written. This experience is very relatable. I love you just the way you are friend. Thank you for sharing such a powerful piece.
Thank you for sharing this vulnerable piece and writing it so beautifully. I too joined the body hating club at age 12, and in spite of 45 years with a husband who loves my body, the self hate messages still lie deep, coming to the surface unbidden. Almost like I need them. Why live this way I wonder?
Laurie, I love this vulnerable side of you the most… ok, maybe just I love you sharing the deeply transparent, utterly true part of the underbelly of beauty… so much, what a gift to us and you.
I am intimately touched and relate in my own way so, very deeply. I personally year for people to share from the space of “not being on the other side”… especially in storytelling, writing etc… most jump for the bow. Thank you for sharing yourself “exactly where your whole being is” body and all.
And when you refer to the shame around sharing what you are in a time of “body positivity”… my response inside was “body positivity without the inner work, is just gaslighting.” We bypass so much in our society, families and lives… and we need the polar opposite, at least I do.
So thank you, for all of you. Such a gorgeously tender and beautifully revealing piece that we need.
I love this, Laurie. I had to take a deep breath of sorrow and grief and take a day before commenting. Every single woman I know has struggled with family and our pernicious culture’s pressure on impossible attributes of beauty. So, I feel not just sorrow and grief but anger as well. Thank you for getting down and specific about the personal threads…you are brave, true, real and, yes, beautiful. Your telling is an invitation to all of us to unravel our own sources. Thank you.
I related so much to your piece. Right now, I’m dealing with being too dangerously thin, and bones broken at the same time. I have to keep adding food and my weight still drops. My dysmorphia tells me I already weigh more and the scale says 88 lbs. I didn’t lose this weight on purpose. I maintained a spiritual food program that kept me at 100 lbs for the last 33 years. And it no longer works.
It feels like the fight of my life. Now the numbers in the 80s are the fearful ones. Getting on the scale and being afraid of lower numbers. Yet so much of my life was about staying or getting just thin enough.
I also fear that clients will have less faith in me if they know. And yet, here we are, all the same. Working through our struggles and enlightening each other along the path.
This is gorgeous. As are you. Inside and out. Thank you for always sharing your truth and beauty. ♥️
“I didn’t reach for a drink, which I’d done for 100 years of my life. I started the mornings, and ended the nights with my hand on my heart, trying to connect with something loving inside of myself. And it wasn’t hard to find.”
I think that says it all for me. As a man who struggles with similar issues (though no one has ever measured my thighs) I relate deeply to this piece. Your courage is inspiring, as is your discovery that the power of healing we crave is literally a hand’s breadth away. Thank you, friend.