i wasn’t going to post today but, you know.

i had too.

so, i harbor this mad woman crush on kate of eat the damn cake. she’s an awesome writer. she’s honest. she eats cake. girl after my own heart.

anyway, she wrote a post recently about sexiness. specifically about bodily sexiness. it’s pretty brilliant and i recommend you read it. i kind of freaked out because she put into words how i feel and how i think on a pretty much regular basis.

however, as i read through the comments section, i got all eye-brow-arched-curious. people responded to the question of what makes you sexy with “MY INSIDES”. a lot of people shied away from rejoicing in the sexiness of their sexy bodies. while, yes, i agree completely that sexiness starts from the insides and radiates outward (pretty sure i added that as a second comment because i treat comments sections in blogs like real life conversations), why the hell can we not appreciate both physical and internal sexiness?

as someone who was so out of touch with her body for like, oh, you know, her whole life, finding my physical self sexy is no golf-clap deserving feat. it’s something i want to and am and will celebrate. because i used to look in the mirror and cry all over myself. because i used to say, “i hate you, body.” and i wasn’t kidding. to rejoice in my body, to find it attractive and wildly sexy, is, to me anyway, sexy.

divorcing the concept of sexiness from your body simply doesn’t sound healthy to me. that’s disassociating. women in western media are, unfortunately, victimized and sexualized unhealthily. i think a lot of the time women reject that, and i don’t blame them. the affects of being put on display as mere sexual meat with no real substance past boobs and ass are real. i am not denying that. however, completely detaching from the body and focusing solely on the attractiveness of spirit discredits you and your body. your have a body for a reason. for a few reasons, as far as i’m concerned. to carry your spirit, to give you the ability to move, and, most importantly, to enjoy it. to appreciate it. to see it as lovely.

clearly we need to rewrite the script for what physical sexiness is, what it looks like. which, to me anyway, is this: ALL BODIES OF ALL SHAPES AND SIZES AND COLORS ARE INEXTRICABLY SEXY.

maybe when we change our attitude about the word ‘sexy’ and what our patriarchal society has defined as sexy women will again own their physical sexiness and view their bodies as beautiful, sexy, attractive vessels. not things to be manipulated into an unobtainable, unrealistic version of ‘sexy’.

reclaim your sexiness. make it known. there is no reason to not feel sexy. who is telling you otherwise?

what do you think? can we own our physical sexiness without losing our feminist integrity?

namaste

zoe

i have a fucked up view of my body. aka: i have a fucked up view of myself. (until i realize: ohmygodwhocares)

most days i walk around disconnected from my body.

during my exercise compulsion/restrictive eating phase, i worried all the time about my body, about how its folds and round edges presented themselves. i observed every reflective surface. i pinched, hit, scratched. i was only my body. all the time.

when i started gaining weight, i stopped looking at my reflection so much. i started delving past surface level because i no longer connected to or liked my surface level. beneath my skin, i recognized a dimly lit soul, obscured by obsession. i detached from my physical self, took the time to reacquaint with my spiritual, emotional, and mental self. suddenly i was not just a stomach with arms, legs, hands and feet. i was a person, too.

on the off days i catch my silhouette off-guard, i react in one of two ways. on the good days, i will smile, turn one way. turn another way. strike a pose. laugh at myself and continue on with a good day. on the bad days. well. we all know how the bad days go, don’t we?

generally i cry. like i am surprised at seeing myself, truly. in my mind i look a different way. i am the smaller version of myself, the one i spent hours studying in the mirror for two years. not the heavier young woman looking back at me with empty eyes. i don’t know her. i’m scared to see myself as i am.

you know about body dysmorphia (disorder)? crude judgement call: eating disordered people have it. in a few sentences:

Often BDD co-occurs with emotional depression and anxiety, social withdrawal or social isolation. The onset of the symptoms of a mentally unhealthy preoccupation with body image occurs either in adolescence or in early adulthood, whence begins self-criticism of the personal appearance, from which develop atypical aesthetic-standards derived from the internal perceptual discrepancy between the person’s ‘actual self’ and the ‘ideal self’

oh, hey life.

i see beauty easily in other people. i see it quickly. in smiles, in eyes. in the way shoulders roll back and chests lift. i see beauty in all sizes, in all shapes.

just not in mine.

i am measured in rolls, cellulite, and stretch marks. not by my intelligence, laughter, and kindness. i don’t see what other people see. i struggle with physical compliments. whenever anyone tells me i am beautiful, i cringe. i think, “how can you see that? do you not see this stomach? these legs? these horrible arms?” other women are allowed to look like i am and be beautiful. i am not.

really though, i don’t hate my body. i hate myself. the self-hatred manifests in the mirror.

i constantly battle the beauty ideals born from magazine culture. the rational side of me understands i deserve intimacy, authenticity, happiness, and love no matter the size of my stomach. she knows people find me attractive. she knows beauty shows up in a variety of ways. she knows personality shines just as bright as physical beauty.

none of that matters though when you put all your worth into your appearance. personality doesn’t matter when you can’t shake the idea of worth being directly tied to an uber-processed, shallow idea of beauty. self-love won’t happen when you can’t get over the idea that your body isn’t right, that it needs to be smaller because you’re too big for your height, for yourself, for anyone else.

deep down, i am terrified this will be my forever. that i will never gain a positive body-image and allow life into my life. i am scared i will never love the person i am. that is more immobilizing than living forever with this eating disorder.

the best i can do?

take it one day at a time.

what do you do if and when you find yourself in this struggle?

namaste

zoe

i wrote that last night before insomnia kicked in. i wrote it before i found two beautiful blogs i spent too many hours looking through. tucked in between those virtual pages i found photos. videos.

like this one. (scroll down till you hit the video of the little boy. he is more in touch with his fantastic, female sexiness than i am at twenty-two.).

and this one. (scroll down till you hit the video of the blonde girl reciting a poem she wrote. it’s fucking brilliant and left me covered in goosebumps).

i listened to some spoken word last night, about what it means to be female, about what it means to be fat. it got me thinking, about the word fat. about femininity. about bodies.

think about what you think about when you think about fat.

what words come to your mind? what emotions? what images?

more importantly: are they negative?

america has this unhealthy obsession with fat. we care so much about the bodies of other people, about the bodies we inhabit. turn on your television and count the number of shows about fat people (TLC is a good place to start). open up magazines and tally the number of articles geared toward losing weight. better yet, go count the advertisements.

america is drowning in fat shame and fat obsession.

the weirdest part is this: fat means nothing.

i’m going to say that again:

FAT. MEANS. NOTHING.

NOTHING.

it only means what we choose to associate with it. and, unfortunately, america generally associates fat with ugly, unhealthy, abnormal, shame, and unworthy.

what right do we possess that allows us to pass judgement on the body of another person? what happens when we do do that? when we judge, we create assumptions. how do you know a heavier person is not healthy? how do you know they do not exercise or eat healthfully? the answer? you don’t. nor should you care. it’s not your body. it’s not your life. (i am saying this as much for myself as anyone else).

the image of a toned, tight, and fit person haunts every single person in western culture, whether we fight against it or not. that ideal still exists, still floats in the back of our minds, still affects how we view our body in the world. womanhood and femininity do not come in a one size fits all. we just like to pretend it does.

worshipping the idol of thin is a religion breeding contempt for diversity.

and contempt for our own beautiful selves.

after i watched those videos, after i read through quotes and surveyed pictures, i stumbled onto one thought:

i am so lucky to have this female body.

no matter what shape it takes.

because people like that little boy will never truly be a woman. transgendered females will never be biologically female like i am. this body is a gift. it is something to be celebrated, not cried over because it’s a little round. to be a woman is an amazing, sometimes overwhelming, experience. there is a reason we look different.

so, my god, zoe, stop worrying about your body. because you are not you body.

you are a living, breathing, soul with beauty your limbs can never measure.

namaste

zoe

self-love sunday: explain yourself

i lost my shit on friday.

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i woke up light and lovey. calm and steady. i am due for a new pair of pants so i hauled my butt to the mall (mistake one). before i tried anything on i took a few deep breaths. i spoke to myself sweetly, said, “zoe, it doesn’t matter what size you pick up. it doesn’t mean anything.” then i picked out two pants and two dresses and took them to the dressing room (mistake two). and promptly lost my shit.

my restless, egocentric mind went insane. stole the moment to unleash hurtful thoughts. i cried and cried. i cried myself all the way to my friend’s house, where i held it together for, oh, three minutes before unravelling all over. tears did not stop. neither did the questions, the “zoe-what’s-wrong’s”. i got a lot of “it’s just clothes” type comments too. those types of comments set my anger off. because no, it’s not “just about clothes”.

i sat on that frustration for a while. until i realized:

if i ever expect anyone to understand what i am dealing with, i need to open up my mouth and my heart and explain the details.

i cannot keep complaining about how alone i am when i make no effort to let anyone understand.

friends who do not grapple with body-image issues as deeply as i do simply do not understand how clothes shopping can spark a melt-down. it’s like trying to have someone who doesn’t understand drug addiction try and understand it. to them it seems simple. “just stay away from the drugs! just don’t do it!” is the answer to them. when, obviously, it goes much deeper than a physical addition.

while we cooked dinner i brought it up. i said, “i need you to understand this isn’t just about clothes. this isn’t trivial, this isn’t superficial.” i filled her in. i opened up. i explained myself. and, you know, it turned out to be relatively easy, asking for what i needed: understanding.

i know sharing the inner workings of your mind and heart serves up vulnerability you might not think you can swallow. but know this too: your friends love you. they want to help you. there is no judgement there. just another heart wanting to know what makes yours beat, in all the best ways and all the worst ways. responses like, “it’s just about clothes” are your friends ways of not lessening your situation, but of trying to understand. if friends show frustration, know it comes out of exasperated love for you, because they don’t understand how you don’t see the beautiful, amazing person standing in front of them.

after we spoke, i felt lighter. less scared. not embarrassed. everyone deals with issues. these just happen to be mine. they’re weird, they don’t make sense, but.

there is no reason i need to hide in their shadows, trembling with shame.

namaste

zoe

badvertisements (i’m so clever)

critical thinking comes to me naturally.

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(also: TRUTH.)

if you couldn’t tell.

i ask ‘why’ all the time. i always have. sometimes it gets me in trouble. sometimes it winds up hurting me. sometimes though, it helps in sorting through the bullshit.

like advertising. i am okay with judging the shit out of advertisements. especially those aimed at men, women, weight and appearance. my heart goes fluttery fast whenever i watch television commercials in particular.

like the progresso commercial where a woman calls and speaks with a male chef who, because he is male clearly (clearly) doesn’t care about the customer’s weight loss and the joy she expels. so she asks for a woman, instead. because, obviously, all women turn into dithering piles of giggles and claps whenever one of us loses weight.

or the nutrisystem commercials claiming prepackaged, processed, gnarly foods covered in plastic will help you shed the weight you so-desperately-need-to-lose. maybe it will. but nutrisystem won’t help you develop tools to build a foundation with food not in little boxes. it won’t teach you how to view food as nourishment and as enjoyable. because, for real, boxed food rarely compares to homemade, hand crafted deliciousness.

or how about the workout programs we see in between our shows? the ones showcasing dramatic body transformations? yes, i do believe discovering a healthy weight will increase a person’s confidence as well as health. but no, i don’t think focusing solely on physical appearance as a means to happiness and wholeness is good. it’s superficial. it leaves out the person inside, the one who believes her outsides matter more than the solidity of her character. additionally, what happens when and if you stop the work out regiment? what happens when you lose that “ideal” body and gain your natural one?

or what about proactive commercials? zits are unseemly. be smooth. be clear. be perfect. hide your flaws because they’re offensive.

or, man, the over-the-counter speed pills playing dress up as diet pills?

what the fuck are we selling here?

according to american media, our outsides matter over any other piece of our selves. the size of your waist directly affects the number of friends you have. no one will like you if you’re not thin, wearing straight hair, and a white smile proving your happiness. there is always something to fix. there is always something to improve. we’re never enough.

we’re selling unobtainable ideals. we’re selling body-consciouness and food obsession. we’re selling guilt and shame and depression. we’re selling inauthentic, pitting fake against real.

i am so angry. so frustrated.

because it doesn’t matter how smart you are (i’m pretty smart and i fell for this shit). this type of advertising weasels into all lives. it catches people unguarded. there is a reason western culture breeds eating disorders and self-esteem issues. there is a reason women trade dieting tips like old family recipes and don’t bat an eyelash when a friend complains about her thighs.

what kills me the most is the apathy, the blind acceptance, of the culture we live in. i know people fight against the negativity brought by american media. i know of body acceptance movements and women’s empowerment organizations. but i know intimately the shrugging, the “it is what it is” statements.

during the oscars my aunt kept referring to the “fat lady in the background”. pointing at the screen, at her, like some displaced wild animal in the zoo of perfection. my dad joined in eventually. i simmered. i bubbled. until, eventually, i boiled over, almost yelling as i spilled, “can we not call her fat? she’s a person, in a dress. she’s a person.”

it kills me how easily we attack one another and ourselves. how we judge without reason. how we build self-worth from the surface and stop there.

i encourage you to start asking questions. to start seeing the not-so-subtle messages tucked between dippy dialogue and uppity commercial jingles. further more, i encourage you to share your opinion, even if others think you’re nuts (e.g: my parents think i’m crazy every time i spout off at the t.v.). because, whether american would like to acknowledge it or not, some malicious force is sinking into our conscious. this isn’t okay anymore. this wasn’t okay, ever.

imagine a world in which depression, anxiety, body-shame, and self-esteem were not the biggest personal issues our culture faced. imagine if we started to consider our character, if we started to measure our worth in how much we loved, how much kindness we shared? what would we look like, then?

we have more power than we think. this doesn’t have to be forever “it is what it is”.

this doesn’t have to be shrugged off anymore if we don’t want it to be.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: ironically, i post this the week after nation eating disorder week. yeah. i would)

(p.p.s: i know it’s music monday but i wrote this last night and am still pretty fired up so. music later. and really, does anyone care? eh.).

naked

the naked body is a beautiful body.

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(this picture is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. if it offends you, that wasn’t my intention.)

but to a lot of people, a lot of american people, the naked body is a shameful body. birthday suits are worn without celebration. we keep backs turned. lights down low. mirrors become things to be avoided, sleeping a thing to do clothed (well, unless you live in snow in the wintertime).

why so much embarrassment over our physical selves?

i avoided my naked reflection for years. stepped out of the shower and toweled up quick. changed in front of dressing room mirrors without long observant glances. i did not grow up viewing my body as a positive thing. just an embarrassing, incorrect thing. too squishy. too round. too wide. too much.

a year and a half(ish) ago i woke up to the insanity that was my life. the running. the broken down knees. the tears, always. the numbness. a year and a half ago i took a deep breath and vowed to love myself, to love my body. i dove into yoga. i bent and stretched, spilled and splayed in ways i never wanted to be seen. i held my breath, waited for the remarks, the “zoe, we’re offended by your body” comments. no one said anything. i kept breathing.

eventually i, the forever naked-phobe, stepped onto my mat — sans clothing. i giggled, a pre-teen once again. the brush of skin against skin was so foreign. alone, in my house, i flowed dressed in the most natural clothing i owned. at the end, as i lay in blissful, sweet shavasana, freedom tingled just beneath my skin.

i learned how to be naked elsewhere, too. one night during summer, sunk in the middle of the heat trapped in my apartment, i stripped off sweaty pajamas and delighted in the coolness of sheets against my warm skin. i never put them back on. winter simply means more blankets now.

during the summers my roommate left the apartment. for three whole months i lived alone, the small space my own for endlessly stretched out days. in the mornings, before clothes, i putted around the house nude. waking up unrestrained guarantees waking up comfortably. i promise.

the more i practiced at nudity, the more comfortable i got sitting with my own body. i felt more connected to myself. i found i liked what i saw when i took the time to look. and i find now i indulge in the naked time i do get post shower, in bed, or on my yoga matt.

if you can’t look at your body or be naked with you body, how do you expect to cultivate any sort of self-love?

nakedness is the epitome of physical vulnerability. we cannot disappear or conceal anything behind clothing, behind layers of fabric. we present ourselves as we really are — squishiness, dimples, roundness and all. all the bits and pieces we call flaws are put on display for other people. kind of terrifying, especially if you and your body do not get along.

which is why i write to you today with gentle words of encouragement. notice how often you wear clothing. notice how often you don’t wear clothing. become aware of the emotions that come up while you are naked. notice the thoughts that float up and try not to attach to them. try not to believe them. remove eroticism and just be, for a moment, in your most free physical state. see what happens. see how long you can stay undressed. practice nakedness in small doses if you’re just beginning — in the morning, at night before bed, in front of the mirror before and after showering. it’s not as scary as it sounds. really, i promise (and i don’t promise much).

lack of body confidence seriously affects lives. think about it. think about all the places you hesitate over because you question the beauty of your body. the beach. the pool. the dance floor. the bedroom. think about all the beautiful moments you forego. think about all the life you shut the door on.

body confidence does not happen over night. it takes effort. it takes consciousness. it’s a practice. which is why i am nudging you in the softest of ways towards little naked baby steps. waking up to the gorgeousness that is the landscape of your body will benefit so many areas of your life. other people already see the beauty you hold. imagine what would happen if you saw it, too.

namaste

zoe

still ill

so i’ve got ample time to sit and write.

between trips to the bathroom, of course.

tmi?

nevermind. still, i am surprised to be feeling so sick again this morning. yesterday i eventually peeled myself off the couch and, in perfectly decent health, visited a friend in my college town for the day. some of whatever bug i caught is still crawling around my insides. obviously. i am watching movies today. on the couch. sipping homemade ginger tea. the beautiful sunshine outside will, unfortunately, have to wait.

i am not going to give the bug all the credit though. i am going to share the honor with another culprit: my diet. a few days ago i mentioned the lack of self-care in my life. it extends to the food on my plate, too. i am being pretty careless with what i put into my body. i know sugar does me in and i’ve been eating too much of that. additionally, the amount of gluten i’ve been eating has increased something like ten fold. i never used to eat as much gluten as i’ve been eating lately. i’m afraid it’s not helping.

my stomach hurts.
i am constantly bloated.
i am unbelievably nauseous.
i’ve gotten more headaches in the past two months than i have in the past two years.
i am consistently tired despite the good nights of sleep.

something is up.

which is why, when i feel better, i am giving up gluten and sugar. i am hoping to give up sugar entirely and i am simply testing a gluten theory. i know i don’t have celiac disease and i know i am not allergic to wheat. but i know i am sensitive to something. so why not start with gluten?

now, if you’ll excuse me. i’ve got a couch to lay on all day.

namaste

zoe

body conscious

february first?

(uh. don’t type ‘body’ into weheartit unless you have an iron clad sense of self-worth and self-love.)

for real? for real real? for real.

now that we’ve i’ve successfully named the date…

i never intended to write today. lately no words show up eager and ready to present themselves. i am not one to force blogging (or writing in general). yes, i am thinking (naturally), though on a more personal level. additionally, the things floating around up there cannot quite be put into words yet anyway. no use sharing shit i still need to figure out.

so i am surprised to be sitting here, alone in my room, crossed legged on my yoga mat at 11:11 typing away. i am tired. i should be in bed. something nagging wants up and out of me though.

you ever start the day feeling photogenic? (stick with me). ever wake up vain? pose in front of the mirror basking in the sexy reflection you cannot quite believe is you? i woke up like that today. confident. my hair fell into place. my skin looked clear. my body decent enough (to me). after i showered i pulled on a quirky, feminine outfit…and proceeded to snap too many photobooth photos for the facebook i don’t have.

(in case you’re wondering, i wore black boots, purple tights, a black skirt, a blue tie-dye shirt (love), and a sweater i stole from my mom).

i spent the day in san francisco (yet again. honestly, i just need to move there already. enough with this bridge toll and gas bullshit), wandering around downtown at the asian art museum with a close friend. i liked feeling dressed up. i liked feeling curvy and confident. i felt good enough all day to return home and, surprise, have another little photobooth session.

(you can arch your eyebrows all you want — i know all of your with mac’s out there do this from time to time, too. that and it’s fun capturing the moment you feel sexiest.)

the other photos i will not share. just know i spent a good ten minutes feeling good in front of the camera. then ten minutes hit eleven and the fun stopped. i caught sight of my stomach. paused to absorb its roundness. lost any and all shreds of confidence to the unsightly rolls. to the thickness. just thought, “why the fuck do you ruin everything, body?”

occasionally, i forget the way my body looks now, further highlighting how out of touch with it i really am. i forget i gained weight on top of weight and developed brand new slopes. i forget the extra padding. the roundness.

i allow my stomach (and my weight in general) to keep me from engaging in life. i allow myself to believe i am not beautiful the way i am. i allow myself to hide my body. why am i capable of loving only pieces of my body (like my face and my hair)? why do i rejoice in the different shapes of other people yet prescribe myself to a different, torturous standard?

for someone who spent all day in general comfort and confidence, i sit here now thinking “disgusting” and “i hate the way ____ looks now”. earlier today actually, i caught myself thinking, “i never used to have back fat what the fuck?” i am so tired of loathing my body. i never loved it. not even when i was skinny. now i sit here numb and detached simply because i don’t want to acknowledge the way i look. i just don’t want to fucking think about it. so i remain disconnected instead.

i don’t know when i will feel fucking decent about my body. i hate to say this, but i will probably feel better when i lose weight. in this present moment, here on my floor, here in this cushier body, all i feel is shame, disappointment, and an overwhelming lack of love.

i wish none of this mattered. i don’t even know why it does. i don’t know why i can’t get it into my fucking head that no one gives a shit what i look like and, furthermore, that weight does not determine a person’s worth. i don’t understand why i am bound by beliefs i outgrew a long time ago.

i just know this: i’m so tired of being unable to feel my body.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: i say unsightly because i do not like the way i look. i find bigger, curvier women beautiful. i just cannot bestow the same appreciate onto myself.)

today (with fat-talk)

our family gathered to celebrate my grandma’s upcoming ninety-first birthday today.

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a story for another day, perhaps. because today, i want to talk about a conversation my parents had in the car today. a conversation i overheard.

my dad: e (my cousin, his niece) looks like she put on a few lbs (pounds).

my mom: well and that dress she was wearing was not flattering at all.

my dad: yeah.

my mom: so few people can wear those dresses. you have to have like, nothing on you to wear those dresses.

up until this conversation, i only looked at my cousin in the long-sleeve, floor length, oceanic blue dress and thought, “e looks really, really nice.” (because she did). true, she wears a body with more curves. true, her stomach is round (like mine). true, most people believe semi-form fitting dresses belong only to the “skinny people” (referring to them as the “skinny people” like they’re a class above, worthier of all things (we’re all equal)).

no one, however, owns the rights to insulting someone else’s body. if someone feels her most comfortable in a mini skirt and a tank top but wears it with unfamiliar curves (because how often do we see larger people in tighter clothing?) let her dress as she pleases. people are people are people. we’re not bodies. we’re what’s on the inside. we’re souls with words to speak and love to share. we’re not the size of our legs or arms or stomachs.

i am getting to a point where judgmental fat shaming comments are starting to really piss me off.

they’re kind of everywhere.
in movies.
on t.v.
in jokes.
in conversations between your parents in the front seat.

the thing is, making fun of or speaking poorly of fat people isn’t funny. it’s insulting. it’s demeaning. it’s condescending and wickedly inappropriate.

what message do we send little girls dreaming of growing up and wearing pretty dresses and tops and skirts? you have to be this tall and this wide to qualify for said clothing. what cultural messages do we perpetuate, no matter how much we realize how fucked up that message is?

i don’t like listening to people comment on other’s weights. i don’t like the assumptions, the low-brow insults, the mockery. why are overweight people a target (especially by other overweight people!)? why do we think it’s okay to totally tear down a person based on his or her outsides?

i think a lot of the time the jokes or the comments or the blatant disrespect aren’t spoken consciously. the statements come from our cultural influences about fat and what it means. we thoughtlessly reiterate the doctrine of bullshit we’ve been submerged in our entire lives. in our society, we’re conditioned to view and think about overweight people in particular, generally negative ways. but, when you really get down to it, there are worse things to be than fat. you could hurt people. you could manipulate people. you could be selfish or greedy or rude. so why all this focus on fat? why so much shaming and chastising and judging? when are we going to stop seeing people as bodies and start seeing them as souls?

the body image revolution starts when we get angry enough to speak up. when we stop body snarking other people along with ourselves. when we see each other as equals, not as “you can wear this dress” and “you can’t“.

namaste

zoe

self-love sunday: vulnerability

i am introspective by nature.

(source)
(warning: rambling ahead.)

every day i sort through thoughts, sift through the clutter i hoard up there. sometimes, the things i manage to wiggle free strike a nerve. they’ll sink into my conscious and refuse to budge until i methodically mull over them. the other day, a heavy thought dropped itself into view.

i am, nearly every day, working towards alleviating the acidic burn left by my issues. i am working on awareness, mindfulness, patience, and forgiveness. i am working on remembering life is a conscious practice. yet, occasionally, i fumble over a more difficult discovery in my mind. the negative voice creeps in, quickly, often quietly, and always relentlessly.

the other day it occurred to me how immature i feel in regards to relationships. i know how to like some one. i know how to attract some one. however, the moment friendly flirtations take a more serious turn, i clam up. i look for reasons to work myself out of a potentially intimate connection. i tell myself things like “they don’t really like me.”

why?

one word: vulnerability.

the potential of allowing someone to see me completely, as a person and as a body, terrifies me. i am bad at relationships, too, because i am immobilized by the potential of heartache. the potential. i refuse to see what a relationship offers (the opportunity for growth, the opportunity for sharing, the opportunity to love and be loved) and instead choose to dwell on all the negative aspects (like the possibility of someone losing interest, the possibility of someone discovering my body, the possibility of being cheated on…again).

an example (or two):

i mentioned recently someone touched the parts of me i rage against the hardest (my midsection, in its entirety). what i neglected to mention was my reaction. specifically my mental reaction. i thought, “well, he discovered my secret” (as in, he found out about my horrible bits). after that i thought, “wow, he’s still here.”

i am afraid of gaining something wonderful and losing it because i am not enough. i am afraid of jealousy, possessiveness, and negativity spurred by my insecurity. i know in order to be in a healthy, honest relationship, i need to soften, to be open to change, to positivity, to love. i know that, for a relationship to function properly, i need to be able to trust myself, to believe i am enough for someone, to believe in the beauty of my character and my beauty in general. i need to not shut down and retreat into the safety zone of loneliness i know too well.

i am so ready to grow. yet, i feel i am bad at relationships because i can’t even maintain a healthy one with myself. i wonder how i expect myself to be open to vulnerability when i am way too lightening quick to cut myself down, when i instinctively talk myself into believing the person i am attracted to won’t be attracted to me because peoples a, b, and c possess so much more than me.

the only consolation i can offer myself right now is the fact that i am aware (though, sometimes i think i am all too aware – another ramble for another day). i am mindful of my brain’s immediate instincts. i am attempting to breathe through tough thoughts spat at me by my negative self, kind of like breathing through a mind contraction of sorts: i know it will be painful to experience but i know it will pass.

the time for change is now. i feel consistently, constantly, the hand of the universe on my back, gently encouraging me forward, even while my heels dig in. old ways of thinking, being, and existing shed themselves from me daily and nightly, flutter away on the gusts of wind only change blows. with new foundations forming beneath my feet, i stand, feeling naked and half-new. i am exposed in this rebirth, raw and uncertain.

i am scared.

but i am ready.

honestly though, you’re never really prepared for anything. the time for change is always now. new beginnings start every moment. it’s just a matter of being willing to receive them. it’s a matter of surrendering to your vulnerability and realizing that, in all actuality, you will be just fine.

definitely still learning. definitely.

namaste

zoe

finding femininity

i cannot recall ever feeling very comfortable in girly clothing.

(source)

since childhood, i made a home in tomboyishly loose clothing. stick me in dresses, skirts, ruffles, or lace and i squirmed. pour me into jeans, a t-shirt, yoga pants, and baggy sweaters and i relaxed. on the rare occasion i did opt to glam up a bit, i generally wound up tugging and pulling enough to change outfits altogether. the saddest part? a huge chunk of me craved the frills of a girlier wardrobe. the pieces of feminine clothing i did owe hung in my closet like lost relics. i never felt pretty enough for them.

boyish clothes provided me with a bumper of sorts. dressing down allowed me to escape the gaze of people. disguising the curves of my body let me sink into a self-imposed protective state of existence — if no one looked at me, no one would touch the body i loathed. living in oversized, less revealing clothing subdued my sexuality, kept me locked up in the body of a girl. but, at twenty-two, i am no longer the little girl i used to be. i am not the insecure seventeen year old struggling to accept her shape. i am a woman. a fully developed young woman wearing the curves of adulthood. hiding who i am becomes less of an option each time i acknowledge that i currently am residing in early adulthood.

the more i step into the woman i am, the more i sink into the femininity i tried to deny my whole life. i am shifting my attention away from jeans and towards dresses, skirts, and softer clothing. today i bought two dresses — two shape flattering dresses. i am not hiding in material any longer. i am showcasing something i love and accept more every day. the more i grow into my body, the more i grow into confidence. most importantly, however, the deeper i fall into self-love, the easier relationships and touch become.

yesterday i permitted someone to touch pieces of my body i disregard. although i expected to cringe and push the person off, i abstained easily. as much as i expected the level of attraction to dip immediately, it only seemed to go up. i felt sexy and confident as opposed to anxious and worried. the ever lovely mara reposted something the other day i really resonated with:

If someone has chosen to go home with you or share your bed, you better believe – no matter how scary – that they are well aware of who they are taking to bed. Guarenteed they already have a pretty good idea of what you’re going to look like naked. Often I think that we delude ourselves into believing that we’ve tricked someone into sleeping with use with a strategically coordinated outfit or pushup bra. Have some faith in you and your body! You haven’t tricked anyone.

(read the rest here. honestly, i think those words just changed my life).

in the end, i am only me — soft stomach, thick legs, round bum and all. i am not a woman out of magazines or television screens. but i am realizing finally that i, too, deserve love and affection and femininity because, no matter how society attempts to shape my ideas about women and our bodies, i am still just as much a woman as any woman (just like you!). i deserve dresses and skits and lace and silk. i deserve to be feminine.

the freedom i am discovering in bottomless self-love and self-acceptance cannot be compared to any single thing. freedom for the soul rarely can compare to much.

namaste

zoe

(p.s: i bought a sweet little hat today!

yes, i do feel girly in it!)