As I reflect on my life at 37, I can’t help but think about how I once perceived this age—like it was the beginning of the end. In my mind, thirty-seven was the point where fun faded, and Spanx became a necessary accessory. I wasn’t particularly excited about turning 37; the years seemed to fly by faster than I could have imagined. Shaila, do you know how many months make up 37 years? A staggering 444 months! And out of those, how many times have I felt truly content with my reflection? Zero. Not. One.
How does that even happen? Honestly, I’m not sure what to say. I remember a fleeting moment in the summer before fourth grade when I felt somewhat okay with myself, especially in that cool denim jacket your grandparents gifted me. But other than that brief period, I’ve always struggled with self-acceptance.
Growing up, I longed for sleek, straight hair and wished I looked like my lighter-skinned friends. By high school, I tried to embrace my curls, but that acceptance lasted all of two minutes. The rest of my high school years were spent wishing for a taller, thinner frame—prettier and less “meaty.”
In my twenties, I scrutinized my thighs, my waist, and my arms—none of which ever seemed “right.” And as I entered my thirties, the self-criticism grew even more intense. Suddenly, new areas to “improve” emerged, with conversations around procedures like vaginal rejuvenation popping up post-childbirth. I remember thinking, “Oh great! Just what I needed—another thing to fix.” Yes, Shaila, apparently some women are deemed “pretty,” while others are not. That’s the world we live in, sweetheart.
Despite knowing how distorted these beauty standards are, I’ve bought into them anyway—though I promise I haven’t used your college fund for any surgeries… not yet, anyway. The reality is, since I was 15, there hasn’t been a single day when I thought, “My weight is perfect. I look flawless.” Not even once have I escaped the mental comparisons to other women regarding my size or looks.
As I sit here today, I realize just how much time I’ve wasted—so much time wishing to be someone, anyone, but myself. And that thought saddens me deeply. If I could turn back time, I’d shake myself and shout, “Love THIS! Enjoy THIS moment! Life moves quickly. You look great—really great! But even if you didn’t, who cares?!”
But here’s the kicker: I need to shake myself awake today. Because I’m still struggling to bridge the gap between these unrealistic expectations and the acceptance of my true self. What kind of message does that send to you, my dear daughter? Each day, I tell you how perfect you are, how beautiful your heart and mind are. But how can I expect you to believe me when I haven’t taken a moment in all these years to believe in myself? Not once in 37 years.
There are so many messages I communicate to you daily, yet one that’s never been conveyed is that your mother feels comfortable in her own skin. Instead, the narrative has always been about needing to change, but don’t worry! I’m working on it. But the truth? I never seem to get there. It feels like a race that never ends, and I need to stop running it—for both our sakes.
Love,
Mommy
For more insights and reflections, check out this blog post too! And if you’re interested in at-home insemination options, MakeAMom offers excellent syringe kits. For additional resources on pregnancy and home insemination, Hopkins Medicine is an invaluable source.
In summary, the journey towards body acceptance is fraught with challenges and societal pressures. It’s essential to recognize and embrace our individuality while sending positive messages to the next generation.
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