The never-ending journey of learning the art of self-love
It’s easy to say that I love myself. And I do. At least much more than I did before. And I hope tomorrow that love and respect will have grown a little more. Baby steps to a more loved and more appreciated version of myself.
It’s a funny thing, reflections. Both in the mind and in the mirror. They are always so dirty for me. Smudges of doubt and trauma smearing what maybe, might be something beautiful?
I’ve been scrubbing those literal and figurative mirrors my whole life. And now in my 40s, I laugh at my reflection sometimes. The doughy middle and sagging, well, everything. I laugh because I know the younger version of me would just die if she knew I looked like this.
When I was younger, there were no doughy middles and the only thing sagging was my self-esteem. But I refused to see anything but ugly. Not thin enough. Not pretty enough. Too much acne. Too small breasts. Too large breasts! Crooked teeth. Straight teeth but not white enough!
I refused to see anything good about myself. Ever. Even worse, I refused to even dream anything good about myself. It’s a sad realization on some days that I started to hate myself so young. And that it took so very long for me to start learning to try and let go of wishing to be anything or anyone other than who I am.
I’ve taken great strides to learn to embrace my aging, constantly evolving, imperfect self. There are many days that I look in the mirror and genuinely like what I see. I’ll give myself a wink and a thumbs up and parade into my day feeling confident and beautiful. And just so very happy to be me.
BUT I’m not going to lie to you or myself. Because there is still so much to conquer. I still cringe when my husband takes a photo of me and shares it with me. He’ll say, “My beautiful wife! I love you.” But inside, the small, damaged beast that refuses to be evicted from my soul will whisper to me, how could he really love such a hideous pig like you!
I wish I could say that it wasn’t true. That I didn’t sometimes still think about myself that way. And I try to sluff it off as self-deprecating humor. Because somehow that makes my own warped reflection a little easier to stomach. But the pictures and surprising reflections in glass when I’m out shopping and see someone that surely isn’t me but then I realize that it is and I just want to curl up into a ball and hide my beastly self away.
Those moments still sometimes get me.
I try to give myself grace to have bad days. I’m human, after all. And to remember to keep looking at myself in the mirror. Remember that 20 years from now I will look back at this moment and want to slap myself. Because I didn’t appreciate how beautiful I was at that moment. That 63, 83, and 103 will look and feel very different. Just like 43 looks and feels very different from 23.
And when I have a bad moment, I force myself to practice self-love. To find something about myself — my even toes, my long eyelashes, my sense of humor, my ability to make amazing cappuccinos, the way I make my husband laugh so hard he snorts — that I can smile at and be grateful for. Something that I can say is a beautiful thing about me.
Hopefully, the bad days keep disappearing, so that one day I won’t mind what that picture or reflection looks like so much. It’s okay to look at yourself and see things you want to improve. But it’s another thing entirely to look at yourself and not think you are worthy of being seen even with your own two eyes.
I hope each of you sees nothing but beauty when you look at your reflection too. Because that is what we are all. Beautiful.
Lisa M. Gott 