A Love Letter to My 12-Year-Old Self (And My Body)
Dear 12-Year-Old Me: You Were Never the Problem
I was going through some of my old diaries at mum's place this week when I came across this entry.
“I should really stop eating so much junk food! I wish I was skinny like everyone else, it’s not fair! I hate being fat! I really have to go on a diet now that it is summer and I have to fit into my bikini. Don’t want a fat stomach poking out now do we!”
Despite the glittery pens and the highlight of mum and I seeing Legally Blonde for the first time. This entry broke my heart a little.
Dear readers… I was TWELVE.
TWELVE.
That is how young we are taught to hate our bodies. Our bodies which are practically still that of a child, slowly growing and changing, just starting to form into that of an adult.
At what age do we lose the effortless ease and love we feel being in our bodies as babies and toddlers, and when does it transform into this?
I distinctly remember these feelings following me all throughout high school. Even though I was not by any means overweight I was “curvy” and not as skinny as all of my skinny friends, so I always felt like the “fat” one. I was playing sports almost every single day of the week, running in the mornings, and eating better than most teenagers. But I was never good enough, never skinny enough and I was so insecure about my body that I remember not even wanting to wear short shorts because I thought my thighs were “too big”. I spent my pre-teen years in baggy board shorts that used to chafe the skin off my inner thighs until they were bleeding. Because pain was better than the shame my thighs carried in togs.
Me, age 12, in the board shorts I never took off.
Me, age 14, fit and healthy, but still never skinny enough. Board shorts still on.
I look back and think how many years of my life I wasted, missing out on life because of the shame I felt in my body? How many thousands of dollars have been spent on useless body products which promised to finally make me perfect? How many opportunities did I miss out on for not feeling comfortable enough to say yes? How many people did I let treat me badly because I thought that was all I was worth? How did my own body issues affect the next generation of women? My little sister? How much of my time did I spend worrying about normal rolls of fat when I could have been studying, dancing, making art, or doing anything else productive with my brain?
I grew up in the 90s and early 2000s. It was the era of ‘heroin chic’. Kate Moss and her bony body was queen, anyone who was above a size 8 was fat. Actresses and singers were repeatedly ridiculed for putting on weight, being publicly compared to whales in every trashy women’s magazine. Fat jokes were commonplace, even when the woman was obviously not fat (Bridget Jones anyone?), and there were no healthy representations of curvy or plus size women to be found anywhere. Images of women who were grossly underweight reigned supreme on any fashion catwalk. Being skinny was the only way to be a cool-girl. Everyone knew it. And I wanted to be one of those girls.
I wanted to be one of those girls because I had been convinced that life would be better if I were that skinny. I would be more popular, boys would like me more, I would look good in all the clothes I wore. Life would be easier, people would be kinder. I wouldn’t be the fat girl anymore. That’s what all the movies, tv shows and magazines told me anyway.
Kate Moss- Who has clearly never tried cheesecake.
I look back at this time filled with immense sadness for my little self. But I also feel an immense sense of gratitude to see how far I have come. Of course I still have some pretty deeply ingrained self esteem issues when it comes to how I look, especially since becoming sick and putting on a large amount of weight from the medication which is currently helping me live with less pain. I still have days where I just feel awful, I still get frustrated when my clothes don’t fit, I still get frustrated when I can’t find anything in my size, I still look down at my bloated stomach and feel a slight sense of disgust. But- those feelings do not rule my life anymore. I can live with them and more importantly I can recognise where they come from.
I will wear the short shorts and let my round strong thighs stand out like trunks of an old tree. I will wear a dress that shows the outline of my bloated puku because I’m not going to put myself in more pain by wearing tummy tightening undies. I will ignore the adverts that have nothing but slim, white, tall, photoshopped women in them and instead embrace the brands that have chosen to be realistic and inclusive with their marketing. I can see the beauty in others with bodies like mine, in bodies larger than mine, more disabled than mine, hairier than more “imperfect” than mine.
I am a 30 something year old woman who has faced immense trauma, mental health issues, physical health issues, surgeries, medication trials, loss, grief and pain. I am also a 30 something year old woman who has lived an incredibly full and exciting life, putting my body in sometimes dangerous situations, travelling the world, eating everything that came on my plate, drinking cocktails in fancy bars, drinking wine and nibbling on cheese with my best friends on gorgeous summer evenings. I have tanned, I have smoked, I have taken drugs, I have eaten carbs and fat and salads and vegetables from my garden. I have done 5 day hikes through the bush, backpacked solo through developing countries and said yes to every opportunity that has come my way. My body is a representation of my life, every hard and beautiful part of it. It is me. Why should I hate something that is me?
Image by David Dunham.
At home in Bethells beach.
And at home in my body.
Who profits from that?
Because it certainly isn’t me.
My body has done nothing wrong. It deserves no hate.
My body deserves love, kindness and respect just like every other part of me. Just like I would treat the bodies of my friends and family. Just like when I was a chubby, happy, rolly polly little baby. Just like I should have been treating myself as a brainwashed, insecure 12 year old wondering what she had done wrong to be stuck in such a “wrong’ body.
We need to do better so that the next generation of children can grow up focusing not on what’s “wrong” with their bodies, but what is right in their values, morals, ethics, and the way they treat others.
They deserve to feel happy and secure in whatever kind of body they happen to exist in.
And so do you x