The Education of My Body: Childhood to Motherhood

I look at myself in the mirror-- everyday. Sometimes, I look with intention, examining everything from the hair on my big toes to the postpartum-halo that juts in chaos. Sometimes, I notice my reflection and think nothing about the image. Admittedly, I look at the bodies all around me and sometimes I compare myself to what I see; sometimes I simply admire, releasing any thought to compare. I’ve been in my body for nearly 39 years and like any relationship that spans decades, we’ve experienced so much, we’ve been angry, we’ve been happy, we’ve been defeated, confused, powerful, shamed and forgiving-- together.

The relationship with your body starts immediately as we discover our toes, fingers, and tongue. We learn to walk and learn how to use our voice. The discovering and learning is ongoing because our body evolves, forced to change, forced to be flexible, and understanding. For me, being in my body has been filled with challenges; those challenges have been exacerbated by the noise of family and society. I sit here and easily recall the moment I was told, “Yeah, you’re bigger than me but at least you have pretty green eyes.” Or, “Are you sure you want the sour cream with your burrito?” Or the time as a teen I had carefully applied a series of shimmering shadows complimented with a bold-black liner, walking into the kitchen greeted with, “What the fuck happened to your face?” Like I said-- a lot of noise.

Thankfully I’m living through a shift in society; although, at times it feels like I’ve been water-boarded into accepting my body. Accepting my body sounds fucking great; to stand in front of a mirror or another human with no insecurities, just fully loving everything I see, being confident with everything they’ll see is the goal and I’m nearly there-- most days. I would be full of bullshit if I said it was an easy victory; the battle of appreciating my body has been bloody round after bloody round, going toe-to-toe with an infinite number of challengers. Sometimes my hand is lifted in success. It’s a crazy thing-- my body because it doesn't exist in a vacuum and that’s the really unfair part, my body exists in a world with other bodies that have so many thoughts, feelings, and opinions. Family is the first to nip and tuck at your body image, sculpting the relationship you will have with your body– your body. And as we know, a harmless intention can cause irrevocable harm. For example, I recall a memory from my early years of puberty:

My little sister and I often showered together. During one of our final showers together she, an inquisitive pre-pubescent human, pointed to my crotch, “Umm, Nicole, you’re still dirty, there’s dirt on your privates!” Of course, completely uncomfortable in my own skin, I was mortified, “It’s not dirt, it’s hair.” I didn’t want to shower with her again; and in fact, she didn't shower for a while, which was a whole thing until my mom threatened (and maybe did) to hang my sister’s dirty underwear outside of our house.

Shame and fear were the parenting tools of my childhood; these tools were used for everything. Growing up, my parents were celebrated for their looks, complimented by my friends; and perhaps, they were the subject of teen crushes. My mom would drop me off at a party and the guys would invite her to stay; once I was of age, bartenders or servers would fawn over her youth and beauty often remarking, “What?! That’s your daughter? You look too young to have that old of a daughter. I thought you were sisters.” They didn’t stop there, turning to me, “You're so lucky to have her as your mom.” Over and over again she was lifted up and I was left asking: Was I less desirable, less pretty, less liked? Was I old looking? Was I really lucky to have a beautiful mom

I was taught that long hair was attractive and preferable for men. I was taught that my looks were a tool to be used to my advantage. I was implicitly taught that women were objects to be gazed at, judged, critiqued, and reviewed. I was encouraged to diet, track my weight, and my body measurements. I was told when I was gaining weight. I was teased for my hairy arms. I received feedback on my meal choices. I was given tips and tricks on how to lose weight, suggesting “Nicole just stop drinking soda and you will lose weight.” I didn’t drink fucking soda. This was the noise from my family.

Motherhood--without a doubt-- has had the most impact on the ongoing relationship of me and my body, recorded by the tangible traces left behind and in the spiritual connection I have with her. I have done the work to break the cycle. I’m not perfect but I’m better to myself and to my team of girls. I embrace all of my parts, all of the things I see with kindness, love, and fucking awe.

As a mom I yield a profound power and I actively choose to put down the scalpel of body shame; my Kid the First came to me the other day, with a conglomerate look of wonder and confusion, “Mama, something is on my big toe… a hair.” She paused, waiting for my response and I flashback to the moments in my own childhood and I squashed down the pain, responding, “What?! That’s awesome, your body is growing and changing as it should. And guess what?? I have hairs on my big toes too, wanna see?” With an infectious giggle, through a big smile she squealed, “You do? Yes!!!”