When I was eight years old with pigtails and a pink Jansport backpack bouncing as I rushed toward my third-grade classroom every morning, I was surrounded by support systems begging me to understand and respect myself.
The sweet little third-grade girl with a lifetime ahead of her who thought she would never do anything wrong. Who thought high school was a million years away. Who thought boys had cooties. That little girl was constantly reminded to love herself. At the naive age of eight, with my whole life ahead of me, I could only think “Who doesn’t?” But now, ten years later, if you reminded me to love myself I could only think, “Who does?”.
I am not perfect. It is okay to not be perfect by society's glossy Vogue magazine textbook definition of perfection. Most of us are not 5’10, with a perfect tan, flawless skin, and legs shaped like straws. I personally have spent a lot of time wishing to myself that I could be that human being who wakes up gorgeous and falls asleep gorgeous with the metabolism that works faster than I can finish half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s but I am not. I am a different kind of gorgeous.
My legs are not thin as straws but I praise them every day for allowing me to push the limits of the human respiratory system as my sneakers pad down River Road adding miles upon miles to the calves that have been through two half marathons and four seasons of high school cross country. My legs have given me the gift of being able to wake up and run every single day when I know somewhere in the world there is someone who wishes they could do the same but have suffered something in their life that prohibits them from doing so. There have been moments in my life that I needed to realize how perfect my legs are for me.
There are people in this world who hate the shape and color of their eyes. But there are other people who cannot see. Who are blind. Your eyes get to take in the most exquisite sunsets, bleeding prodigiously through the night sky. You see the world in the most captivating ways. Do not wish for any other eyes. Your eyes are perfect. Do not wish for any other eyes. You are wasting time when you could be living. Do not wish to have any other body but your very own. Treat the body you've been given the right way. Eat happy foods that make you feel good. Eat fruit and vegetables and protein and ice cream every now and then because it is okay to splurge. Exercise because it creates endorphins to start your morning or release stress.
What would that eight-year-old little girl with the pigtails say if she saw you hating yourself? How would she feel if she knew you grew up into someone who was missing out on life to count calories and wish to be someone that she is not. You must love yourself before you love others. You must trust yourself before you trust others. You must know yourself and the eight-year-old inside of you before you know others.
One day this body of yours, the one both society and you yourself has spent time tearing down, the one that is perfect for you, will create a miracle in your first son or daughter. When the nurse hands that little pink baby to you in the hospital and he or she blinks open those adoring eyes you will truly understand how perfect your body really is. For you. And for the sweet baby in your arms. The one who wouldn’t be blinking and breathing and being without the legs and arms and eyes and nose you spent hours of your life wishing you did not have. You need to love who you were born on this earth to be first. Before you love your child or husband or wife or anyone else. You must love you.
We must find someone who loves the bones in our bodies and the skin that we live in. Someone who can see the oceans or forests or universe trapped in our eyes. Someone who traces the lines on our palms. Someone who allows us to accept and love ourselves first. For exactly who we are. It is okay to learn about who you are. To find and grow into yourself.To figure out what inspires you. To understand your own stunning clarityTo not be torn down by anything you are “supposed” to be. And when you meet the person who makes you lose your mind and makes your cells dance and knocks the wind out of you, you will be so sure that they are right. Because you will be so sure of yourself. The eight-year-old little girl inside of you will be so content with who you’ve become. Not a number on a scale or a dress size or the color of your hair or shape of your eyes but by the captivating, honest, soul smashingly beautiful love that you have inside your heart for you.
