It’s ok. I buy it. I have wrestled my entire life with accepting my body. I still do, especially after having three kids. I’ve been big. I’ve been small. I’ve been unhealthy. And being bombarded constantly with images, young and old, rich and poor, whose claim to beauty is found in the planes of bone and angles of concave flesh obviously hasn’t helped.
I have no special answer that will magically make anyone love what they see in the mirror, or suddenly fit into those size 4 jeans. I see flaws when I look in the mirror, and not much else. I doubt that will ever change much.
I recognize that I am not my body, though. In terms of soul and eternity and longevity of being I’m not really sure what I believe, but I know that something is inside me that is more than the measurement of my waist or my bra or the shine and luster of my hair.
And in that aspect, I wish I were more. I wish I could be an old soul with wisdom and patience. I wish that the Zen of maturity followed me around effortlessly and that determination and perseverance were second nature. I wish that grace and forgiveness and charm oozed from my pores and that quiet confidence could just be part of what people thought of when they heard my name.
Nothing I do on the outside will alter me on the very basest of levels. And that’s why sometimes I wonder if I’m enough.