As I write this at 37 years old, I can’t help but reflect on the perceptions I once had about aging. There was a time when I thought turning 37 meant entering the twilight of my youth, where fun seemed to dwindle and clothes like Spanx became a necessity. Honestly, I wasn’t looking forward to this milestone, and it arrived faster than I anticipated.
Shaila, do you realize there are 444 months in 37 years? Yes, that’s a significant amount of time. Out of those 444 months, can you guess how many times I felt truly satisfied with my reflection? Zero. Not one single moment.
How does that happen? It’s a question I often ponder, sweetie. I remember a fleeting summer before fourth grade when I felt somewhat okay about myself—thanks to that awesome denim jacket your Nana and Nani gifted me from Sears. Beyond that, I never really appreciated what I saw in the mirror.
When I was younger, I envied my friends with shiny, straight hair and wished I looked more like them—essentially, I wanted to be white. By high school, I tried to embrace my curls—if only for a moment. However, I spent those four years longing to be taller, thinner, and prettier.
In my twenties, I fixated on my thighs being too big, my waist not small enough, and my arms never meeting my expectations. Fast forward to my thirties, and things had only worsened. New beauty standards emerged, and some women even discussed surgeries like vaginal rejuvenation post-childbirth. I looked down one day and thought, “Oh great! Another thing to worry about!”
Yes, Shaila, apparently there are “pretty” and “not-so-pretty” standards in our society. Despite knowing how flawed this mindset is, I’ve succumbed to it. Rest assured, I haven’t spent your college fund on any procedures—not yet, anyway.
Since I was 15, there hasn’t been a single day where I’ve thought, “My weight is just right. I look perfect.” Not one day has passed without me comparing myself to another woman regarding size or looks. NOT. ONE. SINGLE. DAY.
Realizing this as I sit here at 37, with a 5.5-year-old daughter, I recognize how much precious time I’ve wasted. So much time wishing to be someone else. Excuse my language, sweetheart, but it’s incredibly disheartening.
I find myself wishing I could rewind and shake my younger self, urging, “Love THIS! Enjoy THIS moment! Time flies. You look great—DAMN great. And even if you didn’t? Who cares?!”
But here’s the kicker: I need that same shake-up right now. I’m still caught in the struggle between unrealistic expectations and embracing who I am. What message does that send you, my only daughter? I tell you daily how wonderful you are—how beautiful your heart, mind, and spirit are. Yet, I’ve never truly believed those words for myself, not even once in 13,510 days.
I send you countless messages every day, but one I’ve never conveyed is that Mommy feels comfortable in her own skin. Instead, the message has always been about change—“I’m working on it!”—but I never seem to arrive at that destination. It’s a never-ending race, and it’s time for me to stop running. For your sake and mine.
Love,
Mommy
This article was originally published on June 17, 2012.
As a mother, my journey of self-acceptance is ongoing, but I hope to teach you the importance of loving yourself just as you are. For anyone interested in exploring options like home insemination, check out this resource on at-home insemination kits or visit this link for additional fertility services.
Summary:
This personal reflection explores the journey of body acceptance and the struggle with self-image over the years. It acknowledges the unrealistic beauty standards that persist in society and emphasizes the importance of self-love, especially for the sake of future generations.
Keyphrase: body acceptance journey
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