Beauty and Strength.

"You are beautiful. You are strong." 

I have heard these words a lot this week.  Compliments paid to me when I am helping someone with lab work or when I show up on the weekend to volunteer my time for an event.  Classmates ask me how I find the time to do everything, how I am strong enough to wake up before dawn every morning, even on my worst days.  How I never seem to let anyone know I am having a bad day. 

People believe that I am beautiful, happy, successful, and strong, but what do those even really mean.  What is beauty?  What is strength?

I don't feel beautiful, when my eyes rimmed with red and draped in purple. I don't feel strong when I break down in the middle of a classroom.  Beauty cannot be found in my hastily braided hair, and strength is not defined by hiding under the covers.

I am not beautiful.  I am not strong.  I am just a very good actress.

I keep a level head when people are counting on me, but I am put into a tailspin when I'm counting on myself to keep it together.  I try not to let people see me cry, I hide. That is not what I call strength.  I call that embarrassment, humiliation, weakness. Those are the words that come to mind when someone says nice things about me.  I smile at their ignorance about who I really am.  I never let the compliments sink in.

I smile. I work. I get the job done, but I'm crumbling.

To me, beauty means I am hiding behind God-given curls, mascara, and anything that will make it look like I got more than five hours of sleep.
To me, strength means I am hiding behind a smile and a convincing "I'm great."

I am not complimented by beauty or strength, because I see them for what they really are.  They are really just hiding.

So I am not beautiful, I am not strong.

I know these words aren't inspiring, I wish I could come up with some that are.  But today, as I am writing this, I look on in envy of those who seem to have their lives all together.

The ones who aren't crying in the middle of class.
The ones who are better at relationships.
The ones who don't need makeup to make them look flawless.

Then I realize, they are hiding too.  Just in a different way.  They don't struggle with everything that I do, but they have their own struggles they are hiding from the world.

So today, this post is to let any of you who feels crushed and weak know that you are not alone.  You are not the only one, you are not a bad person for crumbling, and it is okay to ask for help.  It is okay to just break down and need a hug, a bag of chocolate, and a day off every once and a while. And I promise you, you will be beautiful and strong again soon. 

I Have Decided...

I have decided something. I have decided to stop hating myself.  I have decided that staring at myself in the mirror, and picking myself apart, wasn't worth it anymore.  

I'm not sure when I started hating my body. I know I was young, maybe seven or eight.  I was always bigger than the other girls, and most of the boys.   I was taller and thicker.   I remember being jealous of the small girls cause they could run faster than me and crawl through smaller spaces on the playground without getting stuck.  I was never a pudgy child.  Ever.  I have never been classified as overweight.  Honestly, throughout all my life, I have been a completely healthy body weight.  But I remember being able to give piggy back rides to my brothers, and never being able to get one because I was too heavy for them.  Both my brothers have the build that most girls would kill for, tall and slim.  And when I say tall... I mean tall.  My oldest brother is just about 6' 5" and only weighs about 180 something pounds... if that.  My younger brother is hot on his trail at about 6' 2" and he's not even eighteen yet.  Both are skinny, and athletic.  

I am 5' 9".  I weigh 153 pounds.  I am about four inches taller than the national average and about fifteen pounds lighter.  And yet, there is always the lingering thought it my mind, that if I could just lose about seven pounds, life would be better.  I would look better in clothes, I wouldn't be embarrassed to wear a two piece swimsuit this summer.  I wouldn't have to worry about whether or not I was too fat to be attractive.

My arms are too flabby. My legs are too big around.  My hips have too much fat around them.  My chin is too fat.  My cheeks are too round.  My nose is too wide.  My hands are too big and are scarred.  My calves are curved funny.  My knees are oddly shaped and scarred.  My chest is too small.  My butt is about the only thing on me that won't gain any weight.   My hair is perpetually frizzy and not red enough.  My shoulders are too broad. 

These are the things that I say to myself when I get out of the shower ever morning.  The things I think when I look at myself in a sports bra, when I'm heading to the gym, before I throw on a baggy shirt to cover up my "ugly" self.  

There is only a handful of people who know the things I hate about myself.  To the rest of the world, I love my size.  I am athletic, love food, and never feel self-conscious about the clothes that I wear.   I have never admitted these things in such a public forum.  

Last night, I got back from the gym and just stood in front of the mirror for about ten minutes.  I went over every part of me that I hated, and how I could make it better, or rather, how I was making it worse.  As I laid in bed, I thought of how my life would be better if I were smaller.  I glanced up a list of goals that I made at the beginning of the quarter, reminding me of the promises I made for when I come home in June.  I promised I would be skinny, that I would be a new person.  I fell asleep hating myself, because I am never going to reach those goals. 

Today I ran across a chapter in Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist, that said something that made me want to write this post.  She apologized to her body.  Apologized for all the hate she had cast towards it.  Thanking her body for making a good home for her growing baby, and for not giving up on her when she had given up on it.  I did that today...  I apologized for filling my mind with poisonous thoughts about the rest of my body.  I said sorry for thinking so poorly of it when it does so much for me everyday.  I apologized to God too.  He gave me this body.  A good body.  One that has carried me thought nineteen years without injury or defect.  One that will someday make a home for my own growing family.  

Today I chose not to hate anymore.  Not to feel bad about myself.  To take that impossible list of goals off my wall that has been haunting me for two months.  To not apologize to people about not being the perfect skinny girl I promised I would be when I came home in June. 

When I come home in June, I will be 153 pounds.  I will wear the same pant size I did when I left.  I will not be amazingly skinny, and have six pack abs.  I will have my curved hips (to prove that I am no longer a little girl), scarred hands and knees (to prove that I have done something with myself and wasn't perfect), I will freckles all over my round smiling cheeks and wide wrinkled nose (to prove that sun makes me happy).  

The war with myself isn't over, but I won the battle today. 

Cause this seems like one of those blog posts you add a selfie to.