How Meditation Changed the Way I Saw My Body

Nov 25

When I was 19, a few boys discussed my body in the comments section of my profile picture.

Wow she’s a 10, a solid 10.
No way, she’s a 7 tops… with makeup on.
Look at those tits! She’s a 9 no matter what her face looks like.

I blinked at the screen, digging my nails into the flesh of my thighs. I threw away my shorts. I bought low-cut tops to lure eyes to my best—and only—asset. I covered my bare face with the protective mask of creams, powders, and paints. I stayed home on Saturday nights if my skin blemished red with imperfections.

I ate cake at parties and then excused myself to the bathroom. I swallowed pills that churned my stomach and warped my voice into a cartoonish speed. I wove around sticky machines in gyms like a house cat slinking between legs.

…

Around the time I turned 30, someone DM'ed me a picture of myself. It wasn’t meant for my eyes, but I saw it before they deleted it. I could feel their panicked shame curling around the phone from across the ether. But the damage was done—I’d already read the words:

omg look how fat she got!!

My first thought was to run to the kitchen and throw away the chocolate bar in the cupboard and the stick of salted butter in my fridge. Like cigarettes, I wanted to dump the vices from my cabinet down the toilet, leaving behind only broccoli florets and the diet pills I used to eat for breakfast.

I considered setting my alarm an hour earlier to get in more exercise, sacrificing even more of my precious sleep for another dose of self-improvement. I studied the photo for flaws—the fullness of my cheeks, the width of my arms, the peaks and valleys of a body I’ve tortured for 30 years.

I can be [xxx] pounds by Thanksgiving if I put my mind to it, I told myself.

But when I closed my eyes and conjured the photograph, I saw something unexpected: a genuine smile. A smile I hadn’t worn in a while. A smile my newly born nephew had placed on my face with his curious fingers.

I thought about all the work I’ve put into actually being healthy, both physically and mentally. I remembered the lines from a poem I’d written, and I repeated them to myself over and over:

In order to gain my mind’s freedom,
I had to sacrifice my bones.

If you know, you know. I think about my body daily. Hourly. Sometimes by the minute. Once these thoughts latch onto you, it takes a lot of fight to get them to pack their bags and leave.

…

I learned how to meditate for the first time last year.

Imagine your thoughts as clouds, my teacher said. Let them pass you by.

I looked inside my head and found darkness—gray, cemented shut. What I found there was scary. It was a place I’d never visited before, and in my core, I felt its energy pushing me away. Metal chains encircled a safe, locked and tucked in a corner. Signs hastily taped to the outside read: BEWARE, KEEP OUT, DON’T LOOK IN HERE!

That first time, I couldn’t manage the weight of control I’d been clinging to. I began to cry uncontrollably, sobbing big messy toddler tears.

But slowly, a release and calmness settled over me like a weighted blanket. The tears happen sometimes, my teacher said. You’re letting go.

…

Now, when I meditate, I walk along the folded pathways of my brain. The sky is blue. The walls are indigo. The glow around me is pink.

Along the path, I see myself at 8 years old, sitting cross-legged on the front lawn, picking dandelions. I hug her. I tell her she can be anything she wants to be when she grows up.

I see myself at 15, sitting in front of the bathroom mirror with a pair of scissors. I tell her that she’s smart, creative, kind, sensitive.

I see myself at 19, walking home alone, and I tell her to trust herself. I tell her that no is a full sentence. I tell her it’s not her fault.

I see myself at 25, driving down Highway 101. I cup her face in my hands. I tell her, It’s okay. I give her permission to set her world on fire.

I walk around the winding roads of my mind until I find all the versions of myself, giving them what they need to heal and to move on. And I’ll do this over and over and over again until they all know. Until they all believe what I’m saying is true.

…

I’m no longer interested in how people rank my body or beauty. I’m not interested in comments about weight, whether positive or negative.

I’m interested in how my body moves in tree pose. I’m interested in how my nephew rests perfectly on my hip when I carry him. I’m interested in how my lungs contract and my mind slows when I close my eyes and look inside.

I’m interested in how my body remembers. How it’s held on to memories for decades.

I’m interested in how my body heals. How it says thank you. How it communicates.