When it comes to me in my skin, I have two main thought patterns. My obvious favorite is when I look and find the beauty, strengths, and abilities I possess. Duh? Right? Acceptance and grace, it always feels good. Never have I felt this more strongly than after giving birth. I floated around postpartum feeling like a kickass queen: “LOOK at what my body did!” Then there’s the other thought pattern, one of disgust and disapproval. Viewing my body as something that needs to be above all else, visually and socially acceptable. Deep smile lines, saggy/flabby thighs, small hooded eyes… unacceptable. I would do everything in my power to change them– to “fix” them– and believed that I could not be acceptable as a whole until these grievances could be rectified.
I really like to swing the full spectrum of emotions, don’t I?
The older I get the less I care on what society has in mind for us women. However, I am and forever will be a recovering perfectionist. Sometimes that drive toward perfection takes over, and I can become obsessed about this, that, and the other thing. But more times than not I try to appreciate my body/face/self for what it is. Mine. Healthy. Capable.
Never in a million years would I imagine myself willingly taking self-portraits WEEKLY much less to find such creativity and inspiration in them. Choosing to let ideas just happen, and to be curious without expectations. I do not love every picture I take, but I don’t love every picture I take of anyone. Why should I be any different? I know women find it uncomfortable to put themselves in front of the camera. But I posit that if we bump up against ourselves time and again in pictures or otherwise, and we view them with the framework of seeing all that we are versus all that we are not we might begin to like what we see a whole lot more. And nothing has changed but our minds.