Tag Archives: self-love

End-of-Year Review

… I just checked my published posts, and it’s been a year since I’ve posted anything.

Time flies!

A lot has happened that I’ve not shared, but I’ve been writing, as always and scribbling down my ideas for business, for my life, for my home and of course, my soul.

The energy to create is always around me. From the child who wrote and coloured in the pages of her poems, to the frantic adulter who races through life from one task on the to-do list to next. However, the flurry of ideas leads to decision fatigue, and inevitably procrastination sets in.

I know this is true for many of my friends and family whose primary jobs are in the creative industry or the arts. The weight of these ideas and bringing them to fruition feels so heavy. Where do I start? Which resonates most deeply with me? Will people think it’s dumb? This cycle of wanting to do, getting ideas for actions, making lists and never completing them led me to therapy.

“To what extent are you a third wheel in your life?”

My Therapist

I was so sick of being stuck. I wanted to push through, but I felt so lonely. Everything feels overwhelming, when you don’t want to sit in feelings of pity, or worrying if you’re good enough. You want rainbows and sunshine, but you feel sad about life and how little you’ve achieved, so I switched on my screen and answered the question “What brings you to Therapy?”.

Within a few sessions of listening, he asked me a question I was taken aback by. “To what extent are you a third wheel in your life”. I instantly thought ‘I beg your pardon, me – a third wheel!’. I shuddered at the thought, and then I paused.

This comment was said in Spring and it has stayed with me ever since. The truth of his evaluation resounded in my head and the reverberations led to me to reflect on myself, my dreams, and my place in the world. If I’m honest I think it woke me up. Parts of me that felt too painful, too numb, too harsh to welcome, I now accept wholeheartedly.

It’s only through this acceptance that I was able to see the unhealed parts of me. I thought I was healed, I thought I had burned all the mouldy leftovers from relationships and unlived dreams. Haha! Aren’t we human beings funny. Honestly, I don’t believe we are ever fully healed, and I’d like to speak to whoever started that rumour.

What I’ve learnt is that healing is a process, and each day I try to understand myself better. I show myself grace and offer compassion to those around me. Minus the annoying people in the queue in Lidl, and my parent’s clutter. Sorry, I’m not perfect and I don’t care to be. I’m making mistakes, getting stuff wrong, and even hurting people’s feelings – not on purpose, of course. But ‘Ah so it go sometimes’, it is life. I’m growing and I’m doing the stuff that feeds my soul.

Trying and failing to take a picture of a butterfly. Posting the reel that I think is too long. Buying the top I really want, that’s 20 quid over budget. Scribbling my latest idea for bra design down at 3AM. Why, you may ask, are these things meaningful? I have no idea, I’m no guru. However, I will say since doing the little ideas that once seemed insignificant, since starting therapy and having a few tough love convos, I’m much lighter. I’m travelling, I’m writing, I’m a London Passista and I have a sewing plan. It pains me with cringe to say this, but …

Watch this space!

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What if I saw women who looked like me growing up?

￡12.50 was my weekly pocket money, and with that was my first independent steps toward Womanhood – my magazines.

I would buy the monthly editions of ‘Elle’, ’Vogue’, and ‘Sugar’ (which changed to ‘Cosmopolitan‘, as I grew older). These editorials felt like my lifeline. A cry away from the drab shrubbery of suburbia, a catapult into a world filled with Manolo Blahnik, Versace and Van Cleef. This intensely glamorous oasis was full of colour and creativity. It was an escape for pre-teen me. However, other than the occasional person of colour, usually from Naomi Campbell or Liya Kebede, no one looked like me, especially not with my body type.

In the early 2000s, you would be lucky to see a fuller lip in an advert, let alone a fuller bust or body. I felt so outside the sphere of beauty. There was no schema for a young black girl in London with big thighs and bigger boobs. The biggest store in my school was Tammy Girl, and I remember harassing my mum to take me there to get a pair of jeans. I was so excited! Already being named called for being the “fat”, “big boobed” girl, I was bursting at the seams to blend in with peers, at least in the arena of clothing. Well, “bursting at the seams’ was the correct phrase, coz that was my experience. At the time, I was a UK size 12 waist… but not on this high street, and not with my thighs!

Jesus and I wept that day. After being held in the changing room with my mum whilst the sales assistant ran back and forth, attempting to discover a jean that would mircaculously fit my evidently “out of this world” sized legs. This was sad and depressing time before stretch jeans. That day I went from Age 14 Tammy Girl to an Adult size 22! The size 22 was the only size that fit my thigh, but of course, it was then dropping off my size 12 waist. I was devasted! To be fair to my mum, so was she. Her face embodied all the sadness I tried to hide as she said, “We’ll try again next weekend’.

I’d like to say this was a one-off experience, but trust and believe it was the common thread of my body journey and my experience with high street shopping until I lost weight at 16. Even at my smallest (an all-over UK size 12)in the early 2010s, there was H&M with their old horrendous grading which had me buy a UK 20, and my friend (a UK 8) buy a UK 14.

So much of my worth came from how my body matched the status quo. How tall should a woman be? Should I relax my hair? What size should a black girl be to be desired by her male counterparts? Why can I find jeans easily in America? How small are your feet supposed to be? All these notions were fuelled by my own experiences, but also, what I had seen in fashion and lifestyle magazines.

They were filled with white women, barely an UK8, with Gisele Bündchen and Hedi Klum revered as the hallmark for “curvy”. The options for a size 12-14 girl being seen as beautiful seemed an impossible feat. Even in popular culture, the Pop Singers Cassie and Britney were seen as hot girls in high school, and neither of them looked like me.

Now flash forward to today, the drive and rise of plus-size models, the campaigns against eating disorders, and the wave of fuller-bodied influencers have all led to vast changes in editorials and fashion. I was blown away by the latest British Vogue cover entitled, “The New Supers“. This April edition sees not one but three Supermodels representing a range of ethnicities and sizes beyond a UK8. They are being called the new supermodels!

Paloma Elsesser, Precious Lee and Jill Kortleve appear on this April's British Vogue Cover, with a colourful scarf dangled over the right bottom corner.
Paloma Elsesser, Precious Lee and Jill Kortleve appear on this April’s British Vogue Cover.

My inner child cries for joy but, also for the pain I felt growing up. That time of my life was so much about my protection. I was bullied at school, so I cared a lot about what others thought of me, although I tried my best to hide it. Intelligence and wit were my armour, but I would go home and cry most days after school. I spent a lot of my time listening to music, and envisioning what my company would look like. I’d buy the fashion editorials and dream of my spreads being on the pages, cutting out the interesting bits. But how different would my teenage years have been if I got to see confident, strong, sexy women who looked like me?

I cannot fathom. The amount of time I spent looking in the mirror trying to eradicate the parts of me that now people train hard for in the gym or get surgery to achieve. I cannot begin to imagine what a childhood would have looked like without me trying to hide my breasts, or finding a pair of jeans that fit my waist and thighs.

So now I sit writing this, glimpsing across at the magazine cover after reading the article, and I smile. I smile for the little girl who felt so different from her peers, for all the girls who now get to see curvy women in media, and for the baby girls that will grow with broader ideas of what beautiful can be. This is the time when a 13-year girl can have a curvy figure, and find her jeans on ASOS or Pretty Little Thing or Fashion Nova. She can open a magazine and see people who look like her, and if she searches on Google or Tiktok for a size 12 she won’t just see weight loss images.

I feel the variety of images in mainstream media are not as far-reaching as they could be. There’s still a way to go to keep these images of women in the media frequently, but I am so pleased to be in a world where people are celebrating differences, not as aspirational, but just as being. We are glorious in all shapes, sizes, curves, and busts. Here’s to hoping many more years of inclusive fashion and beauty are to come.

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Just Do It!

There is a part of me that just checks out. Completely zones into this transcendental space. Free from time, commitments and obligations. For a second, everything stops, and numbness takes over. 

I used to fall into these moments like a comfort blanket – ready, warm and cosy. These moments would precipitate anxiety about my appearance and internal jitters when readying the war paint for social functions.

In these moments, I’m faced with all my imperfections. Once upon a time, that meant feeling ugly, thinking how I hated my enlarged pores, my nose, and that part of my hair that always tried to escape the eco styler. But I am pleased to say I have grown. 

So now, I say “why are my teeth not white”, “I forgot to thread my chin hairs”, and “no I can’t smile at the cute guy in the supermarket because I’m not sure he is as cute as I think he is,” because my vision is blurry. 

A few weeks ago, I had an epiphany, actually two! One, I realised even when I am sad, I still like the face I see in the mirror. I can look and my face and my tummy and say, “hey girl, you are gorgeous”. Two, most of my body hang-ups are all minor things that I can do something about if I wish. This thought process may have taken me the best part of 20 years, but we give thanks. 

I started to think of how much we rush around in todays society. Circling thoughts of our imperfections again and again. How often do we dream about what we could change? How often do we sit with the discomfort of these features and accept them? How much benefit would the change bring? I can easily list all the reasons why someone else should change, but when it comes to me, I often don’t get past the fantasy. 

Recently, in a YouTube rabbit hole of self-help by inspirational women, I nonchalantly glided into a TED Talk by Bevy Smith. In this post, she spoke about settling, her family guidance and being a late bloomer. She had been doing it for most of her life. What resonated for me was how she termed settling. It was not about taking on a bummy guy or being mediocre. She was successful, with vibrant life. It was about her journey to her truth and living an ambitious life in-line with her path. 

So amazing, right! I have this fantasy that I am running confidently up a hill, with my hair is in a bun with a smooth chin, then I awake from meditating on a beach with a warm, peaceful smile. Where is this girl? 

More importantly, this fantasy is totally grounded within the realms of reality, but it’s just not how I’ve chosen to live. Like Bevy, I’ve had the most amazing titbits of guidance throughout my life, but I’ve not been present or ready to receive it. 

My reception teacher made us recite, “There is no such word as can’t, there is nothing in the world I cannot do, if I only put my mind to it, I can achieve anything”. 

Recently, that has really sunk in. All these hang-ups are relative to my perception of myself and the life I wish to have. The incongruence is astounding.

I am looking for love, but struggling to see. 

I am spending at least 30 mins a day examining the hairs on my chin, wishing they would stop growing.

I am smiling less and less in pictures because, my teeth look visibly discoloured. 

My legs are stiff, heavy and walking feels like a concerted effort. 

Make it make sense! 

I have run many times in my life, and I live on a hill. I can start running again. My dentist has rung me three times for a hygienist appointment, but I have ignored every call. It is 2022. Laser treatment is thriving and safe for melanated skin. I have been prescribed glasses in the past I can get a checkup, which my workplace will reimburse. 

Okay, the first one will take a lot of effort, but it will be worth it, but the other three… As my dad would say, “I’m farming fart”! 

I think I was scared because of the relative cost of all the things I needed. In being scared, I did nothing, and so I was further away from the fantasy version of myself. The funny thing about fear is you think in avoiding those frightening situations you are safe, and nothing will change. But that’s not how humans are built. The more I freeze in fear, the more the fear increases. For example, I have been worried about my increased facial hair growth for 3 years, and it’s only attacked me more violently, with an average of 20-30 hairs per week, sticking out my chin. 

Well, enough is enough! I put on my war paint and I went to battle with myself. Self-care by force!

So now, I have a new pair of lenses, and a smooth chin following my second laser treatment. Teeth are on the list for next month, hehe.

It feels so much more lighter, everywhere… well except my bank balance. I am forever trying to avoid the clouds of depression, the grey skies of numbness are intense. Though I am that much stronger in the journey to align myself with my fantasy image, my truth and my heart. I’m actively working towards my best self, and that is so scary, but also so magical!

Let me know if you are on a quest for betterment, and how it’s going.

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Loving Yourself

The journey to self-love and body confidence has been long and arduous. 

Love is not just the number of likes for a beautiful picture, a perfectly ‘slayed’ face, or a transient state of happiness. 

There are peaks and troughs, and some days despite my love for myself, I still get caught on my hang-ups. The side of my belly that overhangs, my bunions, and the annoying hairs that always reappear on my chin. These are the not so good days. But I wouldn’t say bad, not anymore. 

There was a time when how I felt, or how others felt about my physical appearance, would make me lie in my bed for hours. I would cry on the floor and then pray for forgiveness for being so ungrateful & vacuous. But now, the bad days are never about my physical appearance. And I’m so proud!

There was once a time I couldn’t look in the mirror. I was terrified of an image that didn’t reassemble the idea of beauty I thought I needed to fit into. That didn’t include my nose, my skin, my blemishes, my unperky boobs, scars, bunions, and a messy silhouette. I looked at the images on ‘The Gram’, or the happy girls in the bars and restaurants I frequented and felt they represented everything I did not have. 

The perfectionist in me would like to tell you that my journey to loving myself originated with some good books and therapy, but that would be a lie. Books and therapy definitely helped, but my journey back to me started with a beau, (the feminist in me just departed). 

But I wanted to be truthful so that I could share a real journey, and say not all beautiful flowers start in a wonderful garden, some are found in a field of weeds and nettles. 

That was me a mess, a lost soul, unheard and unseen by the most important person, myself. But I met a guy from my past, who just got me. I didn’t need to have makeup on for him to say I was beautiful, and I didn’t need to dress up to be sexy. Bumping into him on my way it to work, and seeing his smile made my day. 

And those kind eyes, those words of comfort when I was so self-deprecating, was how I started to be kind to myself, and be present. When I’d say I look like a tramp, or talk about how fat I was getting. He would roll his eyes.

On one of my particularly self-loathing days, he asked me “why do you say these things about yourself”. “You are who you are, you’re not fat, you are you”… and some other stuff I can’t remember now, but my point was, he challenged me. I had to push aside my negative thoughts about myself and appraise these new positive ones. And this forced me to make new opinions about myself. 

You see by being negative about your body, you are often not grounded in your present reality. You’re upset with yourself for not having the body you had then, or the body you dream about having. Both of these notions are fantasies. You are who you are, now, at this moment, and that is always going to change. Yes, always. 

So imagine, us thinking about our 18-year-old bodies at 30 and wishing we had that body now. Think about all the things we’ve learnt about our bodies now, physically, emotionally, psychologically, in ill and good health, but most importantly how differently we dress and understand our shape. It’s laughable to think we could ever really go back, but also impossible! So why bother, when here, at this moment, you are gorgeous. 

Around that time, I started reading this book by Marianne Williamson, which asks “who are we to be beautiful”, and it got me thinking about my body image. The book goes on to discuss the constant comparisons we make as human beings. I thought what if I didn’t care about this woman’s perfect ‘hip to waist ratio’, or this girl’s plump natural breasts? What if I just only looked at myself, and accepted me, not as separate from my personality or character, but as one whole being. 

This helped me look at myself too! Even though I didn’t like my reflection. I could stand me as a person. I had friends and family who loved me. I thought about all the things I brought to the world, my humour, my love, my imagination. All these gifts and talents I had. And somehow, I wasn’t intolerable, I just was. 

Seems so simple, but reconnecting my physical self to my emotional and spiritual self was so freeing. To finally see and be seen by me, and more importantly valued. And although the man didn’t last, the lessons I learnt I’ll treasure for a lifetime. It’s so easy to love a pretty face, but true love is to accept and be present in who you are now. 

I hope this helps anyone starting, on this self-love journey. Here’s the book details: A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of a Course in Miracles, Marianne Williamson