Loving the Skin You're In

I have always been the girl, teen, woman with the thick ankles. Actually, thick ankles and calves.

“Your legs are like tree trunks from the knees down, just like your Grandmother’s were.”

And so, for years I hid them.

In shame.

I was a true never-nude once upon a time, I didn’t wear shorts or skirts that didn’t sweep the floor, and I certainly wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of pants that showed this part of my body. Ever.

In shame I sweltered in heat. In shame I bucked fashion trends that I wanted to take part in. In shame I avoided events. In shame I refused to be intimate. In shame I allowed my comfort to be forgone to what I thought others would think.

It was always on my mind when I got dressed, or undressed.

I learned at a young age from media that “cankles” were undesirable to men.

Today on a walk I once again noticed my ankles. I was wearing my walking shoes, socks, and my jeans, which, with fashion, are ankle-exposing short.

It isn’t the jeans that are the issue. It is the ongoing relationship with my body that I am learning about. If I don’t like short jeans, I know full well I can choose not to wear them, but it is so much more than short jeans.

When, during a check up, I commented on my thick legs and ankles with my doctor, he looked up at me in surprise, leg cradled in his hand. He said, “These legs deserve love, Tanya. They get you out of bed, help you parent your boys, and help you move through life. These legs are gorgeous.” Raffi (that is what we called him) was right, but fuck it took a long time to get it.

As I walked I noticed the feeling of my ankles seemingly bulging out of my socks (tight socks are common place when you have thick ankles), and then the cool air on my ankles. And I thought… fuck, I bet they look so gross.

Even on the magnificent journey of self-love these thoughts happen.

Yup Deja Poo, the bitch that lives in my head, pranced out with her platter of shit sandwiches right there as I crossed the street with my dog.

She started to chatter the old shit I have heard from her before. The stories of how it must look to others, that it was disgusting, embarrassing, an eyesore to all that spied my fat white hairy ankles (she added hairy because I did notice this morning that I could definitely use a shave, but didn’t).

She’s swift as fuck, but I caught her! Then I shut that shit down.

I drowned her drivel out with some facts: I am just out on a beautiful fall walk, moving my body, enjoying the air, trees, and time. My ankles not only do not matter in this moment, but they are allowing me to do this very glorious thing.

(Raffi was right!)

I added that Deja was full of shit because maybe…. maybe by showing my ankles, or any other part of my body that I have historically hid in shame, an impressionable girl who has shame about her own body will see me and maybe – just maybe she will think: That lady wears what she wants, and so should I. That lady is not ashamed to show her body, I have no need to either. That lady is proud, strong, and perfectly imperfect.

If, on the off chance one, just one girl did see me and feel more confident by seeing me as some kind of role model, any personal momentary discomfort is wholly worthwhile.

I reminded Deja that these are thoughts, but that the people that do see me likely would notice the adorable dogs and not even see my ankles, and that if they did – in the off chance that they actually DID – they likely wouldn’t give my ankles a second thought.

Most people are too wrapped up in their own heads to care. They are already telling themselves stories about themselves that may or not be true, and are onto the next thing just like most of us are. So, why would they care that the lady walking the dog has thick ankles?

If…. IF they did notice – what is the worst thing that would happen? Well, they could in, in theory, think something negative about me. Ohhhhh, let’s give that some consideration. Someone could think something negative about me.

Do I necessarily know what they are thinking?

Nope.

Will I ever likely know what they think?

Not likely.

Does it matter what they think?

Not a fucking chance.

And yet, there are so many of us that are so conscious of this body part and that body part. I’ve heard it.

Flabby thighs, saddle bags, tubby knees, floppy wings, heavy apron, thick, bumpy, fat…

These are the words many women use freely when they talk about their bodies with other women… If that is how we talk to others about self, you better be damn sure that what happens in our heads is waaaaaaay more toxic.

It doesn’t matter if you are thin, thick, or somewhere in between, every human deserves to turn down the volume on the shitty self talk, and turn up the volume on self love.

Easy, right? Just switch the thoughts.

Well, as someone who has known for years that this is the case, it is way fucking harder than said. I get it.

Even as I write this, I had thoughts about what you, readers, would think about me and my ankles. I am choosing to write about a body part I have hated, felt shame for, and spent the better part of 47 years of my life hiding.

I made the most vulnerable decision and I took actual pictures of my ankles. And there is a very real possibility that you will judge them – either in person or in the image.

And so be it.

Here’s the thing: The key is the awareness. Being aware of the thought and feelings that come up when Deja comes waltzing in. Letting her get her drivel out, if you can’t stop her in the beginning, and then reminding her why all the stories she tells you (whether you heard them from others before or they are stories you’ve made up about yourself from other inputs such as social media). They are stories.

Good gawd, stories are for entertainment! Why the hell would we want to keep giving air time to Deja, who, through bullshit stories, prevents us from living our juiciest and most amazing life?

Am I advocating for pushing yourself out of your comfort zone? If you’ve lived in shame and discomfort, just the thought of anything different is hard as fuck.

Baby Steps.

Where do you start:

Build a relationship with your body

Spend time with thoughts about what you DO like about your body, how it helps you, and what it does for you. And not just when Deja comes waltzing in!

Catch Deja

Awareness is the first step to all change. When you hear her, feel free to give her a name, taje Deja if you like, and listen if you must, but invite her to stop and consider how her rhetoric is not true with facts that you know.

Test it

Wear the thing, expose the body part. For some it may mean starting by sleeping in something different (as a never nude, I even slept in sleeves and pants for years), then wearing the thing around the house, then into the yard, the neighbourhood, and with time – in public.

Consider: What is the best thing that could happen?

When we move into a place of vulnerability we often go to the worst-case scenario. Consider what the best thing that could happen if you did the thing. Comfort, confidence, ease of movement, these are some of the best things that could happen.

Tomorrow I will wear short jeans, or a dress, or whatever the fuck I want. And Deja may have a comment, but I am the one who lives in this body.

This body is going to move, and do, and enjoy life, and whether it is covered or uncovered, it is carrying me forward and for that, I love every single part of her.

Loving the Skin You're In

I have always been the girl, teen, woman with the thick ankles. Actually, thick ankles and calves.

“Your legs are like tree trunks from the knees down, just like your Grandmother’s were.”

And so, for years I hid them.

In shame.

I was a true never-nude once upon a time, I didn’t wear shorts or skirts that didn’t sweep the floor, and I certainly wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of pants that showed this part of my body. Ever.

In shame I sweltered in heat. In shame I bucked fashion trends that I wanted to take part in. In shame I avoided events. In shame I refused to be intimate. In shame I allowed my comfort to be forgone to what I thought others would think.

It was always on my mind when I got dressed, or undressed.

I learned at a young age from media that “cankles” were undesirable to men.

Today on a walk I once again noticed my ankles. I was wearing my walking shoes, socks, and my jeans, which, with fashion, are ankle-exposing short.

It isn’t the jeans that are the issue. It is the ongoing relationship with my body that I am learning about. If I don’t like short jeans, I know full well I can choose not to wear them, but it is so much more than short jeans.

As I walked I noticed the feeling of my ankles seemingly bulging out of my socks (tight socks are common place when you have thick ankles), and then the cool air on my ankles. And I thought… fuck, I bet they look so gross.

Even on the magnificent journey of self-love these thoughts happen.

Yup Deja Poo, the bitch that lives in my head, pranced out with her platter of shit sandwiches right there as I crossed the street with my dog.

She’s swift as fuck, but I caught her! Then I shut that shit down.

I drowned her drivel out with some facts: I am just out on a beautiful fall walk, moving my body, enjoying the air, trees, and time. My ankles not only do not matter in this moment, but they are allowing me to do this very glorious thing.

(Raffi was right!)

If, on the off chance one, just one girl did see me and feel more confident by seeing me as some kind of role model, any personal momentary discomfort is wholly worthwhile.

I reminded Deja that these are thoughts, but that the people that do see me likely would notice the adorable dogs and not even see my ankles, and that if they did – in the off chance that they actually DID – they likely wouldn’t give my ankles a second thought.

Most people are too wrapped up in their own heads to care. They are already telling themselves stories about themselves that may or not be true, and are onto the next thing just like most of us are. So, why would they care that the lady walking the dog has thick ankles?

If…. IF they did notice – what is the worst thing that would happen? Well, they could in, in theory, think something negative about me. Ohhhhh, let’s give that some consideration. Someone could think something negative about me.

Do I necessarily know what they are thinking?

Nope.

Will I ever likely know what they think?

Not likely.

Does it matter what they think?

Not a fucking chance.

And yet, there are so many of us that are so conscious of this body part and that body part. I’ve heard it.

Flabby thighs, saddle bags, tubby knees, floppy wings, heavy apron, thick, bumpy, fat…

These are the words many women use freely when they talk about their bodies with other women… If that is how we talk to others about self, you better be damn sure that what happens in our heads is waaaaaaay more toxic.

It doesn’t matter if you are thin, thick, or somewhere in between, every human deserves to turn down the volume on the shitty self talk, and turn up the volume on self love.

Easy, right? Just switch the thoughts.

Well, as someone who has known for years that this is the case, it is way fucking harder than said. I get it.

Even as I write this, I had thoughts about what you, readers, would think about me and my ankles. I am choosing to write about a body part I have hated, felt shame for, and spent the better part of 47 years of my life hiding.

I made the most vulnerable decision and I took actual pictures of my ankles. And there is a very real possibility that you will judge them – either in person or in the image.

And so be it.

Good gawd, stories are for entertainment! Why the hell would we want to keep giving air time to Deja, who, through bullshit stories, prevents us from living our juiciest and most amazing life?

Am I advocating for pushing yourself out of your comfort zone? If you’ve lived in shame and discomfort, just the thought of anything different is hard as fuck.

Baby Steps.

Where do you start:

Build a relationship with your body

Spend time with thoughts about what you DO like about your body, how it helps you, and what it does for you. And not just when Deja comes waltzing in!

Catch Deja

Awareness is the first step to all change. When you hear her, feel free to give her a name, taje Deja if you like, and listen if you must, but invite her to stop and consider how her rhetoric is not true with facts that you know.

Test it

Wear the thing, expose the body part. For some it may mean starting by sleeping in something different (as a never nude, I even slept in sleeves and pants for years), then wearing the thing around the house, then into the yard, the neighbourhood, and with time – in public.

Consider: What is the best thing that could happen?

When we move into a place of vulnerability we often go to the worst-case scenario. Consider what the best thing that could happen if you did the thing. Comfort, confidence, ease of movement, these are some of the best things that could happen.

Tomorrow I will wear short jeans, or a dress, or whatever the fuck I want. And Deja may have a comment, but I am the one who lives in this body.

This body is going to move, and do, and enjoy life, and whether it is covered or uncovered, it is carrying me forward and for that, I love every single part of her.

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