One of my heroes, who I also get to call ‘friend’ and ‘cousin’, is running a series on her blog around the word BODY. She asked me what I thought of guest-posting and immediately I felt a little weird: I knew this was going to be a tough one as there wasn’t anything to hide behind (I was also slightly terrified of writing in a series Anne-Freaking-Lamott had contributed to!!!) But after years of lesson-learning, I feel like I’m finally ready to share a little bit of my story.

The voices that increased in decibels as I increased in calendar years told me what I looked like mattered most. In film, print, image, in sexism, unhealthy narratives and well-meaning Agony Aunts. I listened, and took note.

The perception of my body was what I was. “Beauty is the eye of the beholder”? The beheld is, also. Stuck there, sometimes. I was in my body, but the ‘me’ inside wasn’t as visible as her shell…and if my shell was what other people said I was, then they could have it.

I ignored my body. Tired, sick, hungry, full, frustrated were the labels my shell was crying out, while I just got on with business in my mind and my heart and my soul.

I danced with this detachment for a decade. Experimenting with my body, using food to appease it, using food to punish it, pushing it too far, comforting it for a season, burning it out.

My body is not me. I’m more than my body. It isn’t important.

And then.

The decade of this dualistic detachment draws to an end.

Read the rest of the post here.

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