Passing the plate
Surfing the Hawaiian coast has been on my bucket list since before I knew how to surf. I’ve dreamed of biking from Whistler, Canada, all the way down to San Diego, California, racing through the Oregon Trail and the Napa Valley, through the Santa Cruz mountains, taking in all the landscape I can get. I’ve trained to swim in the Pacific Ocean and run across state lines, and so grows my bucket list of things to see and do and smell and experience the vastness of life.
Though one thing I never thought would be on my bucket list— and never has been, in fact— was skinny dipping. I love me my wet suit or my trusty tiger striped swim suit, alright. I’ve swum as long as I’ve walked, and the feeling of water all around me is almost second nature. But with my love for all things nautical, the thought of submersing myself completely butt-naked into a pool has made me wrinkle my nose whenever it’s brought up. Nope, not me— not even a fan of bath tubs, thank you very much.
As you can probably guess where this is going, earlier today I had the chance to do exactly that. For today and tomorrow (I know— living the high life right now! Super super beyond privileged to have the chance to travel for a few days), my aunt, in her incredible generosity*, treated me and my mom to a traditional Japanese spa day. I will be the first to tell you that I am not one for spas; I’d much rather spend my day exploring than sitting getting pampered with salts and oils and humidity. But it’s something my mom has always wanted to do, so I figured I’d give it a shot. And well, what do you know— Japanese bath houses are completely in the nude. The more you know, I guess.
An hour later, I still don’t think spas are at the top of my to do list when I want to relax, or honestly if they even make the list. But sitting in the hot spring, it was like I had never been in the water before. No laps, no free style, no breathing every three strokes. I sat, and the water sat with me.
Since coming to college, I have gone fairly regularly to the “Counseling and Psychological Services” center— CAPS for short. I went a bit my frosh year, then every week sophomore year, then maybe twice or so a quarter my junior year. I know exactly how many stairs I have to walk up and which bathroom stall to go in after a session if I need a bit of a cry (and by bit of a cry, I really refer to the time I had to sit in the corner for maybe fifteen minutes and try to remember how to breathe through dry tears and whose room I could crash in to calm down— yikes). I’ve had three counselors, only one of which I actually connected with, and who unfortunately left to work at another clinic, and it feels like I keep on going back to square one with my nutritionist. If it’s been more than a few weeks since I’ve visited CAPS, I have to go through the process of finding a counselor all over again: first, calling the hotline; then scheduling an phone assessment; recounting my story again and again; another phone appointment or two; talking to a counselor who seems too clinical or too fakely interested or who uses a rather patronizing tone; blah blah blah. So it goes.
At the end of the day, I still struggle to look at my plate of food and consciously choose not to think about how I’m going to burn it the next day, or what I can take away to make up for the extra serving of bread. I’ve measured my day in the negatives: what I haven’t eaten, how satiated I haven’t felt, the deficit of calories I’ve “earned”.
For as long as I can remember, the number of the scale has been at the back of my mind at every family outing, every friend hang out, every meal, every morning workout. Little eight year old me worrying about the size of her thighs, teenage me worrying about the size of her arms and self conscious about the broadness of her back, adult me still subconsciously asking if I’ll ever be enough when I know damn well my worth isn’t wound up in how desirable I look.
It could be that I’m trying to reach a goal so I could feel like I have control over something in my life. That’s what one of my counselors insinuated. Maybe she’s right. It’s nice to meet expectations, even if they’re arbitrary ones I make for myself. You and I will have to ask my subconscious at some point.
My body and I have had a complicated relationship the past decade and a half, but, thank God, it’s on the mend. I’m learning what it means to cultivate a healthy relationship with food and to trust my body signals when I’m full and hungry. I even have the amazing opportunity to work as a nutritionist intern on campus to educate others on balanced diets and disordered eating/eating disorders! Everything, from our conversations and word choice to our practices and habits, inform how we consider food and what we think of ourselves and our bodies, and I’m continually deconstructing the voices in my head (and that’s engendered so much by society) that tell me to feel guilty for eating and that the only acceptable foods are the zero calorie options. Instead of obsessing over what and how much I should eat, I want to get to the point where I can eat a cookie and not be over ridden with shame, and instead of doing the mental mathematical gymnastics of calculating calories in and calories out, I wonder what it would be like to simply enjoy food for the nourishment it brings and the satisfaction it gives my taste buds.
My accountability friends like to pour encouragement into each other every so often with our small victories: the time I ate a whole soft serve cone simply because I felt like it and didn’t skip any meals that day either; the time she ate out with her friends and chose to enjoy her food baby and the contentment of a good meal; the times we’ve realized how much more we love ourselves and the biological miracles that are our bodies** than even just a few months ago, and wow, how good God has been in transforming our minds to see ourselves how Christ first saw us: beloved and so beautifully and wonderfully made in His image.
Sitting in the hot spring today, I became aware of my body: feet, hard an calloused from the hours barefoot and all the plies and relevees; thighs that touch and calves and hamstrings that have strode thousands of miles; hands that have written novels and essays; arms and shoulders that bear the tell-tale tan of a swimmer; and of course, the not-perfect stomach— neither long nor flat but perfectly doing its job.
To become aware of your body and to become aware that you don’t hate your body are two different things, but there’s something else too. I’ve realized that I’m reclaiming my body too. The curves and crevices are not foreign, but mine, whether they fit western centric beauty standards or not, *** and I am learning to be proud of all my body has done and can do. I am slowly starting to believe that I am beautiful.
*blog post on generosity coming soon
** okay, all you little humbio nerds, the human body is heckin awesome, let me tell you. Among the many MANY amazing facts, here are a few:
digestion starts as early as the cephalon phase— as soon as well smell food (ie walk past the food court), our body starts responding as if it’s already eating! We produce insulin, which breaks down sugars; our bodies heat up through and increase in post-pradial thermogenesis; we excrete grehlin and cholecystokinin and all these other fun sounding food hormones.
The sensation-reaction psychophysio interface has always baffled me: so we see something, identify, then react? Do we simply see then react? Isn’t it amazing how incredibly fast our sensory neurons and interneurons work to provide our brain with information?
*** being in a foreign country has also done wonders for my body image. I didn’t realize how much of how I considered beauty to be contingent on the model representation around me, and being surrounded by people with my body type and seeing more people with my skin tone has been truly transformative.