I've never struggled with self-image, never been one to feel uncomfortable in my own skin. My body has always been a part of me and I've always viewed it as worth celebrating. My body has always been mine. I made peace with all parts of it a long time ago, back when an awkward thirteen-year-old tried out black eyeliner for the first time and woke up one day to find that her lanky self suddenly had curves.Well alright, time to embrace this adventure.
No, body image has never been a strong issue for me personally. As I stumbled my way through the awkward ages of middle school, the cumbersome times of high school, and my first few developmental years of college security in myself has for the most part been easily achieved. Though I know many people who indeed have struggled with making body peace, whether it be walking through eating disorders, recovering from slut-shaming, or forever wanting to cover up, body image is always an element of myself that I have owned straight-up.
Except once.
When someone looked me up and down, stared me straight in the eye, and spoke it out, harsh: "you can't wear that".
I was fourteen.
Standing there in my newly bought two-piece, the one with funky colors and a cool tribal pattern, I became momentarily confused.
"Why not? I think it's cute".
"Lauren, there will be GUYS there!"
Oh. I'd never thought of that. Suddenly insecurities that had never before existed became real, and the questions came flooding in. What if this bikini showed off my body too much? What if I was sending out the wrong message? What if I became a temptation and a stumbling block for guys? What if, what if, what if? Suddenly my boobs felt too displayed, my butt seemed too big, and my legs seemed too long. Where before there had been confidence, insecurity now took its place. Peace had been kicked out the door and shame now held me captive.
Shame.
I felt ashamed of my body.
That night I went home and cried, hard. One of my best friends that I have known since birth (twenty years later and still one of the best) came over and found me a weepy mess, and after letting me sob about swimsuits and stupid boys and bodies and insecurity she wiped my face off, now streaked with that awfully applied eyeliner I used to wear and spoke it out: Who gives a damn what they think?
She told me that my body was mine, and it always had been. She said that if those guys couldn't control their thoughts, hormones, and actions then that was on them; not me. She said that I was beautiful, every part of me, and I'd always known that before so I needed to keep on knowing it now. She said that I'd bought that bikini because I liked it, and I hated shopping so this was truly a marvelous happening, and if I didn't wear it and wear it proudly then she'd take it and wear it herself, because it was super cute and we wore the same size.
Right there, right then I had some affirmation smacked into me. It was empowering and freeing all at once.
That friend is still one of the bravest, strongest, most empowering women I know. She's taught me to stand on my own two feet and how to love well, even those that have hurt you. She's seen me through my weepiest and I've sat with her through her hardest. We've been each others backbones and encouragement, shoulders and strong arms. We've lifted each other up and we've worked through tension. When you're friends with someone for twenty-plus years, you learn to walk the messy and the clean. Friends like these are gifts at their finest, and life-giving people such as these are worth holding onto.
Let's be people like this for each other. Let's wipe away tear-stained faces, pick up each other's chins, and speak life into the eyes of the hurting. Let's affirm each other so that shame is sent running. This is what we need, and I believe this is what Christ calls us to.
Because too many people are bruised. Too many lives are scarred. And too many girls are shamed into thinking that their bodies are ugly or "too much", tempting or not enough.
Bikinis are not the enemy. Shame is the enemy.
And bodies are beautiful.
If you're struggling with self-image, hear me out. I'm looking you in the eye and speaking it out: you are strong and beautiful and absolutely worth celebrating.
Believe me when I say this, love: a vibrant, empowered, independent person is who you are made to be. You don't have to wait for people or hollywood or preachers or men or women or anyone to validate your existence.
Ever since that day when a fourteen-year-old version of myself sobbed into the arms of one of the best friends this earth has ever seen, I've stood strong and peaceful in who I am. I've made peace with my body, because I've realized one freeing truth: my identity is not found in my anatomy.
My skin, my curves, my face, my arms, my legs, my nose, my lips, my eyes and every single part of me is just that: a part of me. My substance, what makes me up deep down is much more than flesh. What makes me up is spirit, and there is hardly a decent way to describe the parts of us that are not of this world.
I think being made of another world has something to do with virtue, with honesty, with humility, with love among much else.
Those spirit-fruits are my substance, they are what make me up (or they are at least what I want to be made up of).
My body is an expression of me, and it is not anything that I am ashamed of. Your body is an expression of you, and it's not anything that you should be ashamed of.
You are fantastic, so go ahead and own it.
The other night I was out to drinks with a few dear friends of mine (hashtag: being twenty-one is my favorite). While three of the group were browsing Victoria's Secret, a friend and I decided to hop over to Express to shop around for some office-appropriate clothes and such. Growing up is the best and the worst. After glancing at some oxford button downs and boring pencil skirts, we drifted our way toward fancier things. A few "oohs" and a lot of "ahs" and suddenly we found ourselves putting on a fashion show, like that old Mary-Kate and Ashley film where they wear their way through every boutique in Paris.
Twirly skirts that made us look sexy, form-fitting dresses that showed off our figures, lacy sleeves that made us feel pretty. We sashed and strutted and posed and laughed. We told each other how smokin' hot we both looked and how we should take a break from wearing flannel some days because where have these curves been hiding?
Because that's what friends do, they affirm and humanize and encourage and love.
Shame was nowhere to be found.
At one point I looked in the mirror. Somewhere over the years the scrawny little kid had grown up, the lankiness had been filled out, and the eyeliner had been tamed into being applied well.
(I'm still one of the most awkward human beings on the planet, but you know so is Zoe Deschanel's character in New Girl and she's pretty cool so...)
As I stared at myself, I held onto that moment right there, the one in which I felt exhilarated and empowered and beautiful and free.
And I thought about all of the fourteen-year-old girls, all of the women and people all over the planet and especially in America who are shamed into feeling otherwise.
With each passing day, with each story that I hear, I become increasingly convinced that people don't simply decide to hate their bodies. We teach them to.
If you want an example, read these words from Emily Maynard. Look at the movies. Read the stats. People all over the place are shamed and condemned into hating themselves and their bodies because bodies are seen as a stumbling block or means of channeling evil temptations or desires.
Bodies are seen as evil. Ugly. Intimidating. Weird. Never good enough. So much and so little and I wish we would speak life into the zombies that we've created of ourselves.
I wish someone would tell them that they are lovely.
That they are strong.
That they are brave.
That they are rockin' that dress, that the tribal print two-piece that they picked out all by themselves looks beyond cute on their marvelously wonderful frame.
That they aren't responsible for other people not being able to control their urges.
That they aren't being controlled by demonic forces if they feel comfortable in their own skin.
That their bodies aren't scary or evil, that they are worth celebrating.
That nothing justifies rape or lust or condemnation or attitudes, no matter how many articles of clothing is or is not on one's body.
That in various cultures all over the world bodies are exposed and real and naked and often starving or dying or just too poor to afford clothes.
And would you turn your eyes, would you look on in shame just because an exposed body is "an issue of modesty"?
I wish someone would tell them that what makes them who they are is not bodies or sexuality or gender or anything other than the character they produce from deep down inside.
Most importantly, I wish someone would tell them that being a Christian is not about modesty rules or legalistic expectations. Being like Jesus is about loving well, about humanizing people, about really acting like we believe in Imago Dei.
It's about wiping runny noses of sick children, about feeding dying babies in Haiti, about sitting in the sadness with the weeping woman who lost her husband.
It's about standing up for the marginalized, about breaking the chains of oppression, about raising money for safehouses for the domestically abused.
It's about speaking life into dark places so that eating disorders can go to hell, so that teenagers can stop cutting themselves.
It's about moving past shame and condemnation and guilt and depression, because we were not made for these lives.
We were made to be victorious.
It's about lifting up chins and looking into eyes and saying "you are loved".
You may be hurting. You may be healing. You may be ashamed or weary or over it or burned. Keep on going, love. You've made it this far, and that means you're really brave.
I don't know where you're at with your identity. There are many labels in existence today, but I want to invite you to the one name that Jesus offers: child.
Every single person, no matter who you are, is invited to be a child in this right-here and still-to-come kingdom.
You are not bypassed. You are not shamed. You are seen.
And wow, you're a knock-out.
Please take the time to watch this short video from Sarah Bessey, it made me a weepy mess: In Which You Are Not Forgotten
There are a lot of teachings about modesty, demonic theories, and bikinis that I want to unpack in a follow-up post soon to come, so stay tuned if you're interested. We'll also be taking a look at the motivation behind modesty culture and the teachings that say guys can't control their desires and women are seductresses. Should be fun.
For now, start here: positive affirmation. Don't just accept yourself; celebrate yourself. You have a body. You also have dignity, worth, value, and much else. That's pretty cool.
