We are More
Today is my birthday.
34 years ago I was a squishy newborn curled up in my mom's arms as my mom was amazed, terrified, and in awe that she was now a mother and wholly responsible for the new life before her (or at least, I imagine that's how she felt because that's how I felt when my first was born). I came into the world surrounded by love, chocolate cake, and crocheted blankets. 34 years later and I am once again surrounded by love, chocolate, and a crocheted blanket from my Nana.
34.
34 is the age that I picture my mom at when I think of her. Sometimes with a perm, sometimes with short hair. But always full of love, even when I hurt her in ways that only a teenager can hurt a parent.
34.
I don't feel 34. I swear yesterday I was graduating high school and getting ready for university, but that was almost 16 years ago. Now I'm closer to my 20 year reunion than my 10 year reunion. I think back to my 18 year old self and wish I could tell her that her life would be so wonderful. That high school wasn't the be all end all. That the struggle and fight was worth it. That she was worth it. Mostly, I wish I could hug her and tell her that she is worthy of love.
34.
I've learned a lot of things over my 34 years. Some hard, some easy. Some trivial, some incredibly important. In the past few years, I have been working on loving my body as it is in each moment. It's been hard, and I haven't always been successful. I have had many moments where I've broken down wishing that pregnancy hadn't made such a mark on my body. Moments where my breath was short when I caught a glimpse of my body in the mirror not because I liked what I saw. Moments where my own personal trolls started sending out their negative messages deep within my brain just waiting to find the cracks in my self esteem. During pregnancy, it's easy for me to silence those trolls. I always feel so beautiful when I'm pregnant. Huge, but beautiful. But afterwards? It's so hard. Incredibly hard. It's only been in the last year that I've been able to catch myself before spiraling into the deep, dark tunnel that is lined with mental trolls.
Why are we so hard on ourselves?
Why must we pick apart our body parts? "My legs are too ugly." "My butt is too flat." "My boobs are too big." "My hair is too greasy."
If we must live our lives being "too much" of something, why don't we look at our good parts? "I am too kind." "I am too helpful." "I love too much." "I am too generous."
I am more than a number on a scale or a dress size. I am more than a flabby tummy that still looks pregnant. I am more than breasts that are most definitely not as perky as they once were. I am more than the cellulite that sits on my bum and my legs. I am more than these stretch marks and wrinkled skin. I am more than the grey hair that sits atop my head. I am more than my body.
I am more.
You are more.
It has taken me 34 years to learn that.
And now, on my 34th birthday, I sit with my 4th baby's hand atop my belly as she sleeps snuggled into my side and I realize my responsibility to teach her and my boys that they too are more. And as my mother before me, I am terrified and in awe of the huge responsibility that lay before me.
34 years ago I was a squishy newborn curled up in my mom's arms as my mom was amazed, terrified, and in awe that she was now a mother and wholly responsible for the new life before her (or at least, I imagine that's how she felt because that's how I felt when my first was born). I came into the world surrounded by love, chocolate cake, and crocheted blankets. 34 years later and I am once again surrounded by love, chocolate, and a crocheted blanket from my Nana.
34.
34 is the age that I picture my mom at when I think of her. Sometimes with a perm, sometimes with short hair. But always full of love, even when I hurt her in ways that only a teenager can hurt a parent.
34.
I don't feel 34. I swear yesterday I was graduating high school and getting ready for university, but that was almost 16 years ago. Now I'm closer to my 20 year reunion than my 10 year reunion. I think back to my 18 year old self and wish I could tell her that her life would be so wonderful. That high school wasn't the be all end all. That the struggle and fight was worth it. That she was worth it. Mostly, I wish I could hug her and tell her that she is worthy of love.
34.
I've learned a lot of things over my 34 years. Some hard, some easy. Some trivial, some incredibly important. In the past few years, I have been working on loving my body as it is in each moment. It's been hard, and I haven't always been successful. I have had many moments where I've broken down wishing that pregnancy hadn't made such a mark on my body. Moments where my breath was short when I caught a glimpse of my body in the mirror not because I liked what I saw. Moments where my own personal trolls started sending out their negative messages deep within my brain just waiting to find the cracks in my self esteem. During pregnancy, it's easy for me to silence those trolls. I always feel so beautiful when I'm pregnant. Huge, but beautiful. But afterwards? It's so hard. Incredibly hard. It's only been in the last year that I've been able to catch myself before spiraling into the deep, dark tunnel that is lined with mental trolls.
Why are we so hard on ourselves?
Why must we pick apart our body parts? "My legs are too ugly." "My butt is too flat." "My boobs are too big." "My hair is too greasy."
If we must live our lives being "too much" of something, why don't we look at our good parts? "I am too kind." "I am too helpful." "I love too much." "I am too generous."
I am more than a number on a scale or a dress size. I am more than a flabby tummy that still looks pregnant. I am more than breasts that are most definitely not as perky as they once were. I am more than the cellulite that sits on my bum and my legs. I am more than these stretch marks and wrinkled skin. I am more than the grey hair that sits atop my head. I am more than my body.
I am more.
You are more.
It has taken me 34 years to learn that.
And now, on my 34th birthday, I sit with my 4th baby's hand atop my belly as she sleeps snuggled into my side and I realize my responsibility to teach her and my boys that they too are more. And as my mother before me, I am terrified and in awe of the huge responsibility that lay before me.
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