My Unruly Body Map
An attempt at loving the what is
My therapist said to me, a previous patient used to call their stretch marks “road maps”. Although it didn’t entirely erase my perception of how I view mine, it helped chisel it a bit. This body — my body — has carried me through my entire life. It is literally the only place for my spirit to reside. And yet, the ways I have loathed it at times, have felt all-consuming.
As women, we pick ourselves apart constantly. Fueled by images from the media, and one another subsequently, to look a certain way. We are never just enough. We are always striving to be better, to be more. To be prettier, sexier, stronger. Lots of those things are great to strive for, particularly the stronger aspiration. Or even to be healthier. Those things are worthy of a journey. The constant pressure to be something we aren’t is becoming an old narrative, thankfully. But not fast enough. It still lives in our society, in our psyche, in the undercurrents of our internal dialogue.
During this pandemic, my life has changed drastically in ways that were gorgeous but still anxiety-provoking. One of those changes, I spoke about in a blog post regarding weight. This was not a gorgeous change. Gaining a substantial amount of weight ever since the end of 2019, has been frustrating as hell. I’ve cried, I’ve tugged at my body wishing it would go away, I’ve tried to put on pants I used to wear before the pandemic only to find they wouldn’t even go past my thighs. But, as Will Smith recently said: “This is the body that carried me through an entire pandemic and countless days grazing through the pantry.” And I couldn’t agree more. Yes, this is the body that also carried me through an entire pandemic, eating vegan Ben & Jerry’s with my partner while watching trashy reality shows, grazing on Lay’s chips, and consuming one too many bowls of pasta. It is also the body that kept me alive through mental health struggles, graced varying streets around the world as I took countless long walks, and became stronger through dance and kickboxing classes.
With this weight, came new stretch marks upon my existing ones. I’ve known stretch marks since eight years old. I remember coming home after gymnastics class, taking a shower, and looking down at my inner thighs. The deep, dark, thick purple marks now intruding my otherwise tan landscape. I was confused, and mostly, I thought they would go away. But my mom told me, they never go away. I was sad and felt like it was all my fault. Proof that I was ugly and would continue to have things on my body that I just didn’t want. With growing up and emerging into womanhood, there were more. They turned from purple, to red, to white. Now, they seem to be everywhere. Hips, thighs, back of knees, shoulders, arms, breasts, and one day — if I ever enter motherhood — I’m sure, my stomach. And sometimes, I really really hate it. I can’t remember what it was like to have a landscape without marks. I can’t remember because it all happened so young. I never got the chance to have a body whose skin didn’t show evidence of growth so loudly.
In the spirit of my body doing its own thing to survive and my anxiety teaching me that what I cannot change, I need to refocus and let go of; I am doing my best to change my body perspective. When I exercise, I focus on all my body is doing for me. Every test from a doctor about any complaint has shown a negative result. And rather than viewing my stretch marks as a nuisance and ugly, why not adapt my therapist’s former patient’s philosophy, and view them as “road maps”? They demonstrate our body’s proof of stretching and growing. It is literally our body growing past our skin’s capacity. It shows a body that has lived, is living, and thriving, for us to experience life.
In the ways I am working to accept my body and the stretch marks accompanying me throughout this life, I stumbled across an article detailing another’s journey to love their stretch marks:
Stretch marks tell the story of a life. Growing breasts, becoming a woman. (In my case, getting dumped before prom, gaining 10 pounds.) Our bodies stretch and grow and tighten and change. And our stretch marks are the map that shows us where we’ve been. They tell the story of a life lived — a joyful, painful, hopefully long life. Stretch marks are part of being human. And there’s something incredibly beautiful about that.
Life is always about perspective and it’s all a choice. Do I choose to view my stretch marks as ugly and intrusive? Sometimes, yes. Do I sometimes look at other women who don various outfits, show their skin, and find no trace of scars or marks anywhere, and wonder what it’s like to be her? Yes. And that’s all okay. But amongst those perspectives, I can also adopt the vision that my stretch marks show the ways my body has survived throughout all highs and lows. How my skin has been stretched beyond its limits due to weight gain from a new relationship and a global pandemic. From anxiety that sometimes felt crippling. How my body has changed and supported me through some very painful, as well as really beautiful, experiences. And how most times, the painful and beautiful experiences, were coupled with food — both celebratory and comforting.
My stretch marks are my road maps of a life fully lived in. A life with lots of pain, but a whole lot of gratitude. A life where I grew up and grew out. I took up space. My body — took up space. This body, my unruly body, carried me through. A home that is all my own. And from that perspective — ain’t it really something?
