womanhood

a work in progress

Category: Stuff About Your Body (Page 2 of 3)

Passing time.

The things we do to pass the time.

I’m learning lately, what I do to pass time.
Actually, what I do to fill time.

Eat.
Watch Netflix.
Scroll my Instagram feed.
Keep myself busy, I mean, hey, there is linseed waiting to be ground and the towels HAVE to be washed twice a week.

To just sit.
To just be.
I don’t know how to do that.

So instead.
I make up all these things that keep me “busy”.
Find myself exhausted.
And wondering why.

I’ve got nothing left to give.

Xx
K

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To show vulnerability

Is a terrifying feeling.

To give into a friendship, without really having charted the territory prior, is such risky business.

To under perform, or not live up to a husbands belief value set and fear his low opinion of you. His rejection of you.

To go to a party and stare at a wall, because you can’t really make yourself into that conversation. Feels so challenging.

To not show up for your child, to say, I love you, but I’m going to be late today. Or I love you, but I don’t have it in me to get out of bed today. To not be bothered feeding them, because you just can’t bear the drama. Feels so so so bad.

To listen to pop music and then dull it down, reject yourself in a joke, LIKE YOU CAN’T BELIEVE YOU LIKE IT, because you perceive it as uncool.

To tell a friend you care about, that you simply don’t like parties and don’t want to show up to hers. Feels like you are going to hurt them so much, but its either that or it’s lying about your child being sick on the night when she really expected you to show up.

To wear black in the morning, because you don’t want anyone to look at you. You don’t want anyone to notice you, because you feel your fat levels are too much or your skin isn’t radiant enough. If you attract too much attention, they’ll say, why is she trying so hard?

To not be okay with parts of you.

And push them into a corner.

Because your other bits shine better.

Is holding back all of you.

Because your darkness, your curves, your skinny-ness, your pimples, your unwillingness, your inabilities, your bluntness, your crudeness and your lack of perfection.

Your each and every imperfection.

Is what gives you perfect.

Makes you complete.

Owning every vulnerable part of you is so fucking hard.

I kid you not.

I’ve been asking myself for days.

What do I fear?

What am I scared of?

Why am I doing this when I WANT to do that?

Why am I being this when I WANT to be that?

It is so hard.

But owning it.

Is the best place to start.

Xx

K

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Follow your inwards

What if today was more like yoga practice.

Do what feels right for your body.

It’s not about where others are at.

It’s about you.

Your practice.

Be gentle on your body and stay inwards focused.

What if I followed that through my day.

Did what felt right.

Trusted that it was enough.

No need to push too far.

To exert too much.

Just enough that felt right.

X

K

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Essential.

NOTE: Featured image captured at Foundation Louis Vuitton. It’s a photograph of a video installation by Yang Fudong titled “The Coloured Sky. New Women II” (2014).

//

It is so essential to remember.
That are thoughts are not reality.
And to snap away from them.
Actually centres us.

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This new body

The stretch marks I adore, I wouldn’t try to remove them for anything in the world.
The legs that splay apart as if they still know what it feels like to have a weight pushing upon them. The thinnest ankles holding so much weight, much too much weight.

Breasts that are brazen now, not as shy as they once were, but still concealed and firmly kept in place with the all amazing Fayreform. Lopsided and confused for life, hopefully Rumi will bring back the balance. For now, I look at them in the mirror and wish they were smaller and even.

A tummy that can blow up like a balloon after too much of the wrong thing. But will often stay resting, gently tucked in as if all is well for now. The layers of handle, never sure as to when to leave, remain. They are not from Aru. Well some are. But the most are from long before. I’ve never come to terms with them. We’ve been frenemies from the day they began to appear.

Perhaps anytime now, I’ll learn to look at them with love, rather than with irritation.

I read this now and I realise.

If I had a firm stomach and balanced breasts, I would be 14 again.
And I don’t want to be 14 again, not for any amount of money in the world.
I love that I know myself better now.
Know that I can depart from moments I don’t need to put up with.
Know that I have found love and it is rare.
Know that there is a little boy in my life who loves me with the sweetest of souls.

I also realise.
I am not other women.
They are not me.
We all have things the other wants.

Money. Bodies. Body bits. Talent. Eyes. Eyelashes even. Love. Sweet love.

The trick seems to be.
To be happy with our lot.
Perhaps that is the hardest skill of all.

Xx

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Bursting

My massage lady was telling me how she could feel the pain in a woman’s body who had been battling depression.

I asked her what she could feel from my body.

I’m one of those people who laughs and smiles a lot, so I was totally expecting a glowing review.

Tension.

From my arms to my legs.

Tension.

She went on to quickly clarify, that it wasn’t a destructive kind.

It was a bursting kind.

Like every little bit of me was wanting to burst.

To leap out and be.
//
Lord knows where I go from here.

But she’s right.

She’s right and I’m bursting.

Now I just need to find the right outlet.
X

K
PS -My massage lady’s details are on the resources page. She’s more professionally known as a remedial massage therapist than a body story teller.

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Them Double D’s.

When my boobs came, I felt awkward and confused.
They were larger than life and yes, whilst I previously couldn’t wait for them to arrive, the full-on-ness of them was pretty overwhelming.

Then I heard a hip-hop song about “them racks, the girl got double d’s”.
And for once, I thought my boobs were just right.
I became proud even.

Lately however, since feeding Aru and just filling out in general, I haven’t felt the same way. A size F doesn’t seem to validate the way a size DD does.

And I just realised.

1.      I was validating my boobs by a hip-hop artist, who sings about sex, guns and thugs.
2.      It was in such a deep level of my subconscious, that I didn’t even know why I didn’t like my motherhood boobs.

So in short.

Listen
to what you listen to.
Or you’ll spend a motherhood hating what ought to be loved and valued.

X

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Linda

We’ve been in Cuba and the men are renown for flirting and passing remarks.
I hadn’t noticed anything substantial, but once I was walking past and a man said, “.. Linda…”.
I was curious.
So I googled it.

Beautiful.

And.
It felt nice.
Brought a smile.
To my face.

And I thought.

We shouldn’t stop complimenting women for their looks.
We shouldn’t make it only about the books and the talent.

For looks too.
Are a part of all we’ve been gifted with.

Xx

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This new body

The stretch marks I adore, I wouldn’t try to remove them for anything in the world.
The legs that splay apart as if they still know what it feels like to have a weight pushing upon them. The thinnest ankles holding so much weight, much too much weight.

Breasts that are brazen now, not as shy as they once were, but still concealed and firmly kept in place with the all amazing Fayreform. Lopsided and confused for life, hopefully Rumi will bring back the balance. For now, I look at them in the mirror and wish they were smaller and even.

A tummy that can blow up like a balloon after too much of the wrong thing. But will often stay resting, gently tucked in as if all is well for now. The layers of handle, never sure as to when to leave, remain. They are not from Aru. Well some are. But the most are from long before. I’ve never come to terms with them. We’ve been frenemies from the day they began to appear.

Perhaps anytime now, I’ll learn to look at them with love, rather than with irritation.

I read this now and I realise.

If I had a firm stomach and balanced breasts, I would be 14 again.
And I don’t want to be 14 again, not for any amount of money in the world.
I love that I know myself better now.
Know that I can depart from moments I don’t need to put up with.
Know that I have found love and it is rare.
Know that there is a little boy in my life who loves me with the sweetest of souls.

I also realise.
I am not other women.
They are not me.
We all have things the other wants.

Money. Bodies. Body bits. Talent. Eyes. Eyelashes even. Love. Sweet love.

The trick seems to be.
To be happy with our lot.
Perhaps that is the hardest skill of all.

Xx

BIRU-WP-20160721T004644GMT1000.jpg

The Daggy Mum

Today, Neha, my little sister got a new pair of pants.
She told me they were inspired by my own recent purchase.
I’d just bought something relatively similar a few days before.

I was so chuffed.

I said to her, “Finally, I’m not the daggy mum if you’re inspired from what I’m buying!”.

She replied so simply.
Only to say that,

“The only who thinks you’re a daggy mum is you.”

//

It stumped me.

Ever since Aru has come along, no one else has put me into the daggy mum category, except for me.

I’ve subconsciously anti-sexy-ied my body and toned down my style.

This trip as been so good for me. It’s made me look at myself in the mirror and be okay with every crease. Every imperfection.

What Neha said brought it all home.

I’m so critical of me, I assume it’s everyone else’s opinion as well.

I need to see myself in a much, much, kinder and truer light.

Xx

Page 2 of 3

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