I live in a body that for much of my life has not felt like home.
These days I often don’t recognize it. I’d be lying if I said I never wince at its sight.
It doesn’t look like the body that I worked so hard for, so many years ago. The clothing that used to feel most comfortable, no longer fits. My weight can fluctuate up and down 50-60 pounds in a year with no clear cause (like it can for many ME/CFS patients). I tend to keep multiple sizes on hand, and this year was my first time shopping in a plus-size specific clothing store to find pieces that felt like they were made for this current body.
But this body has worked so hard for me.
It’s been fighting a losing battle for so many years that sometimes, I forget what it’s like to be “able”.
It was easy to love my body when I was healthy and fit; when I could climb a mountain – literally.
Loving my body through disability and disease has been much harder. The ways it fights for me can be harder to see and the way it looks in the mirror is not what I’ve been taught is beautiful or worthy.
It does fight for me though; it always has.
It tried to show me where I was living out of alignment with my truth and authenticity, through anxiety, depression, and disassociation.
It tried to show me what needs I had that were not being met, through anger, resentment, and distress.
It tried to show me what relationships were good for me, what food nourished me, what actions, inactions and decisions were right for me.
It tried to ask me to slow down, when I was pushing far past my limits.
I don’t know if I wasn’t listening, or if I was just never taught to speak it’s language, but when I didn’t listen, when I continued equating my self worth with how much I worked, what I did for others and how much of myself I sacrificed, when I continued pushing through my own discomfort and disassociating to meet the needs of others and expectations of society above my own for years – it screamed louder until I could no longer ignore it. Until I had no other choice but to learn to speak it’s language.
2 decades of disconnecting and disobeying my body took a significant toll. It manifested illnesses that hundreds of doctors appointments, specialists and tests could not diagnose for several years. Illnesses that could not be recovered from in a year, or two. Nor could they be recovered from through self-care, salt baths and cold plunges, through standard medical treatments or pills alone.
While some support has come (eventually) through the medical system, prescriptions, supplements and naturopaths, the most healing I’ve done has been within myself. Either through the support of a space holder, energy healer, somatics or other practitioner, or, more often, through my own self and all the tools I’ve picked up along the way. Healing has led me into the depths of my shadows. It has walked me into the parts of myself that I had abandoned and asked me to welcome them home. It has asked me to come face to face with the parts of myself and my past that I have felt are the most unlovable, the most shameful, the most worthy of being hidden – and then to hold their hand and love them, take responsibility for them, and welcome them back in as parts of me that make me whole.
Healing has not only asked of me, but required, to explore my patterns, subconscious beliefs and all the programming that runs beneath the surface just outside the access of my conscious mind.
Healing is not for the weak.
To walk through that fire and come out the other side holding the torch that leads the way for others, reaching out a hand to hold them through the parts that there was no one there to hold you through, that is warriorship.
When I look at my body now, getting stronger, but still sometimes unable to stand on two feet, sometimes using a wheelchair to support me, I don’t always like what I see.
On the outside, it isn’t easy to see the strength that has been built within. Extra layers of fat and skin, shapes that don’t feel like I feel within are sometimes all I see when I look at photos of me. Angles that I don’t see when I look in the mirror, but feel so clear in photos, can make me forget this warrior inside me. It can make me forget that this body has fought a losing battle for so long, and is showing signs of coming out the other side. It can make me forget, that every inch, every cell, is meant to be honored and revered. That this human body of mine has walked through flames that can only be known through experience; and that this body of mine, is a miracle for its ability to overcome.
I started writing today because I wanted to share about a photography session that my partner and I recently won. I have a complicated relationship with photos. I want many of them, proof and reminders of every activity, outing and experience. When I browse back through them it is as though I can bare witness to my own experience and connections. When my body was really unwell I could return to them and feel what was felt when they were taken. When my mind was losing its ability to hold memory, photos worked as my memory allowing me to remember and relive my experiences through them. They allow me to share my experiences with others, in a way that is different than words. Photos speak much of what cannot be spoken and have the power to evoke emotion.
For all of this and more, I love photos. And yet, I am living in a body that looks unfamiliar to me. It doesn’t show the strength I’ve built inside, and I know the misperceptions that society can establish when they see someone whose body looks like mine.
When someone sees someone of my age in a wheelchair, their perception changes again.
When someone sees someone of my age, not using my wheelchair that day but parking in a disabled spot, their perception changes yet again.
Photos, just like these moments, are a snapshot in time. Yet people make believe that it tells a whole story.
I wasn’t sure that my partner and I would feel comfortable meeting a new (to us) photographer for the first time. I worried that the pieces of my body I find hardest to love would show the most. My partner worried that I wouldn’t be able to walk far enough or long for the photoshoot. These photos were taken at a time when I was mostly using my wheelchair for longer outings. I was just reaching the point of having moments of feeling like I could manage a little bit more.
The only professional photos we’d ever had done were those of the birth of our daughter.
I wanted photos that would showcase our love; our devotion through the hard times – of which we’ve had many more years of than good. We have woven good throughout the longest, darkest of periods where our lives, health and security felt (and truly were) the most unstable.
Lindsay showcased this well. Her and her partner created ease, humor, and lightness throughout the entire shoot. Their personalities naturally created space for us to be ourselves, even when that was discomfort. We were allowed to be uncomfortable, awkward and silly. We were allowed to not naturally love every single minute of being on that side of the camera. We were allowed to bring our whole selves to the space. That is a gift in a society that constantly asks us to show up in a certain way, whether it fits us in that moment or not.
Lindsay chose a beautiful spot for the shoot with fields of yellow flowering bushes and beaches together. Nature is my favourite place. It’s where I look for connection and experiences the most. Her excitement for photography and the environment we were in added an ease and an air of possibility that lessened my nerves and allowed me to loosen in ways that I am not normally able to do in front of a professional photographer. I never know what to do with this awkward, hypermobile body of mine. I don’t know how to position myself, how to stand or where to place my arms and hands. I am far from a model – not in looks but in natural understanding of my body in space.
I told Lindsay this and it didn’t phase her at all. She laughed lightheartedly with me and went on to tell me where, what and when to shift, and how to place myself for whatever angle she was in. It was exactly the type of gentle and kind but direct and clear direction I needed and wanted.
Although when I look at the photos I still see all the parts of me that I consider flaws (really this is showing me where I still need to do the inner work), I also remember the feeling of how Lindsay and her partner made me feel throughout the session: free, empowered, light, and fully allowed to be my whole, imperfect self.
For this experience, for my body, for this love with my partner, and for these photos, I am grateful.
Lindsay is a full package professional! Along with being a talented, comfortable photographer, she is also a makeup artist and hairstylist offering packages that combine all 3. She is a hybrid digital and film photographer, specializing in boudoir and weddings for over 15 years.
You can check her out at:
