Dear Mom,

It’s no secret that I’ve suffered with body image issues for the majority of my life. Long before I hit puberty, and my body changed in ways I despised, I hated my hair. I dreamt of having long straight hair instead of the short curls that surrounded my face.

Do you remember how angry I was with you? As a little kid I truly believed it was your fault. I was the only person in our immediate family with curly hair, and you spoke about my curls like they were the pinnacle of hairdos. You admired my ringlets and often told me how jealous you were of them. I believed that when I was born you were given a choice. Did you want your little baby girl to grow up to have straight hair or curly hair? And you chose curly because you wanted to live through your child. To feel the wind through her curls. I thought it was quite unfair to make such a decision for me. I blamed you for longer than I’d like to admit.

I hated my curls from the beginning. I hated how you styled them. I hated when that one hair stylist, in that strip mall across the street from the sad excuse of a downtown Buffalo Grove, would brush them out after cutting my hair and I’d be so embarrassed walking through the parking lot with a giant fuzz ball sitting on top of my head.

As soon as I was old enough to understand that I could make my own decisions, I managed to obtain a ConAir flat iron, and I straightened the shit out of my curls for years. I’ll never forget the smell of burning hair. Of sometimes wet burning hair. Hey, don’t judge me, I didn’t see you telling me how to use these tools. For so many years, I did everything I could to change my hair. To look different. And guess what? Whenever I got my hair professionally straightened, or when I happened to do a pretty good job myself, I’d get a plethora of compliments. When other kids my age would tell me how great my hair looked and how I should wear my hair straight more often, my beliefs were solidified. I looked better this way. I was prettier this way. When I wore my hair curly, I appeared rough and disheveled. When we had a nice event, like my Bat Mitzvah and later school dances, you’d take me to get my hair straightened. This was the fancy hairdo. The one for special occasions. The same special occasions where I’d get makeup applied by a professional. This all further fed my insecurities. I was prettier and worth more when I looked, well, different. When I looked better.

And this stuck with me for such a long time.

Throughout the years, my issues only got worse. My curls were one thing. Once they were long enough, I could pull them back into a messy bun or put a hat on. But it was hard to hide all of me. My hips. My arms. My thighs. I hated every inch of my body. I’d wear giant oversized sweatshirts in the middle of summer. I’d swim with my clothes on. I’d cover my face with a caked-on mixture of foundation and powder that were both a solid shade darker than my natural skin. Your daily criticism of my makeup skills did nothing to help the situation.

I starved myself for years. I drank my meals for as long as I could. I went to great lengths to change my entire appearance. But I had no real guidance so taking measures into my own childish hands had become quite dangerous.

When I close my eyes, I can see three times during those years when I was happy with my appearance. The summer going into high school when I was barely eating and began drinking. I was fitting into the smallest pants I owned and finally felt like one of the naturally skinny girls. Then there was senior year of high school when I was staying up for days doing cocaine and smoking Newports and rarely eating anything that would significantly stick to my bones. Another time was at my wedding. I was working out daily and on a strict diet. I refused to indulge. No French fries. No sugar. So many salads. I also got my hair and makeup professionally done which helped me hide the fact that you’d died only five weeks earlier and I was so fucking sad.

But the first time I truly loved my body was toward the end of my Pilates Certification. I was biking twenty miles a day and doing Pilates. I was eating a mostly vegan diet with occasional fish, but I allowed myself pastries and junk food when I felt like it. I saw food as fuel. Calories were necessary to keep my body going. To keep up with my routine. I was experimenting to see how strong my body could become, and I proved to myself that I was capable of more than I’d ever imagined. I was newly sober. Healthy, happy, and strong.

And then I got pregnant, and we moved back to Chicago. I spent the next two years losing all my strength. I watched my body change in ways that brought me back to that dark place of self-hate. I knew it was all for a good cause. A means to a beautiful end. But I also suffered. I struggled for years. Had so many ups and downs. Accepted my new body. Pushed it away. Accepted it again. And throughout it all, I once again experienced what it feels like to want to cover up. To hide.

I’ve written to you about this many times already, but most of my issues with self-worth begin with my body. Deep within my body. I think I always knew on some level that I had my own version of beauty, but I also knew, without a doubt in my mind, that my life would be better if my hair were long and straight. If my skin was without freckles and moles. If my legs were devoid of cellulite. If I were one of the other girls who had that natural beauty much like the women in the magazines, I’d be happier. I’d be accepted. I’d by worthy of love and admiration. And I held so tightly to this belief for too many years. But now I’m done feeling like I’m in a wrong body. A defective body. A subpar body. I need to accept my body as my own. To love it. To cherish it. To protect it. Because for too many years I gave my body no protection. I allowed it to be taken advantage of. To be abused. To be battered. Neglected. Hated. Discarded. And it wasn’t hard to release my control over my own body because I didn’t see the value in it.

But I’m finally seeing my value. To believe it. I understand my own strengths. I can acknowledge my own beauty. Which makes my current struggle a little bit easier.

Today I feel another change coming in my body. It’s been more challenging to control my weight. I’ll do all the things that have worked in the past. Eat clean, healthy food. Move my body daily. Drink water and get enough sleep. And still the pounds increase. My skin is worse than ever. My hair has more and more gray strands that stick out from the curls in the most obnoxious way.

But because I know my value, this setback feels different. In the moments when I find myself not satisfied with my external body, I’m reminded that I’m extremely happy internally. I am more secure in my identity than ever. I’ve worked so hard processing past traumas. I’ve opened myself up to not being afraid to be vulnerable. I’m content in many ways. So, as my foot slips into the quicksand of self-hate, the rest of my body is strong enough to pull me out. My mind is strong enough to walk away and avoid the quicksand again.

The truth is coming into focus for me. My body and my mind are one entity. Extensions of each other. Two halves of the same pie. I am me. My body is me. So, if I love myself as a whole piece, shouldn’t I love my body as well? Perhaps I’m capable of seeing my body as good because it is mine. That it is the body I’ve always dreamt of simply because it belongs to the person I’ve always dreamt of being. And today, Mom? I am the person I’ve always dreamt of being. Even if she has curly hair.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel