Dear Mom,

It’s summer in Los Angeles. The season of lounging by the pool for hours a day. Eating fresh melon, stone fruit, and grapes. Finding every excuse to read a good book. And procrastinating the big chores by scrolling through social media to only be reminded that summer is also bikini season, and all women are supposed to be taking this supplement or trying that new workout or owning their bodies and wearing the trend of swimsuits that barely cover your butt cheeks but that’s OK because you love your body. Oy. Being a woman never stops feeling overwhelming. And being this woman behind the computer brings an extra dose of worrying. Worrying about skin cancer after prolonged exposure to the sun. Worrying about relaxing too much while ignoring all those pesky chores. Worrying about the other humans living with me. The last one has been on my mind a lot lately. In particular, my loving daughter Scotland.

As I have worked so hard to recognize the good in my own body and to overcome the hatred for the skin I wear, I’ve increased my worrying about my daughter developing the same body image issues of her mother and grandmother. I worry she’ll hate the skin that encases her beautiful being. I worry my own lingering insecurities will rub off on her and she’ll be doomed to a life of questioning what could have been if only she looked different.

But I won’t allow that to happen. I can’t. I can’t just let her walk down that dark road alone. I can’t sit back and watch her unravel. So, I decided to be a little proactive. To attempt to stop the cycle before it begins by planting small seeds of self-love.

The other day I sat across from my girl at the table while she was reading. “Scotland? Can I tell you something?” She looked at me and nodded before bringing her attention back to her book. I then added, “I love my body.” Her confusion spread across her face. She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “OK… why are you telling me this?” I shrugged my shoulders. “I just wanted you to know that I love my body.” She went back to looking at her pages and said, “I love your body too. It gives the best hugs.”

My world slowed at that moment. Her comment hit me like a meteor. This little girl saw something in me I’ve been having trouble seeing in myself for my entire life. She saw my strength first. I exhaled an expired version of myself and gazed at my gorgeous and powerful kid. “Scotland?” She looked up from her book again. “I love your body too, you know. It also gives the best hugs.” She smiled and went back to her reading.

Now, let me explain more about why her exact compliment meant so much to me. We take hugs very seriously in our home. Idris runs across the room and leaps into my arms when it’s time for a hug. I squeeze as hard as I can, and he does the same on his end. Scotland is a little too strong for the run and jump hug, so we do a pick me up hug. She comes to me, I put my hands under her arms, we both bend our knees, and on the count of three she jumps up and wraps her legs around my waist. I then give her an equal squeeze to her brother’s hug, and we exchange “I love you’s”.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to have a consultation with a surgeon about removing an annoying cyst I’ve had on my chest for the last few years. It wasn’t a problem really. Nothing bad. Just a normal epidermoid cyst. Totally harmless yet still very annoying considering it was right smack in the center of my chest and big enough for people to notice. I’ve been entirely self-conscious about it and have worked hard to keep it covered the last few years which required me to dress more modestly. The fashion choices didn’t bother me at first. In fact, it was barely indistinguishable to my normal attire. It’s not like I was previously wearing plunging necklines or anything. But it’s summer and, despite the tiny bikinis and risk of melanoma, I’ve been wanting to show more of my skin. So it was time to discuss the possibility of removing the annoying bump.

I went in for my appointment on a Monday at 3pm and had no idea they’d actually remove it during that doctor’s visit. I was not prepared. If I would’ve known, I would’ve given my kids a giant hug before leaving for the hospital. When I came home, I had six stitches across my chest that I had to live with for ten days. For ten days I couldn’t hug my kids. I couldn’t really hold them. Not in the way we craved. The number of good mornings and good nights when I heard my kids whine, “Ugh! I just wish I could really hug you,” made me realize how important these hugs are to my kids and also how crucial they are to my own mental health. And it got me thinking more about how grateful I am for my own body and the strength it holds.

I know there will come a day when I can’t lift Scotland into my arms. A day will arrive when I can no longer catch Idris after he runs and leaps in my direction. My body won’t always hold their strength. But it can continue to hold mine. Even if my strength might fluctuate as time goes by. Even if it disintegrates in some aspects. I know my body will always contain a certain amount of strength. As long as I continue to foster it, feed it, and protect it. I can do all the strength training I want and consume copious amounts of protein and creatine but will still fall short if my mental health isn’t also nourished.

These last two weeks, when I couldn’t give my kids their hugs, my mental health definitely suffered. I hadn’t realized how important that simple form of affection was to me. Scotland telling me I give good hugs sparked a chain reaction in me which led to a realization that my mental health is tied so tightly to my ability to hold my children. To show them my love through a physical embrace.

I want to say that you also gave the best hugs but I can’t seem to remember your arms wrapped around me. Maybe too much time has passed, and I simply can’t recall. Maybe I spent too many years pushing you away. Maybe I was so unhappy in my own skin that I couldn’t handle so much physical contact. Whatever the reason, I don’t know if you gave good hugs. But I do know you were strong. Stronger than you ever knew. Strong enough to lift Paul’s dead weight out of a wheelchair. Strong enough to fight for your children. Strong enough to survive for five years on clinical trials. I can’t imagine you weren’t strong enough to hug me. Especially when your love for me ran so deep.

Next time I hug my kids, I’m going to squeeze a little harder and pretend you’re included in our group embrace. I’m going to picture you hugging us back. And I’m going to make it my mission to ensure my kids never grow up to question if their mom ever hugged them or to question their own strength. If I do things right, I know when the day comes when I’m not strong enough to lift my children’s weight, they will be strong enough to lift mine.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel