Beautiful War Wounds
Courage. That’s what it took as I eyed a skort of all things. A garment that didn’t know if it wanted to me a skirt of shorts so it decided to be both. That pretty much explains how I felt, a beautiful woman, yet who also saw herself as a tattered mosaic masterpiece.
I wanted a short skirt for years, yet never saw myself wearing one, so I admired other women who were petite, had flawless skin and toned legs. A mini-skirt? No, not for this woman. I had too many scars or “war wounds” from being on the battlefield called life. There were stretch marks that told the story of how I overate to fill the emptiness of my soul resulting into wearing 18-20 dress size, and how I had borne two children out of wedlock.
When you saw these marks of passage on my legs, you got a glimpse of me, and that part left me more naked and vulnerable than an actual totally naked person walking the streets. Besides I was raised by modest Baby Boomers who taught conservatively, and the conditioning thereof I sought to youthfully rebel against right from the start. But today, I felt bold enough, confident enough, comfortable enough in the skin that’s been faithful through our love hate relationship.
Yes, the picture in this blog post is my actual leg. One day at a stop light I casually looked down at the broken veins on my thighs. They softly reminded me of all that my body had endured, yet still was faithfully reporting for battle duty. I had a very hateful relationship with the skin I’m in. It was never enough to my taste in comparison to others on television, family and friends. It wasn’t light enough, even enough, tone enough.
If you could only have heard the conversations between my mind and body, you would call my mind the most abusive of parents. My skin never did anything right and was neglected of genuine love and appreciation. According to PychCentral, 80 percent of women in the U.S. are dissatisfied with their appearance. And more than 10 million are suffering from eating disorders (https://psychcentral.com/blog/why-do-women-hate-their-bodies).
I mean think about it. Do we as women ever take the time to simply appreciate the miracle of our bodies? No, not standing there with a chart of societal standards of what it should be, could be, but of what it is. An absolute wonder. My body has endured recovering from chicken pox, bearing two healthy children, losing over 100lbs, and resurrecting from cuts and bruises back to an almost flawless hue. It was as if the more life experiences came its way, the more determined and stronger my skin became.
My skin was teaching me what I was made of, what we as women are made of.
So today, I took a picture of the war wounds. The markings of life which I previously hid, shrunk from, and never would have disclosed to public scrutiny, until I finally saw no one on this earth could ever say anything as bad as what my skin has not already heard from me. Whenever I wear my skort, this little frock some may smirk and say is on the border line of indecent exposure, I rejoice. I give my body honor. I give my skin healing sunlight. I give my body humble esteem to finally be free, be free of critical me.
Ladies, allow my transparency to remind you to stop criticizing the Divine miracle of you. Practice self-care by accepting with grace every stretch mark, freckle, wrinkle, crease, blemish, all war wounds. For the ability to openly love oneself completely, is the gateway to authentically loving the world in the most genuine way.
This article was written by Angela Hicks, “The Lifestyle Guru” . Angela is a transformation coach, helping women around the world to no longer fight Life, but embrace it by clearly defining their seemingly impossible goals and create a plan of action to live a life they love. Click hereto invite her to speak at your organization or for information on private to group coaching sessions.