I stood naked today.
In front of a tall, full length mirror.
No preliminary glance, no quick retreat.
Shame wasn’t allowed.

While I see myself nude daily, it’s in a half mirror that sits above the bathroom sink. It allows me to focus on the parts of my body I’m most comfortable with and admire; like my heart-shaped lips that turn into a quirky smile, plump cheeks that lend themselves to youthful innocence (this helps when you’re 41), and stormy green eyes.

It’s not difficult for me to see those pieces of myself. And even despite my plentiful voluptuousness – with the right clothes – I create hints of succulent curves that I’m proud of.  I wear my size quite well, thank you.

But today, it was time to take all of me in. To really look. And not just at my perfectly curled hair or ample breasts. So up went the new full length mirror.

And there, staring at me, as if waiting for my attention, were body parts I don’t easily accept: the dimpled thighs; the scars on my abdomen; the thick upper arms; and the marks that stretch widely across my stomach.

I clicked the camera and turned sideways.

There was nothing to hide. Standing straight, sucking in, or having clothes that press and smooth the sticky out bits couldn’t cover me up.

This was about telling the truth and really seeing my body in its completeness without shutting down, without looking away. Facing her. Accepting her. Loving her the best I could.

I took more shots. All angles. Front. Side. Back. And started over again. Though I’m the most accepting of my body that I’ve ever been – ever – I still felt the cringe up my spine. I heard the voices of old humiliation echo in my belly. “Look at THAT. I’m so embarrassed. If just THAT part could be cut off of me … if it would be smaller, better. I mean, your calves are looking pretty good and those feet are cute, but…ugh. THAT.”

And then something changed.

It felt mean. It felt mean and dishonest to stand in front of myself and feel love for some parts of me, but total rejection of others. It felt like a sick, slicing cruelty.

“Do you love your body?” The question shook me earlier in the morning.

Look, my body is a far cry from what our society deems beautiful. A far cry from what our mothers, our sisters, our grandmothers, our friends say is good enough. And I’m not alone. As women, we honor our shame instead of stepping into being the beautiful goddesses that we are. 

We are not defined by our bodies alone. Yet in effort to portray our inner beauty, we do not have to admonish, ridicule, or diminish our physical presence.

This act of being naked before myself granted me permission to see the truth of who I am right now, without excuses, without self-degradation, without loathing over one or two particular parts of my body; but instead, to see this as a holy act of self-love. And celebrate it.

To stand with every imperfect lump, bump, fold, and awkward piece of me – alongside the smooth, curvaceous softness – became an opening to radical acceptance in a way I haven’t experienced. And I’m not done yet.

As the camera kept clicking, my stance changed. I stood taller, crossed my legs, put my hands on my hips. Smiled. I smiled in all my nakedness.  A sense of unconditional confidence rose within. It was healing.

I am my body just as much as I am not. Either way…I own it. It is mine. It belongs to me. And I am beautiful.

So, my dear ones…

Do you love your body?
Find out.
Get naked.
Stand in front of the mirror.
And love yourself.