This morning, I had a self-love epiphany.
My youngest son was playing in the tub. I was sitting on the closed toilet, in a long T-shirt, messy bun, koala slippers, and my underwear, making sure he was safe—a typical Tuesday morning for this mama.
My older son was sitting on the red tricycle that he had wheeled in to the bathroom to ask me to put on “Moana.” He stopped and pointed at my bare knee.
“Oh no! Mama has a booboo! Oh no!”
“It’s okay,” I replied. “It’s all better now; it’s a scar.”
He looked at me with confusion. To him, Scar was Simba’s evil uncle.
I began to explain to him what a scar was, in a way that I hoped a three year old could understand.
“Scars mean that the booboo is all better. The booboo just left a memory so that when mommy sees her scar she can remember all of the fun she had when she hurt her knee and got that booboo.” I went on to explain that sometimes when we get carried away having fun, we get hurt, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t fun. We learn from our mistake (if there is a lesson to be learned) and we focus on the positive.
The scar is just a memory. My own words resonated with me. The night the booboo that my son had pointed out had been acquired, I’d had myself a grand old time for my 26th birthday. It was a wild night. The scar isn’t pretty, but the memory is a good laugh.
I began to think about the other “imperfections” I criticize myself for:
>> My stretch marks
>> My freckles
>> The scar on my forehead
>> My bloated tummy
>> My not so perky breasts
>> My loose skin
>> My C-section scar
They all mean something. They all have a story. It’s my life’s narrative written clearly on my body like a road map.
My stretch marks tell the tale of fluctuating weight and bringing two of the most beautiful humans into this world. They represent growth.
My freckles tell the story of my ancestors and represent little love notes from my endless affair with the sun.
The mark on my forehead was my first clumsy mishap that left me with a scar, a story from my childhood that still makes me giggle.
When my tummy is bloated, it’s likely I indulged in a delightful treat. I deserve that.
My not so perky breasts supplied milk for two babies—something not every mother is able to experience. The bond created while breastfeeding is like no other.
The loose skin represents my weight loss journey to a healthier life—both mentally and physically.
My C-section scar is my proudest memory, as it brings me back to the birth of my children—the beginning of my biggest and most favorite adventure.
Our bodies tell our story; they reflect our journey. If we look beyond the surface, we can see what makes us truly beautiful. We can fall in love with the little imperfections that make us unique.
Sometimes it just takes a little pair of big, brown eyes, oozing with innocence, to make you see things in a different light.