A Love Letter to My Thighs — Natalie Said So

When I was maybe 5, I remember looking at my friend Katy’s legs (as I would often do as we continued to grow up together) and I remember wondering why mine were “so big” and hers were cute and “small.” I remember feeling a sense of disappointment from a very early age. And thinking back on that now, I’m furious because I know that this is a learned behavior. I wasn’t born hating my body. I didn’t naturally strive to compare myself to others. But I did it. And I still do it. And I don’t wonder why.

Over the Christmas holiday, I was talking with a family member about what parts of me resembled parts of other family members.

I have my grandma’s long arms and narrow shoulders.

I have another family member’s facial features.

“And your legs are like mine, how they’re skinny down here,” she said as she pointed to her calves.

“Oh, what — so my legs are fat at the top?” I joked.

“So are mine!” She blurted out.

I think I let out one loud laugh indicating my initial shock and disbelief, but beyond that, nothing. I was, for one of the few times in my life, speechless.

First of all, that was not the appropriate response.

“Of course they aren’t!”

“No, you misunderstood — what I meant was _______.”

“Your legs are strong and muscular and healthy. That’s a good thing!”

Any number of responses would’ve sufficed. But the one I received did not. Maybe I found it to be especially jarring because I didn’t expect that conversation in the first place. I mean, I expected it in the way that her sordid past with her body image always seemed to work its way into a conversation, but never in direct relation to me. Not like this. The way she spoke, she clearly had such disgust for this part of herself. And as I looked down at my legs, the ones that look so much like hers (albeit a bit longer), I felt the waves of shame and contempt that I also inherited from her course throughout my imperfect body.

This was uncomfortable. Inexcusable. But not unfamiliar, unfortunately.

I was pissed.

I shouldn’t have to feel this way. I don’t have to feel this way.

And furthermore, her legs are not large! They never have been, and she’s probably at the smallest size I’ve seen her in a very long time.

But that isn’t the point.

I’ve done the work to know that this has absolutely nothing to do with my thighs, or hell — even her thighs. It’s everything to do with her perception of herself. And in my recollection of the past few decades, I don’t remember hearing or seeing anything especially positive. It has shaped the way I view myself. It is toxic, and I have to work to correct those behaviors and mentalities every single day.

I’ve tried to be pretty candid about my struggle with disordered eating. You can read more about that here. It isn’t something that goes away. Just lies in wait to resurface. And unfortunately, that was over the summer. I once read something that described an ED as a coping mechanism, and I was absolutely baffled by the concept. Who would choose this? Am I some kind of monster? But the more I thought about it, the more I understood. For some reason, when I felt I could control nothing else, I found (and still sometimes find) comfort in maintaining an almost military rigidity to my diet. It all made perfect sense.

A common theme in therapy is that I find comfort in nothing (except my dog, Teddy). I know it’s there — I simply won’t let myself feel or accept or reach out for it. Sadly, I guess this is just one more way in which I’ve starved myself. I’m trying to be better about saying the things out loud that I typically bury deep within myself. It’s an ongoing process — one that’s heavily interlaced with shame and discomfort and insecurity — but I’m working through it as best I can.

Opening up about ED recovery has been a terrifyingly vulnerable experience. But it’s also been incredibly rewarding. “Disordered Eating in the Body Positive Era” was shared more than any other post on this site. I received countless messages of support from friends and internet friends and complete strangers. Messages from really good friends who I didn’t know struggled with this, too. Messages from friends that I hadn’t spoken to in a while but wanted to reach out and say they were here for me. Messages from people who said they’d been through their own version of this. Messages from people I didn’t even know who sent encouraging words and said they were cheering me on from afar. Shining a light on an issue that most suffer with in silence (it seems) was and continues to be a heartbreakingly necessary endeavor. For many, that post struck a nerve. So, as uncomfortable as it might make me to discuss this, I will listen to the small voice inside of me that says, “keep talking” because I know there’s someone out there who needs to hear it. I can get over my fear of being perceived as weak or crazy or obsessive if it’s helping someone else. I’m an enneagram 2, after all.

So you can imagine how, after months of enduring this hell yet again, hearing those words struck another nerve. I don’t know what came after. I’m not sure if I snapped back sarcastically. I don’t know if we left. I legitimately cannot recall the events that followed.

And it was a sticking point for the remainder of the trip and beyond. I brought up my “fat thighs” multiple times, sometimes in a facetious manner, other times not. Justin, patient as always, gently reminded me that was not true.

As if the worst thing I could be in this life is a person with large thighs.

I could be the type of person who doesn’t brake for school crossings. Or someone who leaves their cart in the middle of the parking lot at the grocery store. I COULD BE A MURDERER.

But I’m not.

I’m just a girl.

Standing in front of her reflection in the mirror.

Trying to accept herself.

I’m really trying to limit body or diet talk. I tend to gauge the response of the person or people around me. If someone has lost weight and is excited about it, I’m happy for them. If someone has made a lifestyle change and is seeing results and feels better physically and mentally, I am legitimately thrilled for them. But I’m personally doing my best to pare back from talk about these things because — contrary to what society tells us — our appearance isn’t the most interesting thing about us. We are living, breathing souls with talents and struggles and dreams and hopes and strengths and weaknesses and desires and fears and love and we are NOT just a number on a scale or how our clothes fit (or don’t fit) on a certain day.

So in an effort to reframe my mindset —

My thighs...

...carried me all over Europe during my dream vacation.

...are my husband’s favorite feature.

...allow me to move my body to relieve stress.

...can almost always beat my husband’s in a strength match (no shade, but thank you to years of dance classes for this ability 🤣!)

...are long and allow me to help strangers reach the top shelf at the grocery store.

...are pale and scarred and almost always bruised for a reason I can’t recall and are dimply and stretch-marked and PERFECT just as they are. Full stop.

I love my thighs.

I don’t always believe it, but I will tell myself that until I do because I refuse to conform to the notion that I can’t love my body unless it meets some narrow, completely unattainable standard of what it should look like.

If you have children, know that they are tiny mirrors of who you are as a person. If you speak unkindly about yourself, they will do the same. If you compare yourself to others, they will do the same. If you only speak kindly about others’ features, they will look down on their own features — the features you share — and wonder why they aren’t worthy of the same praise. I think of my younger self more and more, and the more I do, the more compassion I have for her. Just trying to get through it in a pretty messed up world. My world is bigger and sometimes just as messy now, and some of those same mentalities persist, but I’m doing my best to overcome them. I hope you do, too.

I hope you finish reading this and look at whatever part of yourself you struggle with and love the hell out of it. Not just tolerate it. I mean genuinely look on it with adoration and gratitude. And if you feel inspired to share your own journey or body part you’re going to stop hating and start appreciating, please tag me and use the hashtag #NSSbodylove so I can support you just like you’ve done for me. Shifting mindsets won’t happen overnight. We’ve got to keep showing up and doing the messy work of peeling back layers upon layers of shame and guilt and grief and lies and heartbreak and unrealistic expectations. But we’re all in this together and it can be done and we’ll be better for it.

We owe it to ourselves.

You are beautiful.

*queue Christina Aguilera*

So much love to you.