The Measure of A Heart
When the Soul Outgrows the Mirror
Oof.
Here we are again, in our little writing sanctuary—my place of catharsis to process emotions that are swirling and twirling within me like one of those ballerinas that spring to life when you open the lid of a jewelry box.
I had one of those as a kid. I wish I still had it now. It was pale blue and white and played a gentle chime, and the ballerina had the most fragile blue tulle skirt. I remember cranking it up and listening to the light notes of the familiar song and watching her twirl on her little spring, thinking how beautiful she was.
I wonder where that jewelry box is now—maybe hidden in the back corner of a Goodwill or in a landfill or on another child’s bedroom shelf. I like to think of her as dancing and delighting another little girl…
The little girl within me wishes that for her.
See? Here I am, emotions rising again. You can’t keep it in, I know from experience, and so onto the page it goes…
What is it that I’m feeling, and why?
For the past few years, I’ve felt at peace, strong within myself, and in balance with these emotions. Pockets of grief arise, and I work through it, transmute it—losing my childhood friend this summer, seeing pictures of my soul dog who passed away five years ago, letting go of dreams and wishes I held for so long in my heart, even anticipatory grief for changes that are inevitable because although we are infinite, life is short and we have only this, here and now.
I’ll never understand how we don’t make the most of the here and now—I’ll never understand how we can hold ourselves back from loving as fully and boldly and fearlessly as possible. I will never understand holding onto resentment and grudges and pain when healing and peace is possible. I will never understand how people would rather isolate themselves in their pain rather than express their hearts.
To the end of my days, I will never understand this. And to the end of my days, I vow to love and love and love and love.
Loudly. Boldly. Fully.
Fearlessly.
But I digress.
When I feel emotions like grief—or even an overwhelm of love—I sit with it. Emotions are energy, after all. And they’re always showing you something about yourself. So maybe that’s what I have to do—explore what this is showing me.
To do that, I need to go back to last night, where it all seems to have started…
My dad and I attended a Getting Acquainted Dinner for our local AHL hockey team. We’ve been season ticket holders for a few years now and have made some great friends in our section who are members of the booster club, and because I’m all about having experiences right now—which, upon consideration might stem from spending the majority of my 20s and 30s bedridden from illness and recovering from trauma, not to mention going through the deepest layers of personal healing one can fathom thanks to my spiritual journey, so of course I’m ready to have a little fun in life—we decided to join them for dinner with the players.
We had a great time—one-on-one connections, fascinating conversations, a fun meet and greet. It was everything I was expecting and more. I took some pictures with some of my favorite players, including one of our goalies and right wings, who are both so friendly and just hilarious and delightful in person. It was a truly joyful experience.
I love this team. I love this sport. I love the brotherhood and camaraderie and true sportsmanship that’s displayed. My parents used to ask me to turn on the hockey game for my Grandma when she lived with us, and I’d run to her room where she was in her chair knitting, and we’d watch the first period together, enthralled by the fast pace of the skaters and the puck. I love everything to do with the ice and have since I was a kid watching Kristy Yamaguchi and Scotty Hamilton and Ekaterina Gordeeva in Stars on Ice.
Then I tried figure skating myself, and as soon as my skates hit the ice, I was off like there was nothing more natural in the world. My friends all quit after a few months, but there I was learning waltz jumps and toe loops and single salchows, and man, nothing was more scary or more exhilarating. But I was in middle school. And everything kinda sucks when you’re in middle school (especially getting sick with mono that’s actually undiagnosed Lyme disease), and soon insecurity took hold and I pressed pause on my lessons.
My one and only regret in life is never trying again.
Maybe that’s what this is bringing up.
Insecurity.
Because that’s the only thing I can think of that triggered what I’m feeling now.
Last night, I took pictures with the hockey players who are all extremely tall, and I’m…
extremely not.
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
Fun fact: both of my exes were also tall. Which is probably a given considering the fact that, once again, I’m decidedly not. But it never bothered me—or them, presumably.
Until now.
When you live with your body for over forty years, you get kinda used to it. I went through puberty early and my family are all on the shorter side, so being in that end of the gene pool would dictate that I probably wasn’t going to be a supermodel.
I never wanted to be, anyway. I was always comfortable with myself—it was what it was. Sometimes I’d feel the frustration of having to order special-sized heels for work or shop in the children’s department for sneakers or hem the bottoms of every single pair of pants I bought or wear capris as regular pants instead (all true stories). But that was life. I didn’t know anything else.
When I was in college, I took an improv class as part of a humanities requirement. Our professor did an experiment by having the shortest person in the room stand on a chair while the tallest person in the room got on their knees.
I stood on the chair.
It was an experiment to show different perspectives—kind of a metaphor for walking a mile in another’s shoes. I’ve gotten so used to never seeing the top of shelves and being able to see up everyone’s noses that it just doesn’t phase me anymore.
It literally just is what it is.
And it doesn’t phase the people around me, either. My group of friends all love and adore me, and while they’ll make fun, I’m never hurt or ashamed because it’s all coming from love, and I can feel that from them. My height has never bothered me before.
Before now.
Because I look at that picture and I don’t recognize her. She’s not who I am inside. And I can’t help but be sad that the beautiful woman that I feel inside doesn’t exactly show itself on the outside, and if it doesn’t show on the outside then what does that mean of others’ perception of me?
And why suddenly, today, does that seem to matter at all?
My body has been through so much, and I’ve had to learn to love and accept and honor it as it is. Lyme disease almost killed me a few times over, and I’ve fought my way back to where I am now—functioning and thriving and healthier than I’ve been in over a decade with still a ways to go because this disease is relentless, but then again so am I.
I’m a survivor, but I want more for my life than to have survived. My body wears the scars of illness everyday, but my soul has healed and flourished, and I’m so damn proud of the woman I’ve become.
I love her. For the first time in my life, I love the woman I see in the mirror. I love who she’s become. I love her heart, I love her soul, and I can look at her and believe, “you’re beautiful.”
But it kind of breaks my heart to think that others don’t see that. Or that they’ll look at me as one thing, when I’m so many other things. I don’t know how to reconcile the woman I am within with whatever everyone sees without.
I feel powerful and magnetic and beautiful, and I know my worth…
But if you were to look at me… would you see that, too?
I awoke in the middle of the night, my heart heavy with this insecurity. For the first time in a long time, I broke down in tears. I didn’t judge what I was feeling, didn’t berate myself further. I held a hand to my heart and let myself cry in the dark, asking God to help me keep loving myself, keep seeing myself as I am even if others can’t—or if they choose not to.
Then my cat curled up next to me. His tail flicked against my arm as if to say, “you’re good. I got you. Come back to yourself.”
As if to remind me that no matter what size you are, you’re powerful and beautiful and worthy, too.
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Available at www.montourscity.com and www.susandawnspiritual.com