A couple of weeks ago, I took the huge step of meeting a wonderful friend for drinks and appetizers. In a restaurant. With other humans. It was both nerve-wracking and awesome, the first time I had been in a restaurant in more than a year and a half. But that’s not the point of this post (More on it later, though).
In our conversation, my weight loss came up a few times, and my friend asked me how I felt about all the changes. I described how I spend minutes at a time staring at myself in the mirror, trying to see myself in the face that looks back at me, trying to really see my body, trying to see myself. I was worried she would think I was crazy or just vain.
Instead, she told me that was exactly a thing she had always worried about if she ever made major changes; who would she be?
I have to ask, when you are average sized, is your body size a significant part of your identity? It might be, but I’ve always imagined it’s not. Your body just exists. But for those of us on either extreme, it becomes a major part of who we are and how the world sees us. We have our niche, for some the “jolly fat woman” (a reference to the wonderful Irving Yalom’s writing about his psychotherapy patients), for me the grandmotherly caretaker of the wounded, for others the “tough teddy bear guy” persona. But at least for most of us, our size is a big part of who we are. Change that and who are we?
So I’m not alone in my confusion. Great. I’m sorry for everyone else who experiences this or who fears this. It sucks. And it’s not something that I see/hear discussed about major weight changes. It’s all “I lost the weight and the whole world opened up to me!”
“I’m happier than I ever thought possible!”
“It set me free!”
Not
“Who the hell am I now?”
“How do I act?”
“How will people treat me?”
So I’ve been trying to think back to the fundamentals to find myself: when I was a kid, what did I love? What did I dream of being or becoming?
Answer: I don’t know.
I do remember telling my mother I wanted to write. She replied that it could be a nice hobby, but I would never be able to make a living at it. I never brought it up again (By the way, I am now that same horribly practical person who crushes the dreams of others).
I also loved to read, the one hobby that was strongly encouraged. I used to think that was a special thing, but now I suspect that it was strongly encouraged because it kept me silent and stationary and usually hidden away in my room. And I could go to the library all I wanted or use my own money to buy books, so then it didn’t cost them any money or effort either.
I have long wondered about kids who seem driven, voluntarily motivated to practice long hours at whatever it is they love, who are consumed by one interest or another, who excel in a specific area (I’m not talking about the kids whose parents require them to practice the cello three hours every day after school, just the kids who love something so much they would rather do it than anything else in the world). What sets them apart from the kids who seem content to get up each day and go with the flow? Who do what is required, but nothing more? Who are happy to never stand out from the crowd?
Not that there is anything wrong with either group!
Fast forward to today, reading a picture book called The Bug Girl: A True Story, by Sophia Spencer and Margaret McNamara to my daughter. The story is about a little girl who is teased for loving bugs and how her mother reached out to the entomology world to get support for her daughter. It’s a lovely book and contains a message I very much want my daughter to internalize: whatever she loves is great. She is not weird, crazy, or alone.
But I can’t read the book without crying. Every time I get to the parts where her mother is wonderfully supportive, I break. I mean, I’m thrilled for Sophia in the story, but a little girl starts sobbing somewhere inside me. The mother’s love and understanding is too much for me. I can’t even imagine someone standing up for me, seeking out support for me like that. It’s beautiful and so so so painful.
So maybe that’s the difference between one kid and another. Maybe we all have the potential to become obsessed (in a healthy way), but some of us get supported in it and others don’t.
It can’t be that simple, but I have to think it’s at least a big part of it.
No, my mother didn’t need to tell me that I was an amazing writer and would surely be published and become world-famous. I have no desire to become the authorial equivalent of a failed American Idol audition, the horrible singer convinced of their own brilliance.
But maybe encourage me to work at it as something I enjoy and could feel good about. Something to practice.
None of the things they did encourage me to practice ever amounted to anything either, so…why not allow me to love writing?
(Seriously, over the years of my childhood, I did ballet, gymnastics, hockey, soccer, softball, basketball, swimming, piano, singing, horseback riding, and, finally, a black belt in Taekwondo. I think I kept trying new things to see if there was anything my father would show up for (more on this another day, but spoiler alert, there wasn’t).)
So support your kids, your students, your friends in the things they enjoy. Otherwise, they could end up as sad, identity-less adults weeping over a picture book while their children stare at them with confusion. And more than a little concern.
Just saying.