I remember the exact moment I fell in love with my husband.
He was hunched over a teeny saucepan in my shitty college kitchen I shared with five other girls. I was laying on the couch with my high heels propped up, still in my church dress. We had been at church when I felt faint between classes and he immediately bundled me off for home, tucked me into the couch, and cooked me soup with his necktie slung over his shoulder for safe keeping. The image of him with his broad back curved over that saucepan, looking like Beast trying to eat with a spoon, will forever be etched in my mind. On the couch that day some deep wise part of myself echoed in my mind: Get used to that sight. You’re going to be seeing it for a long long time.
In the 23 years since I have seen it again and again. As he nursed me through my latest bout of surgical recovery, as he lifts our son out of the bath and into his wheelchair, as he works next to me on our domestic tasks as partners. We have been through hell and back and we are still together because of how loyal we are to each other, and because we show each other with our actions that we care. (And we love each other too, but I love a lot of people I can’t live with for 23 years.)
If you had a loving caregiver as a child, I bet you have similar memories when you think about why you love them. Special food being prepared, a sense of safety, care taken when you were vulnerable.
If you need to heal your relationship with your body, those memories of love and care are the key.
The reasons you love anyone important to you will be the same reasons you find love for yourself.
We love the people we can trust to care for us. Including ourselves.
When you find some person you want to romance, how do you go about that? Do you criticize their every move, tell them everything they say is stupid, that everyone knows they’re stupid, and that no one will ever love them? Do you berate their body? Do you push them to do hard things they’ve never done before and then get mad at them when they’re not immediately good at them?
So why would we think that’s going to get us to love ourselves?
When I am romancing someone, I see everything about them in the best possible light. I praise them for their successes and encourage them when they make mistakes. I rejoice in their body as it is, for the privilege it is and the honor I have to touch it. I delight in discovering new things about them and watching their growth. I put in the time to show they are a priority. I get protective of them and stand up for them against anyone who comes. I look out for ways I can help them and care for them, especially when they are vulnerable.
And what do you know? When I started doing those things for myself, suddenly self love stopped sounding so fictional.
I first had to become safe with myself. And that meant stopping the constant internal monologue of self hate. A lot of that was therapy, most of it was mindfulness, and a big chunk of it was finding a way to break some mental habits. Treating my body like it was a pet horse named Beloved was really helpful here. Instead of reacting to myself with unconscious patterns – ignoring my body cues, demanding I suppress my emotions, repeating the angry words of my early caregivers, childhood bullies, cruel partners, etc., – I had a clean slate to start from. I’ve never had a pet horse named Beloved, so I actually had to decide on my actions. I also chose a name that felt wrong to use in anger, just so I could stop repeating old habits. And now I go around my house saying things like, “Drink your water, Beloved” instead of “Goddammit, Tresa! What is wrong with you!?” The difference is astonishing.
When I started spending less time in those negative self talk patterns, I started discovering more and more I actually liked about myself. Turns out, it’s really hard to love someone who talks to you the way I had been talking to myself.
Then the repairing of the relationship could really begin. I started working on regular self care habits and showed up every day to take care of myself in the most mundane ways. Brushing my teeth. Making the doctor appointment. Getting enough sleep. Cooking myself breakfast. Slowly romancing myself with little acts of attention and care. Proving that I could have confidence in myself. That I was trustworthy.
Slow as snow melting I started seeing more and more self love peek through the cynicism. Some days I feel like a lush spring garden and some days there’s one valiant little crocus pushing through the snow. But even on the days when self love feels further away, it no longer feels like the con it once did. I love the people who cheer me on and take care of me.
And now, that includes me.