Time To Stop Shouting at Your Body
Sometimes the kindest thing we can pack for a holiday is a little more compassion for ourselves
Summer. The season of sunshine, sangria and, for many of us, mild panic. Not because we're worried about the summer holiday itself. Oh no. We've been dreaming about lying on the beach all year. The panic arrives a few weeks beforehand, usually whilst standing in front of a mirror under unforgiving bathroom lighting, wondering whether our holiday wardrobe has mysteriously shrunk in storage.
I've been there.
Two years ago, in a moment of pre- holiday desperation, I embarked on an online shopping spree of Olympic proportions. Several glasses of wine may have been involved. I bought enough miracle beachwear to clothe a small Mediterranean island, all promising to "smooth", "sculpt" and "flatten".
One particular swimsuit looked especially promising, so when it arrived, I raced upstairs and squeezed myself into it. Or rather, attempted to. Twenty minutes later, I found myself trapped inside what felt less like swimwear and more like industrial-strength compression equipment. My circulation was disappearing fast. Limbs were turning blue. In the end, I had to ring Hubbie and ask him to come home and help me get out of it.
As I stood there, gasping for air and waiting for rescue, I remember thinking: What on earth are we doing to ourselves? Who decided that holidays were something we had to diet, sculpt, squeeze and apologise our way into? Thankfully, that summer, minus said torture garment, I learnt a valuable lesson.
Our holiday was in Southern Spain, and day one, we headed to a small beach – me carrying enough cover-ups and sarongs to conceal a medium-sized circus troupe. As usual, I was feeling self-conscious. Then I noticed a Spanish family walking towards the sea. Three generations of women. A grandmother in her seventies. Her middle-aged daughter. Two teenage granddaughters. All wearing bikinis.
The grandmother's body was soft, big, curvy and gloriously lived-in. Her daughter had the body of a woman who had zero time for the gym. The granddaughters were young, lean and athletic. But what struck me wasn't how different their bodies were. It was how similar their confidence was.
They walked tall. They laughed. They chatted. They splashed into the sea together without a single trace of embarrassment. Cellulite shimmered magnificently in the sunshine. And nobody cared. Least of all them.
Standing there, I had a sudden realisation. My body isn't the problem. My body carries me through every day. It gets me out of bed. It walks me up hills. It hugs the people I love. It has survived illness, stress, injury and ageing, but all too often, I repay it by criticising it for not looking like it did when I was 21.
So this summer, perhaps we could all ease up a little. There will always be someone thinner or more toned somewhere. And honestly? Who cares? Nothing is more attractive than someone who looks comfortable in their own skin.
So stand in front of a mirror and take an honest look at yourself. Yes, there may be parts you'd happily exchange. The "I've sat at a desk for twenty years" bottom. The "I've had three children" tummy. But they are proof that you have lived. And there will be things you love already too. A graceful neck. Great legs. Kind eyes. A wonderful smile. Focus on those if that’s easier for you. Me, I’m embracing every curve this year and following that Spanish family’s lead.
So, please, this year, make friends with your body. It's been with you since the very beginning and seen you through it all. The least we can do is take it on holiday without shouting at it.
