A few things I forgot to mention.

On Monday, I published a piece about ballet, and being a ballerina. As usual, I took a few detours I wasn’t expecting and ended up giving more of a pep talk than I anticipated. So just another day, as far as I’m concerned. But there are two things that I should have elaborated on, and they’ve been nagging me ever since I hit “publish,” but by that time I felt like the piece was long enough, and I also didn’t want to go in and make any edits. I thought maybe the thoughts would go away, and you wouldn’t know the difference anyway. But they didn’t, so here you go. Today will be brief. Maybe. I think.

 Firstly, I would like to further acknowledge body image issues- which is by no means a brief topic. I glazed over this, mainly because that is not what my last essay was about, but I keep wanting to address it slightly more in depth so I will try to be quick, even though body image is complex and so deeply entrenched in our culture and society and goes back ages and will continue for ages. I love that younger generations are more accepting of all body sizes and shapes. I love that they are learning to accept themselves as they are (except for wrinkles, which seem to be the Gen Z and Alpha version of weight, but we can save that for another day.) My generation, however, was obsessed with thin. It was the age of the waif, the supermodel, of an aesthetic literally called heroin chic. By middle school I was aware of diet pills, eating disorders and fat shaming. There was a time where there was nothing scarier to me than being fat, and here I am now, 43, a little chub bub but happy and not starving, and I think I have come a long, long way. But it is always there, in the back of my mind, the little voice that says this outfit would look so much cuter if I was a size two, but I work really hard at telling myself that I am beautiful just the way I am, and that there are literal paintings and sculptures of women in museums that look just like me, so I am a work of art, so I try to not compare myself to others. I also have to remind myself that hi, genetics are a thing.

But I didn’t know any of this when I was six and at the barre in leotard and tights. I just thought I was fat. I wasn’t. I was a perfectly normal, healthy child. But I learned to talk about my body the same way so many other women and girls did: from the women and girls around us, from the women and girls before us, and from the women and girls we watched on television and gazed at in magazines. And honestly, I don’t think anyone knew any better. We are all just doing our best to make it through this life with the tools we have, and we are just starting to pick up new tools. I see videos on Instagram and TikTok, of parents- and particularly mothers- talking to their children about loving their bodies, weaving positive affirmations to the morning get-ready schedule, and acknowledging and honoring the feelings their kids are having, and I think it is awesome.

I love that younger generations are being given building blocks of all the self’s – self-love, self-acceptance, and self-worth. I love the kindness and gentleness we are seeing in parenting and towards each other, and towards ourselves. Over the last few years, I have really gotten much better about how I talk to myself. If I slip and say something bad about myself, I catch it. Things like, I’m not stupid, I am very smart, I just didn’t plan very well and that is why I ran out of time to do that thing. I’m not gross, I just haven’t made the time to go to the gym because I have been prioritizing other things right now. Things like that. Will I wear a leotard without a cover up to ballet? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves- I still have some deprogramming to do- but I will wear leggings without covering up my butt and thighs so we are getting somewhere, and I think six-year-old me would be proud, and that’s all I have to say about that. That, and we all need to talk nicer to ourselves- the little ones are paying attention.

Secondly, I really missed an opportunity to point out that imposter syndrome is a waste of time. I mean, I touched on it in a vague, roundabout way, but let me take a moment to be really clear. Everyone at some point feels this way, like an imposter. I’d wager a guess that it is fairly universal. So, if we all have these feelings at one time or another, it really is a waste of time because do any of us really know what we are doing? A little bit yes, a little bit no. There is always more to learn, there is always someone that will know more than you, or have more experience, or whatever. And guess what, there are going to be things that you do better than them, and life is just one big ball of learning so let’s just do our best to let this imposter syndrome go, OK? I will remind you once again, that once you have a driver’s license, that you are a driver, so what more do you need? And that is your pep talk, part two. It is a little bit for you, and also a little bit for me, because even though I have published two books, and try to minimize that by saying, oh but they are only self-published, and never mind that I have been paid to write, and never mind that I sit here and write my little blog/publication/essay/article thing (I honestly don’t know what to call this since no one seems to like the word blog anymore even though it is essentially what this is,) and never mind that my stories have been picked for awards, I still struggle to call myself a “writer.”

But I’m getting used to it. I am a ballerina. A driver. And a writer. At least, that’s what my new batch of business cards say. I mean, technically they say “author,” but you get what I’m saying.

Now please subscribe if you haven’t already- it helps to silence the imposter syndrome that lurks in the shadows.