I recently went on a solo hiking trip in Canada. You know this if you read my blog because I’ve already shared this tidbit. Ninety-two miles across glorious landscape.
If you’ve traveled alone or eaten out alone or done anything alone, or perhaps, have a resistant and unwilling partner/friend/roommate, you may have also mastered the selfie and/or self-timer on your phone to take photographs of yourself out in the wild.
I have. Or at least I think I have. I believe this because I generally like the photos I take and also, folks will often ask me who took my photos of me. I am sure they could make this inquiry simply based on the wonderment of it all (you are on a mountain, and your back is to us, so wtf?), but I like to think it’s also the quality of the photographs. Oh, and I’m sure there’s some nosiness or curiosity in the mix there too. Like whom is that one traveling with and not informing us?
Anyway, I propped my phone on my backpack, held upright by a rock, and set my self timer. I was sitting in front of the shores of Lake Louise. Sprawling mountains sprinkled with snow, turquoise water. The sun was shining and the only clouds in the very blue sky were small and wispy.
I had my back to the phone (or camera) and spread my arms wide, fingers on both hands making peace signs.
All things equal, I got the shot. I did. The shadows and light were sort of magical and the background honestly looked, well, fake.
But the first thing I thought when I looked at the photo was that my arms looked heavy. I looked at the wrinkles and folds in the skin spanning the space between my shoulder joint and back and cringed. And then, I took a quick glance at my heinie and decided in that moment that I would never put that photograph online.
How could I? It was horrible.
Fuck. Me.
How tragic is everything about what I just wrote? I was in what is arguably one of the most beautiful places on Earth. I was on a solo journey filled with physical exertion and general adventuring. A journey that requires a healthy and strong body and a mind to match. Also, courage. Lots and lots of courage.
And rather than looking at that photo and seeing my bravery and accomplishments and the staggering beauty of the scenery in front of me, I saw a body that I didn’t want to show the rest of the world.
The thing is, in that moment, I didn’t feel that way. Gazing out onto Lake Louise, tender arms raised high, I felt strong and happy and so, so grateful. Before I turned around to look at the photo I had taken, I took a deep breath and just allowed myself to feel all the feels.
Things have been good, but also, difficult, and nature is healing for me. The outdoors, particularly the mountains, is a place that fills me with solace and comfort and peace. However, I didn’t bottle up that feeling and let it spread to every inch of my body for the moments that followed. I did absorb all of that in that moment and the several moments that followed. And yet, as soon as I looked at that photo, I felt differently. I’ll just keep it for myself, I thought. There is no need to post, I pondered.
That’s true, for so many reasons, none of which are the reason I just provided. The reason not to post is because something is just for you, or sacred. Sometimes it’s best that we don’t share things with the world, so that we can preserve them exactly as they exist for us. Sometimes it’s delicious to soak up all the magic of a thing completely on our own and without the influence of someone else’s thoughts and feelings-no matter what they were.
I didn’t want to talk about whether I saw wildlife that day or if there were other people there. I didn’t want to answer questions about the length of the drive or the temperature in that particular spot. Those are wonderful reasons to not share a photograph.
But, my body? My physical form? Absolutely not.
I could write all the rah-rah, happy, go girl shit I want, but if I stop myself from posting a photograph because of how I look in it, I’m basically just like everyone else that I’m condemning.
I want to tell you that once I feel that, once I think that, it makes it easier to execute. Somehow with the knowledge that I want to be different, I am removed from the notion of what other people think when they look at that photo. I’m not. At all.
And it’s really that fear, and those feelings of struggle, that push me to share this photograph and these thoughts with you. I think more than normalizing the human body with all its flaws, we need to normalize the struggle of separating from a societal paradigm of beauty that is so deeply embedded that it’s inextricably part of our DNA.
I think we need to be able to share that we want to embrace cellulite and wiggly arms and thick thighs, but it’s fucking hard, because someone told us a long time ago, and continues to tell us that those bits and parts aren’t beautiful.
You know the paradigm whereas we could hear from 100 people that we are awesome, but then one person (and that could be ourselves) shares a negative thought and it’s what we latch onto? It’s the same thing here guys. It is. I could have many, many people tell me that I look strong and powerful, but the thought that one person would judge me makes my stomach ache.
I want to be different though. I want to change. And I know it’s not going to be easy, because I’ve been pre-programmed, but I’m still going to try.
So, here it is. I’m a confident, intelligent, hard-working, adventurous woman, but this photo of me scares me. BUT, the thought of not sharing it and what that means, that scares me more.
Happy adventuring.
x
L.
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