This body shaming thing is so insidious. Now, with my awareness in full gear, I see just how deep the self-shaming goes.
The latest example was just last week when my executive assistant, Carsey, sent me a picture of myself and said, “Wow! I love this picture! Can we use it?”.
My response was immediate and visceral: “Old lady hand!” …shouting over our back-and-forth text messaging. Meaning, not on your life! I cringe at people seeing my pale, veiny, and wrinkled appendage.
Immediately, my wise and perceptive colleague, more than 30-years my junior, quipped, “Isn’t that the point?”
SILENCE.
Her words hung there, reverberating in my head: “Isn’t that the point?”
I stared at the picture again. There it was — my hand, gesturing casually in the shot – pale, veiny, wrinkled. But also… mine. My hand, that’s written countless words, built a career, created projects, held onto loved ones, planted flowers, and learned to let go when it had to. How had I reduced all of that to just an “old lady hand”?
I wanted to type back some witty retort, to deflect the uncomfortable truth she’d just thrown at me. But the silence persisted, louder than any words I could think of. She wasn’t wrong. Isn’t this whole journey about “accepting” the things I instinctively want to hide or fix?
This obviously had to be an entry in this series. And the more uncomfortable a situation makes me, the more urgent it feels to put it out there. So here I am – unveiling the picture, the hand, and the unease that comes with exposing what I’d rather keep hidden.
Up to this time, Carsey and I have had plenty of discussions about pictures with my hands in them. I always, always dismissed them. No way.
I stared at this picture a little longer. My discomfort didn’t vanish. Let’s be clear: I haven’t suddenly become some self-love guru, glowing with unshakable confidence about my “old lady hands.”
But in the early stages of this experiment, there has been a softening, an awareness of things I haven’t wanted to admit about myself. If I can’t fully embrace my hands yet, maybe I can at least let them exist. Maybe I can stop hiding them – just once – and see what it feels like.
This is a start. Another tiny step toward breaking the habit of shrinking myself to fit someone else’s – or even my own – definition of acceptable. These hands are a part of me. They’ve been through a lot with me.
So here I am, old lady hands and all, showing up. If you’re reading this, maybe you have your own “hands” to face – your own version of something you’d rather not acknowledge. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but maybe that’s the point. Sometimes, the hardest thing isn’t fixing or changing – it’s just letting it be.
With Love,
Becca
This is so wise! Thank you for sharing
Tracey ❤️
👋🏼 ➡️ my old lady 👵 🖐🏼 waving at you 🤩
xoBecca