![]() ![]() I even traded my long braids for my natural hair-which I wore as an afro and then dreadlocks that grew down my back-perhaps, an act of rebellion after years of conformity. It was a relief not to stick out like a sore thumb. ![]() It was healing in some ways, but isolating in others. It had been a dream of my grandmother’s that I’d have a “black experience,” and so for undergrad I attended a predominantly black, prestigious, private college in Virginia. I unknowingly could have checked off all those boxes. According to the Mayo Clinic, the symptoms of dysmorphia include having perfectionist tendencies constantly comparing your appearance with others having a strong belief that you have a defect in your appearance that makes you ugly or deformed avoiding certain social situations because of it (which for me meant wearing a bathing suit or shorts in public) and being so preoccupied with your appearance that it causes major distress or problems in your social life, work, school, or other areas of functioning while always seeking reassurance about your appearance. I internalized the hate until I despised every square inch of who I was. After that, his friends stopped talking to him for choosing a “brown girl” as his date. During my senior year, I went to the prom with a white friend. Negative self-talk began to fill my head. See also Tap the Power of Tantra: A Sequence for Self-Trust ![]() Instead of celebrating my long limbs, I hid them, growing more and more ashamed of my figure. To protect me from what they viewed as a world that oversexualized black women’s bodies, they made sure there were no short shorts in my wardrobe. My image consciousness wasn’t helped by the fact that my loving parents, who grew up in the South during the civil rights era, were incredibly conservative. In an attempt to “fit in,” every few months I would sit for hours in a salon while a hairdresser transformed my hair into hundreds of long, tiny braids, called micro-minis, in hopes of mimicking long, flowing hair. I began comparing myself to the “popular” girls, who wore ponytails that swayed from side to side as they walked the halls. I was not only aware of my “big” legs, but also my hair texture, my far from European-shaped nose, and my darker skin color. That comment planted a seed of shame that would eventually grow and lead me on a long journey from self-destruction and dysmorphic thinking to self-discovery and spiritual renewal.Īt the age of nine, I transitioned from being homeschooled in a diverse suburb of Syracuse, New York, to the public school system in Bel Air, Maryland-a predominantly white community. From that moment on, my body became something others could accept or reject without my consent. I was suddenly aware of my body in a way that I hadn’t been before. Those words felt like a punch to the gut. I was wearing my favorite floral one-piece bathing suit, and my friend’s little brother told me that I had big legs. I remember the first time I became self-conscious about my body. Heading out the door? Read this article on the new Outside+ app available now on iOS devices for members! ![]()
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