I fucking love my body.
I love my thick brown hair that my grandfather had, that my father had, and that my son has.
I got my pretty ears from my father.
I love my pretty ears that I inherited from my father.
Photo: Seth Doyle, Unsplash
I see my mother's face in the mirror, except her eyes were brown. Mine are blue.
My eyes are blue.
Photo: Christopher Campbell, Unsplash
And I see the sweet round face of my darling aunt.
I always thought my hands were ugly until my twins were born with the same hands, and suddenly, they were the most elegant and beautiful hands I have ever seen.
Photo: Milada Vigerova unsplash
I love my strong legs and my feet that have walked me all over the planet and that will someday walk the camino. Or maybe they'll do the whole hog and walk from Helsinki to Spain.
My feet have walked me all over the planet.
I love my big breasts. They have nourished my children. They are beautiful.
My lady parts are beautiful. I have checked them out with a mirror many times to see what's the big deal.
I love my eyes only when my son tells me we have the same eyes. Truly the window of the soul.
They are like mine, he says.
I have a healthy, strong body. Just a few days ago, a 25-year-old boy took a short break from his texting to look me up and down appraisingly in a coffee shop. I assure you, I am no spring chicken ;-)
I fucking love my body.
No Jon Hamm lookalike is going to tell me that I am not a gorgeous creature.
I love my freckles and my curves.
I consciously refrain from criticizing my body. Who am I to criticize the Darwinian surge that ensured that I am alive today? My body survives.
That I was the one whose ancestors survived famine, wars and genocide.
Thank you to my body for being obscenely healthy.
Thank you for serving me well.
I love my body.
A version of this post originally appeared on Medium.
