This is an email I sent to Ebony (link above) after a photo shoot that exceeded all my expectations!
This is a story about a personal step out of my comfort zone. A photo shoot that was designed to have me look sexy. I had agreed to ‘implied nudity’. Something I was always going to do ‘when I got to my goal weight’. Then I saw Ebony’s add on a facebook page and decided it was time. Life is too short!
Hi Ebony,
I’ve been thinking ever since I saw the photos about how to explain to you how much they mean to me.
So I apologise for the long email in advance. I want to share the history so you understand a bit of how I feel.
I first remember being size conscious in my early teens. A family friend (a man in his early thirties at the time) made a comment about it.
Actually in primary school dad asked if FT on my art smock stood for ‘fat tummy’. I recall that so vividly. Fat was such a negative term to me.
I started my first diet at 16.
I dieted from then until about 4 years ago. I was either dieting or feeling guilty for not dieting. All the time. Every day. For years.
My weight yoyo’d and always ended up higher than it started.
For 30 years I fought my body. I felt like a failure. I hated my fat. I hated how I looked.
I didn’t let it stop me from doing things, but I would be self-conscious a lot of the time.
Then I met the amazing Zoe who became my dietitian due to food intolerances. It was she who introduced me to healthy at every size (HAES).
Over the next 3 years I gradually started to accept my body. Accept its size and appreciate what it could do for me. Accept that I was not one of the 5% of people for whom diets worked. Accept that focusing on health and fitness was a much better option.
I stopped feeling as self conscious. I stopped wanting to diet. The scale shared a number that was more like a shoe size than a horror film.But I never expected to love my body.
Then your photos came through.
And I LOVED how my body looked. Even my belly as I arched my back in one of the photos I purchased. It looked sexy. I looked sexy.
I never thought I would like the photos of me that you took, I did it for the experience. I was wrong. Looking through your proofs I was loving how my body looked for the first time I can ever remember! Even when I dieted myself into a size 8 I did not love my body!
What you did for me is something I will be forever grateful for. It is life changing.
Thank you is not enough, but I will say it again anyway.
Thank you.
~*~*~*~*~*~
I want to add that I expected to find one, maybe 2 photos that I didn’t hate. I purchased 30, that I love! I could have purchased more!
I sat on a stool in mum’s kitchen. We discussed the best way to tackle it.
A number of smaller plaits to maximise the length was the agreement.
I took a selfie with pigtails at the front, I used to wear my hair like that. We called them ‘pussy cats’.
This part was fun. Memories of childhood and mum doing small plaits all over my head so I could dress up as raggedy ann.
Not so fun for mum, her back started hurting.
I knew she would rather I didn’t shave my head. So I felt guilty. But she wanted to continue.
We moved to the lounge where I sat on the floor. Sideways looks came my way from my nephews. My niece was oblivious. Hair didn’t matter to her.
Once the plaits were done (I am not sure how many, I didn’t count) the butterflies started up in my belly.
I took another selfie.
Pushing on through the fear is the only way I know.
So I asked mum to cut off the plaits right away.
Back to the kitchen stool. As the first plait was cut off my butterflies became leaden weights. My hair is not heavy, so I didn’t feel lighter as the plaited hair was dropped into a ziplock bag. The braids looked sad. Skinny. And not as much in the bag as I imagined. Would they even want my fine, frizzy hair for a wig?
But now I had spikes of hair. Varied lengths around my head. I took another selfie.
My mum and sister did not want to be involved in the shaving. My brother had gleefully volunteered.
I had raised over $4,000 for cancer by this stage. It was for a good cause. My brother had donated but tells me it was to see me bald.
We discussed lengths, I suggested starting with a #2. My brother decided a #4 and then see.
There was a plan to let my nephew colour my hair with hair chalk, but even with wet hair my amazon chalks didn’t work.
So onto the shaving we went.
I could see a crowd in the kitchen, I was outside. They were talking inside but I could not hear words.
I sat in a chair, with a sarong around my shoulders. And my brother shaved a strip up the back of my head.
I felt a moment of shock. Of ‘oh shit’. Of ‘I can’t go back now’.
I am not sure how long it took to get my hair down to a #4. But we all agreed my fine hair was short enough at that length. My sister helped tidy the edges. I didn’t take a selfie while it was being done. I didn’t want to see.
I had a hat with me, and several more at home.
I expected the worst. A badly shaped head. Some scars peering through. My birthmark fully exposed.
I guess my sister helping was a good sign.
Mum was surprised. She thought I was going truly hairless. If my brother had gone there, I would have let him. But I will be forever grateful he didn’t!
I sat through dinner. It needed more tidying I was told. But mostly people didn’t pay my head much attention. Our family dinners are noisy and fun. Hair is rarely a topic.
The next morning it all hit me. A week and 1 day after deciding to see if I could raise $2,000 for cancer research and support if I offered to shave my head I sat on my lounge and shed a tear. I had raised $4750. And my hair had gone from over 40cm (~16″) long to less than 1cm. Such a huge change.
But then a neighbour helped tidy it up. And his wife lent me a headband. With some makeup I looked quite cute.
Maybe I could adjust to short hair?
That was 2 weeks ago.
I now own many headbands, and new earrings. I have a ‘headband lady’.
I swim and by the time I am at my towel my hair is nearly dry.
I use a lot less shampoo. I have zero knots.
I can wear a hat and take it off without worrying about ‘hat hair’. I wear hats a lot – my poor scalp is very unprotected!
I will grow it enough to get it ‘styled’… but I might give short hair a try for a bit.
Imagine, if you will, doing your job, doing your extra curricular activities, living your life.
Planning next month, next quarter, next year.
Then all of a sudden you feel awful. Tired, teary, unable to make decisions.
You stand in the kitchen at lunchtime in tears because you can’t choose what to eat.
And you just know that your life is good! You have a great job, friends, family, a puppy, travel plans. A home and a car. Even a bike and a home gym.
But you are sad, anxious and overwhelmed.
Your ADHD gets worse, you feel all over the place.
You are not coping with your fabulous life.
You don’t like who you are.
Then you feel ok again. For a day, or even 3. Maybe you imagined it?
No, it’s back.
You have to go off camera for a meeting as you are crying for no reason.
So you see your Doctor. Who is fabulous.
She asks some questions.
Do you feel like insects are crawling on your skin when nothing is there? Why yes – I pulled over yesterday as I was so sure an ant or spider was crawling around my ankle only to find nothing there.
Other than the hot flushes (which is the main symptom people talk about!) I have most of the symptoms of menopause.
But it doesn’t end there. I am given choices for management of the symptoms. HRT or antidepressents. I choose HRT.
I start on patches. They help, a little. But not enough. So I start on higher dose patches. Then patches become hard to get in Australia due to shortages. I am putting on 2 patches, each the size of match boxes, and I can feel them constantly.
And it is still not enough.
I drop many of my outside of work projects.
I drop some of my work extras.
And it is still not enough.
If I talk to people about it they sometimes get embarrassed. Like it is something I should be ashamed of. Others are supportive. They may have been there. They may see it on their horizon. But I get nervous about sharing. What if I make others uncomfortable? Something extra to feel anxious about. If I say nothing but I am acting different will people not wonder why? But if I tell them they may not want to know.
And it is still not enough.
So I start on antidepressants. I take a week off work because I am told I will feel worse before I get better. I am aware still that my life and my doctor are amazing. I just don’t feel it.
The antidepressants make me so sick I spend the week on the couch. I persist for 2 weeks.
I can’t keep going. I feel too sick, most of the time.
My doctor is not sure why I reacted that way. She calls the pharmacist and they agree on the next antidepressant for me to try. The patches are back in stock so I only have one matchbox stuck to me at a time. I miss the thumbnail sized ones, but I take what they have.
I dread starting the new antidepressants. What if I get sick again?
I don’t.
I feel immediately better. I don’t feel sick, I don’t feel tired.
These ones take longer to start working. And I have a bad cold. I am a terrible patient. I complain. I whine. I share my suffering. But that is me, not menopause.
So I wait. In weeks to come I hope to feel more like me again. The me it took me a long time to learn to love. If not, I will keep trying.
And I have been warned, adjustments will be needed along this path. As my hormone levels keep changing.
I am sorry if this post makes you uncomfortable. But I can almost guarantee menopause is making me, and most women who go through it, even less comfortable.
On Sunday I did something that many people do every day, but for me it was a long way out of my comfort zone.
I wore rollerblades!
About 20 years ago I decided to buy rollerblades in the post-Christmas sales. I was going to get fit, and be one of those people who rollerbladed along St Kilda beach.
Well, my dream was ended rather abruptly when about 6 steps in to my new activity when I broke my back.
I have made a full recovery, physically.
But for several years I could not even watch others rollerblade.
And for longer I got nervous on any slippery surface.
In the back of my mind was the fact that the rollerblades won.
I had this idea about just wearing some rollerblades once more and just standing in them. Maybe for a minute. To even the scales a bit. But I let fear stop me.
Then last year my sister-in-law invited me to go roller-skating with her, my brother and their young kids.
I decided it was my chance!
And then we went into lockdown.
Fast forward to this year and the invitation was reissued – mother’s day at the skating rink!
My expectations were low, and my trepidation high. I had a goal to stand in the rollerblades, but was fully prepared to not even mange that.
My brother suggested roller skates instead, but it had to be the blades.
The rental counter handed over my size 7s and I went back to our table.
Step 1 – putting them on- went ok.
Standing up… I was not sure it was going to happen! But after quite a bit of self-talk I stood. And then let go of the table. For a minute!
Then I sat back down.
Part 3 was going from the table to the seat beside the rink – holding my brothers hand. I managed to shuffle across. I watched people of all ages skate and shuffle about the rink. And started moving around a bit myself, on the carpet.
After a while I realised that my rollerblade confidence was at it’s limit, so I switched them out for rollerskates – with the wheels tightened.
And I am proud to say that after quite a few trips along one edge of the rink holding the rail, I did a full lap of the rink without holding onto anything or anyone!
It was slow. It was wobbly in places. It was more shuffle than skate.
But I feel I have conquered my fear of being on skates, and am going to go again!
There is a fine line between cowgirl and lumberjack.
When I get an invitation to a party I get slightly anxious. I am not a huge fan of crowds of people. But I get over it pretty quickly. Mainly as parties at my age tend to be milestones you don’t want to miss!
But sometimes the invitation arrives with a theme… and we are asked to dress to match it.
That is when my heart sinks.
As a plus sized woman with slight social anxiety I want to either fit in or look so amazing I have the confidence to stand out.
As a plus sized woman at a themed party that becomes almost impossible.
I learned early in life that you can’t go half way if you are dressing up, if you do that you don’t fit in or look good.
So, I start picturing outfits. And my friends excitedly send me their outfits (if my friends are reading this please don’t ever stop doing that, I love seeing what you are wearing).
And I get a picture in my head of what I might wear.
Then I try to match what I can buy to that picture.
In todays case the theme was country and western. In my head I had cute cowgirl. Denim skirt, paisley blouse, boots, and a hat. Or maybe a dress with the boots and hat?
I have a hat and boots already – tick!
In my local shopping centre there are only a few shops that stock size 18-20, so I decided to see what I could find at lunchtime.
I quickly ruled out the denim skirt idea, soon followed by the dress.
But that was ok, I look good in jeans and it should be easy to find a suitable top. Right?
No luck with the paisley. But look – a cute pink checked shirt over there! Oh, it only goes up to size 14.
Next shop.
A pink checked shirt in my size! But it was heavy flannel. And I am going through menopause. Sweaty cowgirl was not the look.
Next shop.
A black and white checked flannel shirt (lightweight). Tick
My jeans. Tick
My hat. Tick
Boots. Tick
I now have an outfit to wear that fits the brief.
But looking in the mirror there seems to be a fine line between cowgirl and lumberjack.
