Content warning: this article discusses body image.
It always begins in my chest. As more and more unfamiliar faces pour into the room, I feel my chest growing tighter and tighter. I simultaneously both know and don’t know the people around me: close enough that I can clumsily put names to faces, but not enough to slide myself into the established grooves of conversations. That’s the cue to begin my practiced routine: scan the room, exchange a couple of hellos, share a hug or two, make some small talk, and then, when the tightness becomes too overwhelming to bear, leave to find a quiet spot somewhere else. Sometimes, I’ll pop in earbuds to fill my ears with familiar beats instead of the irregular beats of my own heart.
I’ve found these sorts of situations uncomfortable for as long as I can remember. The same feeling has followed me since when I was six years old and didn’t know what to do on the first day of summer camp. It was there when I was 13 and clutched onto my phone as a security blanket at family gatherings. It made its presence known when I was 18 and found myself at parties as the third wheel again and again. The thing is, I’m comfortable in large crowds when there are people I know; it’s the feeling of drifting around without an anchor in a sea of unfamiliar faces that makes me want to hide. Of course, being the “odd one out” in a room full of people isn’t a unique experience; it’s definitely happened to everyone at least once. Not everyone responds the way that I do, though. Some look at the situation as an opportunity to meet new people and others get clammy hands just thinking about it. I belong to the latter half, but I’m not sure if I want that to continue.
One night, during my junior year of high school, I stumbled upon this quote by Anne Lamott while scrolling through Instagram:
“Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, or imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.”
I lay there in my bed reading the quote over and over again. I hadn’t realized how many things I had let pass me by just because they were outside of my comfort zone. My future flashed in front of my eyes in that moment—I would be old and grey without having done anything interesting, all because I had been too afraid to push my boundaries. That wasn’t the kind of life I wanted to live. That night, I vowed to purposely make myself uncomfortable when given the opportunity, not because I enjoy feeling strange in my own skin, but because I wanted to stop living on the bleachers in the game of my life.
The next month, I decided to run in a house-system election for my senior year. It was honestly the most terrifying thing I did throughout my entire time in high school. I didn’t get my hopes up about winning; I told myself that I had a lot of other excellent, qualified candidates running against me. My friends would come up to me in the halls and comment on how surprised they were that I was running. I found myself super uncomfortable with the attention—I wasn’t used to being in any kind of spotlight. When my name was called during the school assembly held to announce the winners, I noticed the sheer number of students looking in my direction. I realized then that I’d be making myself known to the whole school, not just my grade. Little did I know, this would be the beginning of my journey.
Throughout my senior year, I pushed my comfort zone in ways I had never imagined. I gave a welcome speech in front of new students during a camp trip, co-hosted cake boss competitions, and led a dance to Bruno Mars’s “Marry You” in a lip-sync contest. I made sure to smile, laugh, and be larger-than-life whenever I could because I didn’t want anyone to know that I was actually incredibly nervous. I wouldn’t say that I graduated as a speech-performance-lip-sync master, but I was sure that I would be more comfortable in similar situations in the future. My plan had been a success. I would continue to push my boundaries and test my limits in university, signing up to sing a duet at a talent show, running through choreography in front of strangers in dance classes, and writing things that others could read through The Strand (surprise!).
As much as I have worked to become more comfortable in certain situations, there’s still one thing that I find extremely hard to become comfortable with: clothing. I gravitate towards loose jeans, sweaters with collars peeking out underneath, low-top sneakers, and hoodies that I can swim in. This isn’t necessarily reflective of the clothing I want to wear, though; I envision outfits in my head where I’m in clothing that I would normally never wear—crop tops, miniskirts, and skinny jeans, to name a few.
I think that confidence plays a huge role in drawing the line between comfort and discomfort. Is your discomfort a reflection of your insecurities, or are you genuinely uncomfortable in the outfit you’re wearing? Do you feel uncomfortable in that dress because it’s not indicative of who you are (or it’s made from a scratchy material, or you’re too cold in it), or do you find yourself criticizing your body when you’re in the dress? These are just some questions that I’ve started asking myself when I think about my sense of style and the relationship I have with my body. I’ve come to realize that it’s not that I’m physically uncomfortable in crop tops and skinny jeans; it’s that I’m mentally uncomfortable in them. I’m uncomfortable because I’m not confident.
I want to overcome the insecurities that I have surrounding my body. I want to feel good in the clothing that I own and feel comfortable in it—both physically AND mentally. This won’t be an overnight process; it will be difficult to address the reasons why I’m uncomfortable in certain outfits and certain situations. But, as Anne Lamott said, I don’t want to wake up one day and realize that I’ve been missing out on doing and wearing things because of my own internal discomforts and insecurities.
As for the discomfort that stems from being the odd one out in a room, I’m not sure if that’s something I’ll be able to overcome. And, to be honest, I’m not sure if that’s something I really want to overcome. Over the last year, I realized that I’m okay with making myself uncomfortable in situations that I know deep down I want to be in, such as performances and showcasing my creative work. On the other hand, I realized that I’m not comfortable with being in a loud room with faces I don’t recognize, nor do I want to place myself in that situation to push my boundaries because I know I don’t want to be there in the first place. If I wake up one day and realize that I would love nothing more than to strike up conversations with strangers at parties, would I work towards doing so and push through the discomfort? Absolutely. But besides that, I’m only human. I have my limits. I know that it’s okay not to be okay with certain things. There are things that I won’t ever find comfortable, and I accept those parts of me the way they are.
I believe I owe myself the pleasure of doing things that I want to do. We all owe ourselves things that make us happy. Everyone is given the same 24 hours a day; it’s our choices that determine where we’ll end up and what quality of life we’ll live. And the truth is, we’re not on this rock floating in space for a very long time. So, I’m going to bask in the fading glow of the sun on the beach, let the wind rush through my hair on late night drives, laugh with my loved ones, and capture these moments for ages to come with lasting fondness in my heart—for I deserve happiness.
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