Extracting confidence from life's beatdowns
Every time someone comments on how confident I am (sub: how I seem confident), I always combat it with, “Man, I have you fooled!” Delivered with a bright smile, and followed by appreciation for their compliment.
The statement always gets a laugh.
I find that the quip makes people who truly wish they could be more confident feel better about themselves. Because when I used to comment on how confident others seemed, I was deeply insecure at that time in my life.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m making some assumptions here. But I wonder how much of my surprising-to-others “confidence” they read from me is actually because I’m fat, and some people can’t fathom how you can be fat and genuinely confident.
I come across (to new people) as a bubbly, open-book, little-phases-me type of person. And when people see me, I wonder if they rack their brains over how the hell I could be so self-assured when they feel like they’re a melting pot of insecurities.
The funny thing is that being fat is actually a massive part of my self-confidence. (No pun intended.)
I’ve not been fat my entire life, but I was always treated like I was.
Seeing young photos of myself—photos I threw out because it brought back memories from when I was treated like slovenly filth that no one would wanted to be near because I was that repulsive to them.
I noticed the dimness on my young face fade further through the years of photos.
That’s not something I wanted to remember.
(Genuine smiles only came after I met Brian. Go figure.)
A photo that stood out was one of me in a bikini. I had visible abdominal muscles then—there was no date on the photo, but I'm guessing we were around 14.
I stood on the right side, one-point-five human-sized spaces away from two of my tiny “friends” who crowded beside each other on the left. Both with their prideful smiles juxtaposed with my feigned, squinting grin—seemingly holding back tears.
I remember the girl closest to me most. Not too long before the photograph was taken, she said to me, “Hey, your fat rolls look funny.” The other girl threw her head back and cackled.
I slapped my stomach, and it sounded like hitting an over-filled basketball. Then I lightly tapped her little pooch and said, “What? Who’s jiggling?” with a giggle.
I thought they’d laugh, but they didn’t. The other girl called me a “jealous, fat cow,” and the one I tapped chuckled at that, and rolled her damp eyes at me.
In the photo, my eyes read confusion—teetering on lifelessness.
I tore the picture and threw it away, along with most of the others that didn’t have my mom in them—anything that made me feel less-than or brought back terrible memories were trash.
No matter how hard I worked on my body, it was always going to be “different” and unacceptable. I’m wide, broad, and stalky. I’m large-chested, and have a big backend. No peer accepted my body or even liked it, I thought. And the only “positive” attention I got was from creepy older men trying to groom me.
Looking at those pictures, pulled from the box of crap my dad shipped to me (even after I blatantly told him not to), I finally realized that everyone projects.
The people who made fun of me were probably afraid of being like me or being treated like I was—even if they were the culprits of cruelty.
A few years ago, after a less tactful adult friend couldn’t believe that she and her husband found me attractive—I was their first “fat crush,” apparently. In that moment of this friend repeatedly saying how she “can’t believe how pretty” I am, I thought of a comeback for all the times when people criticized my body: “It’s OK that you’re afraid to be like me because you know you couldn’t pull it off like I do.”
But being mean back didn’t help me then. Being more vicious would only make things worse. And, of course, saying anything leaves one open to even more cruelty, and I lose my words and react with physicality—never a good thing. Before my Autism diagnosis, I felt understood listening to the song “I Own You” by Mick Flannery. A lyric verse said:
Get a hot head
I get the words wrong
Get the meaning right
With a left hook
Yep.
Others’ terribleness is never really about the person it’s directed at, I've learned. It’s always about them.
But the mental comeback still felt good in the moment. It’s a morsel of self-granted empowerment, even though it’s stupid and would likely just get blown back in my face if I ever used it.
I project onto my husband all the time. A couple months ago he asked me to stop touching him when I walk by. Touch is a sensorial nightmare for Brian, but especially when the “energy” in the household isn’t positive. And when he shared that it’s incredibly anxiety-inducing for him, I nodded, walked away, and cried in the bathroom.
It was a thousand knives cutting me deep. I later realized his revelation hurt so much, not because I thought focusing all my energy on not touching his shoulder lovingly would hurt our relationship. But because it’s what I want him to do when he passes me.
I want him to lovingly touch my shoulder. I want him to pause and side-hug me before going where he intended to. I want him to stop by my desk, to lean down and kiss me on the cheek before he passes once in a while.
Touch is my (secular) “love language,”
and I was subconsciously demanding it from him by nonverbally projecting it onto him.Heck, every criticism I’ve had of other people have been criticisms of myself or a feared future variation-self—the self I hid from the world (or tried to). The things I don’t like about other people are things I hate about me.
Everyone projects, whether we know it or not.
I’m sure some people are just filled with hate and anger for one reason or another, and take their pain out on others. But I’ve never witnessed or have been on the receiving end of such behavior where the offending person wasn’t projecting or, simply, fearful. Maybe fearful of what they could be if [insert any potential reason here].
My perceived confidence is, truly, me being the real me as I slowly unravel who that is.
It’s me knowingly talking too much. It’s me sharing lots of personal faults about myself, and telling “embarrassing” stories.
The people who share their shock that I filet myself in front of everyone make me feel alive. And I guess that may translate to confidence to others.
Where the genuine confidence comes in is that I’ve learned to just roll with my talkativeness.
I talk a lot when I’m nervous.
I talk a lot when it’s silent and there are people sharing the space with me, because I find it wasteful to not verbally engage good company.
I talk a lot because I’m desperately seeking human connection.
The confidence is that I know I do it. I used to feel shame about doing it, but now I do it anyways. Because I can.
Confidence is accepting all the things other people might find off-putting about yourself, and owning them. Openly. And meaning it.
And, at this point in my life, I can’t imagine feeling or being any other way.
“Low self-confidence isn’t a life sentence. Self-confidence can be learned, practiced, and mastered—just like any other skill. Once you master it, everything in your life will change for the better.” —Barrie Davenport
“People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.” —Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
“You either walk inside your story and own it, or you stand outside your story and hustle for your worthiness.” —Brené Brown
Caring about what other people think used up too much energy. I only have so much on any given day—I only have so many fucks to give. Why waste them on people who aren’t where you are, and may never be. Why waste them at all?
I used to wonder where my old bullies are in life, but then I realized that it doesn’t matter. I hope they evolved, but that was another area where I gave away my energy needlessly—wondering about them.
It helped knowing that I only think about those people or their words when I’m in a rough spot. Maybe Brian and I had a disagreement, or maybe I didn’t get good or enough sleep. Maybe I’ve consumed too much politics, or maybe I’m in a stressful spot in life.
It’s easy for me to note how temporary these fleeting thoughts and moments are. But acknowledging them is the first step. Truly understanding my value to myself and not just societally is the second. Simply getting older is the third. Treating myself the way I treat others positive is the fourth. Keeping myself occupied is the fifth—too busy (even if I’m in this “slow living”
spot at the moment) to worry about anything. And surrounding myself with good people who care about me is the last key. These maybe aren’t universal, or the “be-all, end-all” of reasons, but it’s scaffolding to my self-built, solid foundation of self-worth that unquestionably bolsters self-confidence—perceived and genuine.My body and mind are incredibly imperfect, but I’m still here. I fight every day. I brought three amazing people into this world. I married my best friend, and we built an incredible life together. I live in the city I love, in a region I can actually survive in. Every new line on my face is earned, and every scar is proof of my endurance.
Life and life experiences gave me this confidence.
Do I wish things were easier sometimes? Of course. But I wouldn’t be who I am and where I am if it was an easy life. And I fucking love who I am, and where I am so far in life. And apparently other people notice too.
I’m grateful.
My best,
Sara
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What Is Slow Living?, Byrdie, written by Jessica Estrada