Ella is writing a book entitled Yeah, Right: A Girls Guide to Surviving Teens and asked me to contribute to the Image And Appearance section, explaining how my negative body image, specifically around my height (I’m almost six feet tall), affected me then and now. Here’s my story:

The Height Of Happiness: How I Grew To Accept Being Tall

I’ve always been a tall girl; as a child I was the very embodiment of “growing up.”

I grew up. And up. And up.

Like many young girls I attended ballet classes – mostly because I loved the idea of wearing frilly tutus, prancing about looking dainty and elegant. Unfortunately though, it quickly became apparent that being the tallest in the class meant I’d always be sidelined for the female roles; instead I was chosen to play the male partner in the dance shows. While the other girls shimmied and swirled in their frothy pink outfits, I’d tug at my boyish shirt and pedal-pushers crossly.

In photos I always had to stand at the back, a body-less head floating above the crowd. When my nan made me jumpers she’d have to click-clack away with her knitting needles, adding extra row upon row to the arms, like she was kitting out an octopus.
In my early teens, my average-height girlfriends could borrow each other’s clothes, chatting away at school about which items to swop with one another for the party at the weekend…but their stuff would never fit me – the arms and legs would be miles too short. At that age, we all wanted to look the same – or at least very similar – to one another. Matchy-matchy, like a girl band.
When it came to boys, they seemed to prefer the shorter girls – cutesy curvy ones they could tuck neatly into their arms, dropping the occasional kiss on the top of their head. Which guy wants to have to reach up to kiss his girlfriend? I was about as curvy as an ironing board; my family nicknamed me Olive Oyl after Popeye’s gangly girlfriend (if you’re too young to know who she is – google it and weep). My mood swings were vicious: I’d shout and slam doors, or lash out at my mum for making me such an unlovable shape. It was a design flaw, a genetic defect – and therefore all my parents’ fault.
But then, something quite remarkable happened. I grew into my lanky body. People starting complimenting my stature, suggesting I become a model. I was stopped in Oxford Street by scouts when out shopping. I did a modelling campaign for a bridalwear company, where I was actually being PAID for my height.

Suddenly, my height was my USP (Unique Selling Point). We all have one – several actually – I just hadn’t figured out that my height was one of mine. By now I was almost six feet tall. People noticed me. When I spoke, people listened (I also have a very loud voice, but that’s another matter entirely). In shops I went straight to the bottom of the folded pile for the 34 inch leg jeans without complaining. At concerts I could see everything, whilst my shorter friends craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the show. I could reach tall shelves without a ladder. Boys asked me out. People looked up to me (they had no choice, but hey, it felt good).

These days, I love my height. It turns out that being tall is an advantage, not the disability I saw it as as an awkward teenager. I used to think my legs looked like golf clubs – huge feet on the end of stilts. I stooped; hunching my shoulders to try and look shorter, yanking my sleeves down over long arms. Now I know that my feet are perfectly in proportion, as is the rest of me. This is how I was meant to look. And I look pretty good (…well maybe not when I first wake up, but after breakfast, certainly). I’m 41 years old (which I know sounds ANCIENT to you) and this body has given me a wonderful life so far: I’ve travelled the world, got married, worked hard, danced and partied and laughed and cried. My body is strong and healthy and has served me well.
So if you’re feeling down about your appearance remember this: your uniqueness is what makes you you. If we all looked the same the world would be a boring place. Whilst you’re worrying about your looks, you’re wasting valuable energy that could be spent having FUN.

That other girl, the one you wish you looked like? She’s worrying about her looks too. Be kind. You’re so much more than a big nose, or frizzy hair. Your personality is what makes you shine; it’s what people remember the most. When you talk to yourself in your head, your body listens. So tell it you’re amazing. Tell it you’re thankful for everything it’s doing to keep you alive: pumping your blood, beating your heart, inflating your lungs. If you tell yourself good things, you’ll feel good. Try to look outside of yourself, rather than always looking inwards. There’s a big world out there, a whole life waiting to be lived. The things that matters to you now probably won’t matter to you later. When I think of all the hours I wasted fretting about my looks, I wish I hadn’t. My height, that thing I hated most? It turned out to be one of my best assets. I’d never have believed it if someone told me that when I was your age. Love yourself. Embrace your individuality. Be kind to your body. It’s the only one you’ll ever have. I wish you happiness and joy and a wonderful life. Now get out there and live it and stop worrying about your hair.

Sam x

To support Project Teen and get Ella’s book Yeah Right! A Girl’s Guide To Surviving Teens to the girls that need it most, click here. Please share this post to raise awareness of the campaign, the issues facing teenage girls and to let them know that we love them, we support them and we have their backs. 

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Height Of Happiness: How I Grew To Accept Being Tall appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

“Sheesh, you’re looking old today, girlfriend!” “You’ve really shoehorned yourself into those skinny jeans, eh fatty?”

“I wouldn’t bother applying for that job mate, you’d never get it.”

With friends like that, who needs enemies, huh? Only these are not the words of a two-faced mate, a frenemy who offers soothing words of support when we’re down whilst secretly feeling a certain frisson of Schadenfreude. Oh no, this is something far more harmful, crippling us on a daily basis. These are words we say to ourselves. The inner voice sabotaging our everyday actions, personal development and general happiness.

Of course it’s good to have an inner voice when it comes to conscience, intuition, instinct. You need to question the wisdom of your actions, have a quiet word with yourself now and again. But what if the inner dialogue between you and your party-pooper psyche becomes more of a battle of wills, a slanging match? One in which the running commentary of negativity often wins?

It’s time to pull yourself up.

It’s time to sprinkle salt on the slug of self-doubt.

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As women, we’re adept at cheerleading others, encouraging them through the peaks and troughs of life, whilst simultaneously wrestling our own inner critic. But in order to be at our best and get the most out of life, we need to cut ourselves some slack, body-slam that inner bitch and see the good in ourselves, too.

You know those days when everything’s going well and you’re buzzing with excitement – say, the last day at work before a long-awaited holiday? You’re smiling, the day flows, your mood is contagious and all is right in your world, the inner voice cheerfully humming along to your tune. Even the mounting pile in your in-tray or an irritated customer can’t shake your merriment.

Wouldn’t you love to bottle that lighter-than-air feeling to save for those dark days, the ones where you wake up to pelting rain with a stiff neck, a black mood and are telling yourself it’s going to be “one of those days” before you’ve even got past the front door?

With practise, I’m told, there is a way. The first part is awareness: recognising when you’re self-sabotaging, then consciously doing something positive to change your mindset, be it exercise, listening to uplifting music, meeting a friend, calling your mum (good old mum!) or immersing yourself in a hobby you’re passionate about (why do you think I write?).

There will always be tough days, but they will be far easier with a Tigger bouncing about in your head, rather than a downcast Eeyore. I know from personal experience that if you cannot love yourself, it will become nigh-on impossible to love anyone else: sadness permeates every pore, wrecking your health and ruining relationships. You’re constantly on the edge, a tightly coiled spring, and the smallest perceived slight will make you snap. It’s a miserable way to live.

So try telling yourself you can. Put yourself out there. If it doesn’t work, whatever it is, at least you tried. When you’re feeling happy in yourself, you have spare happiness to pass on. You really do get what you give. If you speak sharply to someone, it’s hardly surprising that you get the exact same tone back. If you’re calm, honest, humble, others respond in kind.

If someone compliments you, a simple “thanks!” will suffice. Don’t question it or deflect the praise by shrugging it off, embarrassed, babbling something to the contrary. Absorb it’s warmth like rays of summer sunshine on your face and use the energy that comes from it to spur you on.

Having accepted the compliment, pay it forward. If someone looks great, tell them. Praise someone for a job well done, or message someone you admire to let them know.  When you’re in a good mood, people are attracted to you, which in turn boosts you further.  All these little sparks of positive energy will have a cumulative effect until suddenly you find you have a fire in your belly, strong enough to grab life by the gonads once more.

Obviously I can only speak for women, but I’m not sure men suffer from such fun-numbing neuroses. Even with a paunch, balding and more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei puppy, they seem to look in the mirror and see a Greek god gazing adoringly back at them. It’s like they have reverse body dysmorphia.

Take Peter Stringfellow as a case in point, confidently strutting about in his micro-Speedos on the beach for the tabloids’ paps. I’m sure he hadn’t spent the preceding hour grabbing the flab and bemoaning his bod in the hotel mirror, before slipping on a cover-up and carefully positioning himself on the sunbed at the most flattering angle, stiff as a board as he imagines the other sun-worshippers silently judging him from behind their oversized sunnies.

The recent passing of the universally-loved  Mohammad Ali has thrown his amazing life back into the spotlight, his inspiring quotes cropping up all over the news and social media. The stand-out personality traits which fuelled his success were a) dogged self-belief coupled with b) a sparkling sense of humour; borderline hubris offset by an innate ability to laugh at himself.

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A couple of years ago, I’d split from my husband and partner of fifteen years, having endured years of unsuccessful fertility treatment and the accompanying sense of failure and self-loathing. Meanwhile my friends were in long-term relationships or married, almost all had children and I was 37 years old, separated and living alone for the first time in my life in an eerily silent house. I’d hit rock-bottom and my confidence was at an all-time low.

After a short period of licking my wounds, I knew I had to take action to change my situation. I got a tattoo in Latin, which says “Fortune Favours The Brave,” wrapped around my torso. A bit naff? Maybe. But whenever I wanted to wimp out, I saw the tattoo and it spurred me on, even just to do small things like go to the cinema or a restaurant alone. You can’t have that emblazoned on your bod then act like a pussy, eh?

I stepped down from a stressful role, took a sabbatical and went travelling around Thailand on my own. I threw myself into the dating scene after 15 years (which was a real eye-opener, let me tell you) and met a new man.

I returned to work in a lesser role, prioritising happiness over money, and volunteered helping children in Costa Rica. I started writing regularly and sharing it with you all, knowing that it would mean exposing my innermost thoughts to the world and the criticism that may entail, but it would be following my passion to write. I got an article published (the first I ever submitted) and have you, dear Reader, following my blog, for which I am extremely grateful. Thank you so much

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Of course, there are far braver souls than me out there. I’m not claiming to be some self-help guru, and believe me, I’m often riddled with self-doubt. But one thing I’ve learnt as I get older is that if you don’t believe in yourself, you can’t expect anyone else to. Furthermore, everyone else is far too busy worrying about their own shortcomings and daily dramas to take much notice of yours.

No one knows what the hell we’re doing here, everyone’s just winging it and trying to get through this thing we call “life” as best they can. None of us are getting out of this alive, so we may as well help each other along, try to realise our dreams and have as much fun as we can along the way.

They say “Life is a journey, not a destination.”

Amen to that.

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This article has also appeared at Huffington Post UK.

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Sprinkle Salt On The Slug Of Self Doubt appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.