If only I could be as thin as she is, she whispers inside her head, then everything else would line up. If only my hair was straight and thick as hers, then I’d feel like a supermodel. She always wears the most amazing clothes and jewelry–she’s more of a success than I am. Gosh, I wish I could eat dessert like she does, but if I do, it will all go to my thighs. If only….if only….if only….

Where does the thought whispering I am not enough come from? It’s natural to compare notes, but where does this toxic comparison take us? When we look at some, we perceive we come up short. When we look at others, we feel superior–I would never be xyz, my kids would never do that, I would never stay with a man who did abc.

I was hanging with a friend the other day, and she remarked someone we knew had it all–that it must be nice to be so thin. Of course, the woman in question gets up at the crack of dawn and works out for an hour before most of us are even awake–even on vacation….and Friend and I looked at each other and said–Nope–not on vacay….

There are so many times I compare, too. In my head, I hear the old 80s mantra of supermodels saying, I really eat what I want in moderation, and I hate to exercise. I keep trying to do exactly that…and you know….after 30 years of trying, I don’t think that’s the plan for me.

We don’t know their stories. We don’t know what it’s like to be in their shoes. We don’t know what makes them feel less than. Here’s the thing: they have struggles, they have doubts, they have hurts….and I am willing to bet that 99% of them out there compare themselves to others and find themselves lacking. And you might be surprised when you hear the times when they feel Not-Enough.

I am a curvy girl. I’ve always been a curvy girl–no matter if I was a size 4/6, size 6/8, junior size, super size….the curves follow me. My dad’s side is full of the Skinny Girls…. I remember all my second/third/fourth cousins sashaying into the Big Red Ranch (my grandparents’ house) looking all fabulous and effortless in that beautiful, willowy kind of skinny. I was mesmerized. They laughed and tossed their 70s straight hair in perfect unison to the pause in the conversation. Here I was in my tomboy phase with dirty jeans and possibly bare feet and having to wear jeans a size bigger to accommodate my bootie and thighs, which made the waist gap out about a mile (did anyone else have that waist gap when your jeans fit) and I was less than glamorous. If only I was willowy like that side of the family–then I’d be enough.

My Mom’s side of the family was more curvy–my mom is a beautiful curvy girl….and I definitely inherited all the curves. When I was in my 30s, I remember a couple of my aunts telling me they wished they had my mom’s bootie. What?? As a woman who was perpetually doing things to minimize my backside, it was hard to believe someone actually coveted the thing I was trying to lose. Why?, I asked. My aunt replied: the men always love your mom’s bootie. My skinny bootie is flat and hers is a sexy bootie. Sexy bootie? That comment was life.changing. In my mind, a sexy bootie was a small bump of a bootie–that perfectly round, small C shaped bump on the back accompanied by skinny legs…. My bootie is JLo big–and no matter what size I am, the bootie follows me. I *so* wanna Goodwill 3/4 of that junk in my trunk.

Last year, I was featured in an industry magazine, which meant I needed new professional pics–ones which would be appropriate for a magazine cover and inside feature (check Covergirl off my Life List–woop!!!). I asked the photographer to take some pictures of me rolling a suitcase to use for my blog.

All the pictures were great, but when I saw the pictures of me rolling the suitcase, my heart just sunk. I asked her if she would be willing to do some covergirl level photoshop (don’t judge–if it’s good for Cindy Crawford, it’s good for me). The photographer replied: Those are my favorite–I love your bootie in those photos–it’s beautiful. Now, photographer is young, beautiful, and willowy skinny….so I was shocked. What?? No…. Really?

Of course, here I am all Rah-Rah and stuff about being okay with your body–and ask me if I’ve used that picture one time. Ask me. No. I haven’t used it one.single.time.

Why?

Because for all my life, I’ve been embarrassed about my butt–ashamed even. (and moment of truth, here, it even feels shameful to admit I’m shameful about it–I can see my therapist taking furious notes already)…. I play it cool, but it’s right there under the surface where no one else can see….

So: here are the pictures (eeek–those are some dangerous curves!).

I’m not sharing the picture for props (although feel free), but to be real. When I see that photo, I see everything great–except that one thing. That picture would be perfect if I had that skinny little C butt. My life would be perfect if…… I’d be happier if…..

Toxic comparison is when we value or devalue based on an image–or a moment. Toxic comparison is when we say Kiwi is superior to an Apple (unless you are a comparing Tagalong to all other cookies and the buck stops, there)…and if you are an apple, you should feel bad about yourself because you are not a Kiwi.

How.Does.This.Help?

You can’t change the fact that you are an apple, a passionfruit, or a papaya. Maybe you can work out and become the best freaking lookin Papaya out there, and that is fine…but you are still a Papaya. Bask in the glory of your Papaya-ness. Don’t look at the Kiwi and pine away for that compact shape, the outer fuzzy shell, and that glorious green inside. Those things will not make your life better because you are created to be a papaya and you offer so much more. I love Kiwi, but can you imagine if every fruit out there tasted like Kiwi–had the seeds and the fuzzy and the little mushy insides? We need apples and bananas and coconuts.

You Are Enough. No matter what anyone says: you are not less than. As a divorced woman, we often feel like we were second place in our marriages (even third, fourth or not even in the running for priority). We felt grossly not enough in that relationship (and yet often Too Much at the same time–but that’s for another story).

Perhaps we’ve looked at other women and other couples and wished our lives away–if only we were the embodiment of those people, we would not be in this situation. To survive (and even thrive), we need to find those places we hide away–those places where we fiercely protect that part of us we feel doesn’t measure up. Those are the places which trigger our need for control.

Dig em up–study those places like you are going there on vacation–look at them with a scientific mind–be curious about your protective tendencies. View those qualities inside you with all the compassion you can muster and tell yourself: I am enough in this area. We don’t need to control the narrative–make a self-depreciating joke to pre-empt any external judgement–or build the Great Wall of China around that part of us.

I would make an amazing rock star–seriously. I got the moves, I got the rhythm, the sass, the blue-steele look. I could totally bring it. The problem is: I can’t really sing–I have no musical talent. Oh I spent my school years in choir and took piano lessons and tried to play the guitar for a hot minute, but zip-zero-nada. It’s tragic I know. The world is missing out….

Now, I could take some voice lessons, practice really hard and perhaps be able to get through a Karaoke night without wanting to crawl in a hole and hide, but why? The ironic thing is I feel I am somehow less-than because I can’t sing like some of my friends do. It feels shameful not to be a singer in that moment. And ya’ll, people don’t help. They’ll ask if I can sing, and when I say no–they just won’t let that stuff go. Statements like: surely you can sing some, oh I bet you are a really good singer, you’ll get up there and do fine, or even a well, you don’t sing, but do you play an instrument?. Nope Nope Nope. Kiwi Kiwi Kiwi. Apple Apple. Apple.

But you know what? I’ll dance when you Karaoke. I’ll grab a tambourine and get all 70s hippie girl with the moves. You sing, I’ll dance, and we’ll entertain way more than we could on our own. That’s how the body of the world works–that’s how community works. We use our gifts together in harmony–not wishing we were something or someone else–being gloriously and unabashedly enough.

I am Enough. You are enough.

Cheers!

If you like this, you might read Broken Crayons Can Still Color or Why Being a Single Parent is Hard – OG Diva Post