I felt guilty when dads would look at my cleavage. Something didn’t feel right about showing up to photograph a family and for my boobs to be the star of the show. Was I making moms jealous or uncomfortable? So I covered up.
I watched myself get dressed differently for each job. Sneakers and shorts for the family photo shoots. Heels and black dresses for the female entrepreneurs who hired me to take their new website photos. Black strappy lingerie for the strip club. Stretchy booty shorts for the yoga classes I was teaching. A sequin skirt and crop top for my musical performance on stage. A baggy t-shirt for the girl who loves to DJ in the living room. A long flowy skirt and bare feet for my moments in the cool grass, hanging sheets on the clothing line. A bikini first thing in the morning to crash my body into the ocean waves.
How did all of these women coexist within me? I was changing my clothes four and five times a day. I laughed about it and said I actually enjoyed all these outfit changes; the clothing helped me transition through the various parts of my day. As soon as I came home from one activity I would change clothing before cooking or doing anything in the house. Clothes helped keep my mind compartmentalized.
But then I noticed resentment. I resented having to cover up my body for family photo shoots. Why can’t I show up wearing whatever I want? As there was the contrast I needed to realize I no longer wanted to step inside of other people’s bubbles. I spent my twenties popping in and out of so many worlds, other families, yoga studios, random homes and offices around the city, so many parks and hidden gems in nature. Perhaps this was all part of my youth, exploring the world and falling in love with the dynamics of Seattle. How many pockets of society could I dip into? How many families and homes could I experience? How big and diverse was my network? I knew the musicians, the yogis, the entrepreneurs, the stay at home mamas, the dancers, the ravers, the coaches and healers. More, I craved more. Longing for connection, I couldn’t get enough.
To feel a sense of belonging is an ache in my heart that has almost never been filled. Always in new places, always from many different places. I envy slightly the people who still play with their childhood friends. I envy the people who show up to work each day to familiar faces. I envy the people who walk down the street and know everybody. I’ve tasted it before because I’ve spent my life seeking it. I’m always on the hunt for more community and I’ve always felt outside, on the outskirts of the communities that I’ve attached myself to, questioning…do I actually belong? Have I actually been accepted here? Wondering how long it will last.
I found belonging in the movement; a citizen of the world. It’s okay to not belong in one group. I belong to the migrating folks who belong everywhere. Great, how fantastically lonely.
My mind spun fantasies to carry me away into imaginary lands where I sailed into rainbow sunsets on a pirate ship with a crew. The crew was the most important part for me. I had a close knit family, always together, adventuring through it side by side, fighting and laughing. This is at my core…my heart longs for tight family. I’m highly suspicious that this has driven me into all the forms of work, all the parts I’ve played, all the outfits I’ve dressed up in.
I want family so I got deeply involved a church that made me feel supported with an us-them mentality. I got to enjoy being ‘us’. I stuck like a barnacle to my best friend’s family in high school always eating dinner over there and sleeping over. I got to college and immediately barnacled up to a cute boy and his family. I took to photographing kids and families and emotionally attached to their sentimental moments…just close enough to siphon off some family vibes without actually being sucked into the family. I’ve always run away from families I’ve joined…judgmental that they’re not good enough.
I’ve been searching for the perfect family, the one that doesn’t hold me back, weigh me down, nag me, judge me, or irritate me. I want family and I don’t want them to be a burden. I just want the joy of being a child who is cared for and I want all the fun playful moments again. I’ll search to the ends of the earth only to realize that I’ve had my family all along and they’ve been waiting for me to come home.
But how do I show up? What outfit do I wear? Are all my parts welcome, accepted, understood, embraced, held and celebrated? It hurts too much to think that some parts of me would be cast out, rejected or ignored. I want to be able to show up fearlessly with all my parts joyfully playing, alive and vibrant, eager to connect, relaxed in who they are.
Thirty two years into my life, I lift my hands in the air and tangled webs dangle from my fingers. How do I sort this out? How do we move forward from here? What outfits am I excited to wear now? Perhaps, I take it one part of the day at a time, switching clothes, switching beverages, and one by one each part of me can come out to play. My parts take turns. They all belong within me as a family. Do I sound delusional when I tell you that I’ve created (or rather, I’ve woken up to) an entire family inside myself? I might be the only one who can fully accept them all. This needs to be enough.
By accepting all of my parts, perhaps I will become a safer spacious being and other humans in my company will feel safe to express all of their parts. And sweet when we can be together in Self with all parts welcome.
CHA WILDE