The Past
I remember countless conversations, years stretching back, where friends would gently, sometimes hesitantly, suggest that my perception of my own body might be a little… skewed. “Kaelen,” Liora would say, her brow furrowed with concern, “you’re not ‘bulky.’ You look strong.” Or Brenn, ever blunt, would simply shake his head when I’d complain about feeling ‘soft’ after weeks of intense physical activity. I’d always brush them off. Always. I’d laugh, a little too loud, and declare, “Oh, you’re just being kind!” Or, worse, I’d launch into a pseudo-scientific monologue about how mirrors and cameras didn’t lie, how I was a rational person, grounded in objective reality. My mind, I believed, was a fortress of logic, impervious to such subjective distortions. I was wrong. So deeply, profoundly wrong.
My relationship with my physique was a strange, silent war. When my frame carried more weight, I’d convince myself it wasn't that significant. I’d look in the reflective glass of my studio window, see a vague outline, and nod, satisfied that I was merely “curvy,” never truly acknowledging the numbers on the scale or the snugness of my favorite denim. Conversely, during periods when my artistic practice demanded intense focus and physical endurance, leading to a leaner form, I still couldn’t internalize it. The mirror would show me something, but my brain would filter it. It wouldn't register. I’d still feel like the ‘heavier’ version of myself, perpetually chasing an elusive lightness that, even when achieved, I couldn’t perceive. It was an endless, frustrating loop of self-deception, played out against the backdrop of my vibrant creative life in a bustling metropolitan area, surrounded by people who saw me clearly, while I remained blind.
I was a textile artist, constantly manipulating threads and fabrics, seeing patterns and forms where others saw only raw material. Irony, isn’t it? I could see the intricate beauty in a tapestry, the delicate balance of color and texture, yet my own physical form remained an enigma, a canvas I refused to truly observe. My entire identity, it felt, was built on this foundation of rational objectivity, of seeing things as they *were*. To admit a flaw in that fundamental perception felt like a betrayal of my own intellect, a crumbling of the very pillars of my self-concept. So, I dug in. I dismissed. I denied. And in doing so, I closed myself off from a crucial truth.
The Turning Point
The moment of undeniable clarity arrived not in a mirror, but through the digital archives of my own artistic journey. Several seasons ago, I’d meticulously documented a major installation, a sprawling piece that required months of intense physical labor and precise movements. I remember those months vividly; I felt like a machine, honed and efficient. I looked at myself then and thought, “This is it. This is my optimal form. Agile. Focused.” I genuinely believed I was at my physical peak, a lean, almost ethereal presence moving through the vast studio space.
Months later, preparing for a retrospective exhibit in a gallery nestled in a quiet coastal town, I was sifting through the archived video footage from that period. It was there, amidst the time-lapse sequences of fabric draping and frame construction, that I saw her. The ‘her’ I thought I was, and the ‘her’ I actually was. The woman on screen was strong, yes, but she was also undeniably fuller, rounder, carrying a significant amount of weight that my mind had completely edited out. I paused the video. Zoomed in. My breath hitched. It was like looking at a stranger, someone who shared my face but not my memory. This wasn't a trick of light or an unflattering angle; this was sustained documentation, day after day, week after week.
My perception had been a lie. A comfortable, dangerous lie. The woman I had *felt* myself to be, the agile, lean artist, simply didn't exist in those frames. The visual evidence was overwhelming, irrefutable. It was a punch to the gut, a cold, hard slap of reality that rattled me to my core. My brain, the very organ I trusted implicitly, had fabricated an entire visual narrative about myself. It was terrifying, the realization that my internal compass for self-image had been so profoundly broken, warping how I saw not just my body, but perhaps other aspects of my life too.
Looking Back Now
That day marked a quiet revolution within me. The initial shock gave way to a wave of shame. How could I have been so blind? So utterly convinced of my own objective truth, while my closest friends saw the reality I stubbornly refused to acknowledge? The regret was palpable, a heavy cloak I couldn't shed. Regret for the lost years of self-acceptance, for the energy wasted on internal battles against an imagined foe, for the dismissive words I’d flung at those who cared enough to try and open my eyes.
For a long time after that discovery, I didn't tell anyone. Not Liora, not Brenn. The thought of admitting I’d been so spectacularly wrong, after years of intellectualizing my denial, felt impossible. But the secret, though hidden, began to transform me. It forced me to dismantle the fortress of logic I’d built around myself, brick by painful brick. I started to look at myself differently, not just in mirrors, but in how I felt, how my clothes fit, how I moved. It was a slow, deliberate process of re-educating my own vision, of consciously trying to align the internal feeling with the external reality. Sometimes it still feels like a fight, like my brain wants to revert to its old habits. But now, I have the tools to recognize the distortion, to question my initial perception, to *listen*.
What I’ve learned is that vulnerability isn't weakness; it’s the gateway to truth. And sometimes, the hardest truths are the ones we need to hear from others, because our own internal narratives can become elaborate, beautiful cages. I’m not 'cured,' not entirely. But I am aware. And that awareness, that raw, sometimes painful honesty, has been the most liberating artistic creation of my life.
The Lesson
The greatest deceptions often begin within. Your mind, for all its brilliance, can construct elaborate illusions, especially when it comes to self-perception. We crave control, we crave certainty, and sometimes, that craving leads us to filter out truths that challenge our preconceived notions. The lesson, etched into my very being, is that true strength lies not in unwavering self-belief, but in the courage to question, to listen, and to accept external perspectives, even when they dismantle your internal world. Sometimes, the most profound insights come from the gentle nudges of those who see you more clearly than you see yourself.
Open your heart to the possibility that your perception might be flawed. Seek out trusted voices who can offer an honest reflection. Be kind to yourself in the process, for self-discovery is rarely a straight path, but always a worthwhile journey. Embrace the discomfort of seeing yourself anew, for that is where authentic growth begins.