The Beginning of Everything that Moves Within Me

Monday, June 24th 2024, in the sky from Medellín to Niuyol

Musik

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I struggle to accept that there are parts of my body I have not yet made peace with. Fatphobia drags me down, but it is a self-attack. I don’t want to be fat. I’ve had to work on the way I used to see fat people. I have always stood in their defense—protecting them from the world, from prejudice and rejection, respecting who they are and making them visible. But one thing is what we project outward, and another is what moves inside us—what, even if we try to ignore it, cannot be erased, and shapes us. It shapes everything we are: how we think, how we see, and how we pass judgment on the bodies of others.

I have never told my best friend this, but she has always been fat. And I, from the unconscious, always tried to encourage her to be “healthy”—in quotes, because we disguise fatphobia as health. I am no longer ashamed to name it; I now understand what it once was. To her, and to all the fat people who have been part of my life, I want to say I am sorry.

In my home, the garden of fatphobics—starting with my father, who never stopped talking about other people’s bodies—they knew exactly how to get to me. Since childhood, they knew that speaking about my best friend’s body was something that enraged me. It was me, in awareness, fighting for them to respect her little body just as it was: fat, beautiful, and perfect. But we carry the learning with us; despite the resistance, we drag that baggage into the unconscious. We say no, that it isn’t that, but yes—it is exactly that: FATPHOBIA.

My father says it clearly: “I don’t like fat women,” and so, when he sees me with “a few extra pounds,” his voice doesn’t tremble to tell me so.

“Hey, Lili (my daughter) is skinny.”

“Go lose weight, you’re fat.”

But it doesn’t end there, because to his partner, a Black woman, he has also suggested getting her nose operated on. Boobs, belly, everything that sags or is “out of place” according to him, is good material for my dad. That even includes his recommendation to pregnant women to have a C-section instead of natural births, so their vaginas would stay nice and tight. Should we hang him for it? Of course not. I look at him with more love than ever, because I know he went as far as he could, and from him I have learned to do things differently— but even more, I have learned to understand the BEGINNING OF EVERYTHING THAT MOVES WITHIN ME…

En mi camino, me he abierto a la información, a esa que llega por el trabajo logrado para conectar con el alma, esa que tiene un pedacito del cuerpo y del espíritu. Y me he abierto con amor y compasión a las preguntas, a echar una mirada profunda a mis acciones, decisiones y pensamientos para entender de dónde vienen, desde cuándo se instalaron y las posibles razones, para ser capaz de conocer cuáles son míos y cuáles no me pertenecen. ¿A qué tratos me he expuesto para tener el cuerpo que mis limitaciones catalogaban como perfecto? ¿Por qué razón entreno como entreno? ¿Hasta dónde será realmente suficiente? La presión que llevo es todo un secreto que comparto con ustedes a viva voz.

On my path, I have opened myself to knowledge—knowledge that comes from the work of connecting with the soul, knowledge that carries a fragment of both body and spirit. And I have opened, with love and compassion, to the questions: to take a deep look at my actions, decisions, and thoughts in order to understand where they come from, when they first took root, and the possible reasons why—so I may discern which ones are truly mine and which do not belong to me. What bargains have I made in order to have the body my limitations once labeled as perfect? Why do I train the way I train? How far will it ever be truly enough? The pressure I carry is a secret I now share with you, aloud.

The pressure I carry, my lalilovers, is it really mine, or is it a transgenerational matter? But how do we bring all of this into consciousness? Well, of course, it’s not that simple. The first step is not to go around on autopilot, as my teacher says, but to observe, watch, and listen—to recognize both the noise within and the noise outside. If I give space to the inner noise and acknowledge it, then I open myself to the possibility of finding the outer one—the origin.

So, to learn more about my clan’s history, I took it upon myself to visit a great-aunt with my mom. On the phone call to let her know we were on our way, the great-aunt—who, like my mother, had also been a model and participated in beauty pageants—asked my mom: “Are you pretty?” It was curious to hear the question like that, out of nowhere, without context. But when we arrived and saw how the little old lady looked my aunt up and down—and me as well—before greeting her with: “You’re fat, you need to be slim and pretty, just like your daughter,” it was enough to trigger more than one click of all the memories lived with my mom. But what surprised me most was not her words, but how my mother received them—as if it were daily bread in her life, as if the aunt had spent her whole life waiting for the same thing: a slim and pretty niece.

Oh, dear mommy, NOW I SEE YOU… This burden isn’t only mine. Now I see it, Mom. Now I understand why you took me to a refinement and modeling course. Now I see why you wished I would become Miss Universe. Now I see why there were so many moments when you compared my beauty to that of my friends. “You are the most beautiful,” “That friend of yours is hideous and her mother even more so”… and me, thinking, “Oh, mommy, for God’s sake”…

I thought it would be enough to not feel like the most beautiful and simply believe that my mother loved me blindly—but no. It was impossible for my unconscious not to compare myself, not to compulsively look at myself in the mirror, at every corner, in every shop window reflection, in every car glass. Not to seek to see myself as perfect and superior as my mother saw me.

But why couldn’t I see in myself what she saw in me? If the little girl had already faded to assume the role of an adult amid so many conflicts in my clan, and I had plenty of strength and rebellion to defend any family member and call out unconsciousness despite the blows, how could I give up the trade-off of feeling loved, recognized, seen, and admired by Mom and Dad? I had to be beautiful. Disobedient, silly, daring, lazy, a storyteller, spoiled—but beautiful.

There’s so much story to put into words. It’s an endless stream of experiences. My mom and dad, and your mom and dad, are not alone in this; there is an entire culture tangled up with women’s beauty and everything that must be done with it. Not that it’s an issue that doesn’t affect men, but without a doubt: “We are pleased to present how important Miss Universe is in our society—and no, not Mr. Universe”… Another topic to weave together. It will never be enough until we start looking at what we are, simply HUMANITY. And I say this acknowledging my own limitations in this regard, but I give myself permission to name it, even though it is so difficult to honor.

So I share my journey, as I hope to gradually free myself from it through words, to later see it in every image, in every photo, in the diary of my gaze.

To my cellulite, I honor you.

To every fat cell in my thighs, arms, knees, I honor you.

To my crooked nose, I honor you.

To my breasts that I once took to the operating room, and now seek the strength to remove the implants, I honor you.

To my aging skin, I honor you.

To the body I once wanted to change, and in my mind still remains imperfect, I honor you.

To my daughter, who today is walking a path of great learning with her father’s family, whose body I vowed never to speak of, even though in my mind consciousness sometimes lost the battle to judgment. I release you as well from my inherited judgments, from those of my father, my mother, and our history. I remind you of your power to face every moment in which I am not there to accompany you. You can, my daughter, because you came into this world to BE POWERFUL. I honor you…

I’m sorry. I look at myself. Compassionate and loving. I struggle with you so as not to lose you in imposed ideas and in the gaze of others.

I invite you, humanity, to look deeply at this matter. What have been your experiences, your wounds, and how far have you gone to the point of harming yourself? Create your own mantra with all the parts of your body you struggle with. Giving them space is also honoring them. Be humble in recognizing that we have all the desire in the world to see ourselves differently, but know that it’s not that simple—wanting to love ourselves is not enough. We must truly work on it, and if we lose the fear of naming it, together, putting our collective energy at the service of transitioning the issues that bind us, we will undoubtedly allow new pieces to fall into place in the puzzle that is shaping the new humanity.

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With love, my dear wolves…

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Lali