‘The way you look is the least interesting thing about you.’ 

A recent,  little quote I have acquired from the ‘Go Love Yourself’ podcast by the lovely Laura Adlington and Lauren Smith. If you need a boost, a different perspective on weight, appearance and everything in between, I highly recommend it! 

Go Love Yourself

So, the way you look is the least interesting thing about you. 

Who would even have that thought cross their mind nowadays, let alone say it out loud? When you say it out loud, and then again, and again, you’ll realise just how very true it actually is. The more you say it the harder it becomes to retreat back into the old way of thinking. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of money to be made in how people look on the outside! Therein lies the problem.

But it’s actually true. Everything you put on the outside for people to see, doesn’t come close to what your mind and soul has to offer. 

Compassion is not the make up on your face. 

Humour is not how you style your hair. 

Morality is not the size of your stomach or thighs. 

Even the kindest of people can have a crooked smile. And the wickedest of people can have a radiating grin on their face that lures you in. Looks are deceptive!

And yet we are conditioned to be attracted to how someone looks in the relationships we seek. Whether it be friends or lovers, we are taught to gravitate towards people by how their looks make us feel. Predominantly it is how people look that our brains conjure up a split second decision on whether we are to pursue a person. Unfortunately, judgement is so ingrained in our psyche that 99% of the time we do it without even realising. 

It’s also true of names. There was a vastly publicised argument between Holly Willoughby and Katie Hopkins a few years ago over children’s names and how certain names meant Ms Hopkins’ children would be dissuaded from playing with the Tiffany’s or Tyler’s of the world. It still blows my mind. And yet judgement of others comes in the form of so many other quick like a cat fleeting thoughts, that we don’t even know we are doing it. 

In 2020, oh yes, the world fell silent. We all swore to ourselves that when the world opened up again we would embrace all of life’s wonders and happiness would reign supreme. I was one of those people and with every good intention, when the curbs were lifted, Mr W and I headed to Italy. Rebooked from its initial date in the April, we headed into a recuperating world and sought to grasp every spaghetti noodle and shake the life and soul out of it. We train-hopped through Pisa, Florence and settled into Venice before responsibilities forced us home. 

It was a wonderful, exhilarating trip. With small backpacks we were, quite literally, at the mercy of the Italian sun. Personally, I was not at all prepared for the heat and my rash decision to pack shorts was all too praised by my boil in the bag body. However, the go free and wander nature I had adopted was soon thrown into turmoil when my short stumpy and fairly chubby legs were on display for the world to see. They’d not seen daylight for a fair while, the shorts were, well, short and teamed up with animal print socks peeking out over a pair of battered converse, I was not going to be invited to a fashion show anytime soon. 

I’m a big girl, I have PCOS and it’s ravaged my body since my teens; only in recent years have I learned what this means for me physically, our fertility and my mental health. What people don’t realise when they look at me, is why I am the way I am. Why I’m bigger. Why my smile wanes occasionally. Why my mind wanders in a room full of people. They just see my size. But underneath that is a warrior fighting battles only she understands, because PCOS is so very different for every individual. Some people have a few symptoms, some have fertility issues and some don’t. And then there’s some people like me. Every symptom. Fertility issues. A rollercoaster of mental health issues, determination and unlimited failure. 

To have people look at me, up and down, whilst wearing those shorts will stay with me for a long time. I got caught up in the ‘fuck it’ nature that so many others embraced after lockdown 2020 that my anxieties over my clothing choices were muffled like never before. I’m sad to say, it made me retreat into myself that day. I didn’t wear the shorts again. And yet, the least interesting thing about me that day was my clothing. Indeed, my body. 

Inside, I was a girl on the move again. Travelling. Living. Fearless. Mentally free from the covid prison of the previous 6 months. Doing what she did best, pursuing the next horizon, the next adventure and pushing for the hidden wonders of the world. Outside I was wearing yellow shorts. Big. Deal. 

The day after short-gate, I wore jeans. They were mildly uncomfortable. I won’t lie. I have little legs, so I find that the steeper the hill the more I have to stretch my legs and those tight jean-ie beauties were having none of it. And wouldn’t you know it, there was a huge hill we had decided to take when on our way up to the Giardino Bardini. Yep, I’m a freaking idiot! Giardino Bardini is a 17th century villa surrounded by the most beautiful gardens overlooking the Arno river and Florence. We found a bench and just sat. No words to be said, but a knowing look now and again to know how lucky we were to be safe, healthy and happy in a world that had lost its way.

When we reached Venice, with its winding labyrinthine streets, I felt a sense of peace in the moments where so few people could see me and I could look up from my feet and see what the city had to offer. Italy was on the news early on in the pandemic because of how fast it was ravaged by covid and the horrors we had not yet witnessed in the UK. We found that just 6 months after Italy had been struck down, the towns and cities had an almost eerie quiet to them. Tourists had not yet returned in their droves. Locals were still weary and you just felt so humbled to be walking those streets. To be given the chance to witness a place in its quiet splendour was indescribable. When talking about Venice in the past, all I had ever heard of was the masses and masses of people that bombard Venice with their boats, feet and ticketed day trips. This was not the Venice I had experienced in my daydreams, and yet even though we felt extremely lucky, the nagging thought of why it was quiet was never far away. And here I was worried about getting a ‘look’ off a stranger I would NEVER ever see again. How does that poison even infiltrate a mind? 

My legs that carried me through Italy wore shorts. My stomach that digested the oh so many delicious delights of Italian chefs was happy. My hair needed (knowing me) a good bloody brush and my makeup was most definitely rushed. 

What I looked like then, and now, is the least interesting thing about me. 

What my soul looks like when I’m travelling is radiant, beautiful and free. Wear the damn shorts!