‘Thirty and thriving’ means recognizing childhood triggers and disarming them
Here’s the deal: I have a rather embarrassing story that I’ve been debating whether or not to share, but one that I think could help others overcome their triggers. Therefore, if you choose to read on, please just do so in a spirit of non-judgment and self-reflection.
Over the weekend, this random redneck-type dude almost ran into my car, and when I showed my clear annoyance, he proceeded to call me “fatass” (a name I haven’t heard since around…middle school?) and to make juvenile gestures with his hands attempting to mock my size. This was in front of his very young daughter, mind you (which I called him out on).
Let’s just say my response to him in that moment was not at all my most dignified.
If I had the power to freeze time like Piper Halliwell in “Charmed,” I’d have probably thought up some clever clapback along the lines of, “Thanks…your daddy loves my fat ass too” and simply let it go. Instead, over the next minute or so, Lauren β the 30-year-old, rational, analytical attorney β took a back seat (or, to keep it π―, she was locked waayyy in the back of the trunk), meanwhile Lauren, the “You fucked with the wrong chick, don’t make me bust a cap in your ass” middle-schooler came out full throttle as we proceeded to get into a verbal shootout with cheap potshots right there at the stoplight. (Again, not my most dignified footage).
What’s more, I let that incident set me off for the rest of the day and even affect my energy going into the next day.
Partly, I was bothered by the response it evoked in me. Like, seriously, Lauren??
On one level, I was determined not to let this overgrown boy-man intimidate me. Admittedly, I was a tad scared on the inside (we are, after all, living in a day and age in America when anyone can pull a gun on someone else for far less). However, I refused to let myself show fear or cower before this man. Perhaps, this was naive (I was, after all, betting on the fact that he wasn’t armed). But calling on every ounce of brave resistance in my bones, all 5’3″ of me was determined not to let this man intimidate me. Because #FEMINISM, damn it β I’m a badass woman, too!
But on another level, a more personal, far less mature level, there was something about that incident that was very triggering for me and made me revert to my younger years. Clearly, he was just a dime-a-dozen jerk hurling insults. But really, why did my 30-year-old, educated with three degrees self let this… individual… get under my skin the way he did?
It could be that deep down, “Young Lauren” still needs “Adult Lauren” to fearlessly stand up for her against the would-be bullies of the world. I will ostensibly always be my own best advocate. But here’s the rub: Nothing he had to say had any bearing whatsoever on my personhood. He didn’t say that I was a terrible person. He didn’t call me stupid. Or selfish. Or even unkind in our entire exchange. The dude couldn’t even call me ugly (pssht….obviously, lol). So, what was it about being called “fat” that, despite all my years of body positivity education, still amounted to the worst kind of fighting words in my mind?
Truth be told, many women β regardless of their size β struggle with this word. The diet industry is built and sustained upon the exploitation of women’s insecurities. But I also realized that this word goes back much further for me. When I was around 7 years old, a verbally abusive adult male who should’ve been a protector in my life called me a “fat fool” in front of a friend all because of something I did that was a complete accident. In that moment, I felt embarrassed, hurt, and vulnerable, but all I allowed myself to show him was my rage. With everything my 7-year-old self could muster before the tears started streaming, I stood my ground and fired back an expletive-laden insult before running off.
In that moment, I associated that word with negativity, instead of it being an arbitrary descriptor, and it stung extra hard because of who said it. But that word itself holds no inherent power. They say most of our reactions to different circumstances in our daily lives can be traced back to childhood, and you can only let things go when you get to the root of the issue. Now a 30-year-old woman, I can look back on that incident and put things into context. There was nothing at all wrong with that 7-year-old child. She was just a child being a child, and accidents happen. The ensuing response had nothing to do with her and everything to do with that verbally abusive adult who should’ve known better in that moment. Forgiveness and healing are powerful, but they’re not done in one fell swoop. Sometimes you don’t even realize why things impact you the way they do until the hurt resurfaces and you have to confront it and put it to bed yet again.
So, here’s to truly being 30 and thriving, which also involves the unglamorous task of unloading and unpacking the shit that doesn’t need to come along for the rest of this journey called life. And here’s to being a real badass, not by threatening to bust a cap in some dude’s ass at a stoplight, but by exposing and expelling the myths I’ve been told and replacing them with the truth of who I know my own self to be. And she’s friggin’ awesome!
