The Lizzo Effect
"If I'm shinin', everybody gonna shine // I was born like this, don't even gotta try // I'm like chardonnay, get better over time // Heard you say I'm not the baddest, bitch, you lied..."
— Lizzo
I love to dance—I always have. I'm not talking about "So You Think You Can Dance"-formally-trained dancing (although I did take one "acrobatic jazz" class when I was eight years old where I gave an epic recital performance dressed in all the neon-colored polyester and set to the tune of "Joy to the World"). <insert hair flip> I'm talking about out on a dance floor with my best girlfriends...in the aisles of the grocery store...all up in my car (safely ((ish)), of course)...I just love. to. dance.
And a few months ago (after falling down yet another rabbit hole of dance videos on YouTube), I was feeling inspired to research adult hip-hop classes in the area. Now mind you I am certainly not the greatest of dancers, but ya girl has some rhythm and was known to drop down and get her eagle on from time to time back in the day. (You're welcome for the visual) There was nothing I could find at the time that was what I was looking for, so I just went back to twirling with my vacuum in the privacy of my living room a la Mrs. Doubtfire.
Fast forward to a week ago when—lo and behold—I received an email from a local dance studio advertising their new adult hip hop class! And not only that, it is reasonably priced, happening on a day/time of the week that I can easily attend, and literally located across the street from my neighborhood. It's as if the dance gods were all hitting the Woah whilst smiling upon me in unison.
But then I immediately felt that switch flip. You know the one—insecurity, apprehension, terror. I found myself looking down and taking inventory of my body: I'm not in the greatest of shape. Parts of me move and jiggle that didn't use to before. That knee injury from twelve years ago is starting to take its toll. What if others in the class stare at or judge me? What if I look ridiculous? What if I'm *gasp* the "big girl" among a gaggle of J-Lo backup dancers?!
I felt myself spiraling into this black hole of self-doubt and started to just delete the email from my inbox and my brain. But as luck (or maybe those dance gods I mentioned earlier) would have it, just as I was clicking through the email, Lizzo's Good As Hell came up on my playlist. I suddenly found myself singing along and doing some serious chair-dancing and hair-tossing. The switch had been flipped off...just like that. And it was in that moment I realized that I was about to allow my fears and insecurities to prevent me from doing something I love.
"We cannot allow anything or anyone to steal our joy—especially ourselves."
Am I currently in my "physical prime"? No. But I am still healthy and capable of movement. Am I carrying around more weight than I ever have? Yes. But my body is deserving of love no matter how many imperfections or the number on a scale. I know these things...and I knew these things when I first opened that email. And yet I—like so much of our society—have been conditioned to believe not only that the weight/size of our bodies matters, but also that they must reach a certain standard to be deemed "acceptable". As if there's a specific criterion we must meet in order to wear certain clothing, move on a dance floor, or just exist in the world.
And the craziest part for me is that if someone else were to talk to me that way—tell me I'm too big or too old or too inexperienced—I would be 100% that bitch and tell them all the way the hell off. So why would I allow myself to speak about myself in that way? Life is too short and the world is, at times, too ugly to not enjoy every pleasure it can bring. We cannot allow anything or anyone to steal our joy—especially ourselves.
"The hardest type of love is and will always be self-love—but it's also the best kind of love."
We are all deserving of love and the opportunity to pursue our passions. Full stop. Should being healthy and taking care of our bodies be a priority? Of course. But instead of taking physical inventory of myself—whether it be my pants size or that new roll that seemingly appeared overnight—at the end of the day, I'm going to take inventory of the things that actually matter: was I kind to someone today...did I accomplish a goal...am I allowing myself enough self-care mentally, physically, emotionally...did I learn something new...did I do something today that brought myself or someone else joy.
The hardest type of love is and will always be self-love—but it's also the best kind of love. We can speak about it, write about it, and even sing about it til we're blue in the face, but until we practice it—consistently—every day, we won't ever fully achieve it. That is why at the end of each day I am challenging myself to start writing down 3-5 things that I accomplished, that I'm grateful for, and/or that I love about myself in an attempt to shift my perspective. And when those icky thoughts start to creep in, I will reject those words as if they were being spoken by my greatest of haters. And I challenge you to do the same—because we are smart and kind and strong and hard-working and funny and loving and giving and so many wonderful things that actually matter.
And if you're wondering if I signed up for that hip hop class or not...the answer is not only did I sign up for it, but I also pre-registered and committed to taking the entire multi-week session. I'm still nervous and have some insecurities to work through, but I'm excited to step out of my comfort zone and do something that brings me joy. I owe myself that—nay—I deserve that. Because in the words of our Lord and Savior Lizzo: "I don't need a crown to know that I'm a queen." And neither do you.