Women's Retreat: Bodies as Disclaimers

“I’ve gained thirty pounds in the last year due to an autoimmune disease”, she started, wiping away tears. It was a thing, no doubt, but not the thing we were gathered into a small group to talk about. I began to picture her thirty pounds lighter, physically and emotionally. Even with the bonus weight she was still the thinnest person at our table. Interesting confession to this group, I mentally shrugged, as she began digging into the real reason we were sequestered.

The women’s retreat was for leaders from various industries. Women from across the country gathered for four days in the Caribbean to focus on the one thing that women leaders often fail at: self-care. I loved being part of this gathering, but I admit that I found myself as intrigued by my cohort as by the content.

My job is literally to observe people, help them feel comfortable, draw them out, breathe life into their often-trembling souls as they perform in front of a menacing mechanical lens. Oh, and try to pose them looking effortless, in a way that brings out their best, hides their insecurities, conveys their story, and brings them joy.

As you might imagine, it’s a cake walk.

Maybe I was hiding from “doing the work”, the self-reflective leadership stuff we were gathered to do, or maybe I just can’t resist the temptation to observe, but it was these women who haunted my thoughts during quiet time. As tears and confessions flowed (they tend to do in spaces where women are allowed to be vulnerable), it became clear that to exist in female form is to emotionally toil.

And it’s not just these women in this room. It’s not just women leaders, women over 40, white women, black women, gay, straight, religious, secular, or any other micro factor. It’s all women. And this isn’t the first time I’ve seen it.

In fact, I see it every day as a photographer. Women show up to photoshoots under the weight of the world. They’re not usually crying, but there have been times. They’re trying to look their best, get the family to be agreeable, and create a frame-worthy portrait that will make them smile, not lament about the size of their arms.

Back to the sweet soul who gained thirty pounds last year. Why did she need us to know? Why did she begin with a disclaimer, one that distilled to, “I’m not normally this fat. This isn’t my fault”.

Why do women feel compelled to explain their bodies before they explain themselves? Why do we need to qualify our size, our shape, our hair, our wrinkles, confessing what we deem physical failures in spaces meant for leadership, healing or connection?

Maybe we believe that if we point out our perceived flaws we won’t be judged for them - she already knows. Or maybe we add context because we've learned to, as if we owe others an explanation.

Our sweet new friend likely grew up absorbing the same message most women do, that our bodies are tied to our worth, our credibility, our success.

So when we arrive in rooms of power, we carry more than our resumes. We carry explanations. We carry disclaimers. We carry the weight of everything we’ve been conditioned to manage quietly. And sometimes, before we even begin, we feel the need to say, “this is my body, but please understand.”

Me walking into a room without qualifiers. This may be last time I wasn't self-conscious about my body...not even those thigh rolls.