tiny round belly

By K. Griffith

On a humid Monday afternoon in June of 2021, after scrolling through mid-size queen TikTok, I log into Zoom for my weekly therapy session. My therapist and I are talking about body image and the hateful inner monologue I can’t seem to silence most days. I tell my therapist (again) about how exhausting it is to listen to the voice in my head, how I want to work to actively stop speaking to myself that way, that if anyone spoke to my

sister the way I speak to myself I would beat them up. My therapist nods her head and tucks her hair behind her ears as she listens. I tell her about the picture that came up on my Facebook Memories page last week. In the picture, I am seven years old on the day of my tap dance recital. My yellow and black striped pants are lined with sequins and complement my plastic bowler hat. My older sister leans on my back, my mirror image. I am bursting with confidence, my back is arched slightly, my spirit fingers are extended straight in the air, my smile is beaming. I remember seeing this picture for the first time and immediately noticing my tiny, round belly. I remember I thought I was fat.

My therapist adjusts herself in her chair. She asks me, as she often does, what I would say to that sevenyear-old girl if she were standing in front of me today. I shrug, as I often do when she asks me this question, and then take a deep breath and think for a moment.

I would tell her that one day her body is going to travel with her and see the world. I would tell her that her brain is going to learn so many things, including another language. I would tell her that her heart is going to love so many people and she is going to be so loved. I would tell her that her little round belly is going to eat the most delicious food, but nothing will ever be as good as Mommy’s spaghetti. I would tell her that her hands will one day hold the tiny hands of countless students when they need a little extra care to get through their

Monday Morning Blues. I would tell her that her arms will one day hold her perfect, beautiful niece. I would tell her that her eyes will one day have tiny crow’s feet surrounding them to remind her of all the time she spent smiling and laughing. I would tell her that she will sprain her ankle on the last day of her first year teaching and that salsa dancing in Costa Rica all summer will heal it. I would tell her that her body is the beautiful container for her energy, her soul, her joy, her sadness, her heart—so we should take care of it and be kind to it and embrace every inch of it even when it’s difficult to do so.

“Wow,” I tell my therapist. “That was pretty good, huh?!”

Seven-year-old me would probably be kind of intimidated by this news; she is pretty shy and can’t even go to a sleepover without crying and coming home early. That’s when I would remind her that all of this would happen exactly when it needed to—that the scariest thing about time, the most unsettling thing about the future, is its unpredictability. Both seven-year-old me and twenty-nine-year-old me would continue to need reminders about the beauty of time, the art of finding joy in the unpredictability, and the thoughtful appreciation of our tiny round bellies.