On Not Being Pretty

A few years ago, I made a choice with my photography. It was on purpose, and with intention: 

I gave up pretty. 

I never go back and look at old blog posts, but I'm sure it must be buried in there somewhere. I know I teach about this in every class I offer. Basically what it comes down to is that there are enough pretty photos out there. I wanted to go, instead, for visceral. 

I never shared that word with anyone until just now, but that was my goal with my images. I wanted them to be felt, maybe somewhere in the solar plexus or maybe somewhere that wouldn't really be named or identified. 

Fast forward to this morning. I just woke up from a full night's sleep, which in itself is kind of a miracle. We live in a tiny two bedroom, third floor walkup, so my room is also Lily's room. She never wakes up, but she does kick, and laugh, and cough, and turn herself upside down. Lily doesn't wake up but I do. At least ten times. But last night I set Thomas and her up with a super cozy sleepover in Braedon's room and declared that I needed one good night's sleep. I took a too-hot coconut oil bath and passed out at 9:30 in a giant bed, alone. 

The shades are still drawn, I am still tucked in. I woke up with tears still in my eyes, and all I could think to do was write. My dream last night carried a message, and I think I'm sharing because I don't want to forget. 

I was a teacher at a camp for creative children. Sort of like the one I actually went to in high school, but it all went down in a giant aquarium. At one point I made protest posters for the giant polka dot sting ray that people were riding on like a pony. I was sad for the beautiful things trapped behind the glass, and kept correcting tourists when they walked by. 

"Oh my gosh look how pretty that dolphin is," they'd say. 

"Oh but did you know they are also super smart and they give birth tail first? Did you know they care for the sick and elderly in their tribe with fierce reverence and care?" I followed behind. 

So, at one point in this dream, one of my student campers came over and said she wanted to give me a makeover. Her and few other girls who all looked like super models dragged me into a public bathroom and did their thing. There was makeup and hair and a new outfit. I wore earrings and bracelets and my nails were painted. I did not smell like bone broth. 

"Look!" they squealed, as they spun me around in the mirror, "Look at how pretty you are!" 

I walked through the crowds in the aquarium, and in my mind, everyone's thoughts were interrupted by, "Wow. That lady is really pretty." I moved with a false (we'll get to that, later) sense of importance and confidence and part of me felt like I had won something every time someone's head turned. 

This next part is ridiculous and embarrassing, but important, so it stays. In the middle of my pretty parade through life, I walked into the backstage area of a giant exhibit. There was water, ankle deep, and I was wearing flowy magical high-waisted pants, and a big swooping white jacket. I didn't know jackets could swoop, but this one did, and in my dream I remember specifically thinking, "This coat is worth whatever the cost is, just because of how it makes me feel." So, there I was walking on water like the queen of the world, when suddenly a giant gust of wind blew my jacket open and threw me off balance. Out of nowhere, someone grabbed my elbow to help me steady, and when I looked up, it was Leonardo Dicaprio.

This is the point of the story where I need to share that I, in no way, at any time, have ever thought of this man as attractive. I've always been the girl who loves nerds. The slightly off-center boys with beautiful brains that go for days. In college one night while eating ramen with my girlfriends, I pinpointed that the sexiest scene in the world to me would be a crazy smart boy, who had just finished mowing the lawn, sitting in a quiet library corner, studying for advanced calculus. (AKA my now husband!) So, the fact that Leo showed up in my dream is more than a little surprising. He is not a nerd, he parties a lot, and he is mega famous. But, he also only dates models, a fact that makes him the most perfect person to have popped in to this dream.  

So, he grabbed my elbow, and then slid his arm around my waist, and our eyes met. He told me he was there on business, and alone, and would I like to have dinner later. He didn't really ask, he just kind of told me that's what was going to happen, and then he ran away, because he was in a hurry. 

So there I was, polished and primed, having just been hit on by a movie star, and I panicked. I ran to find the campers who gave me my makeover, and I begged them to help me get ready for my date. They jumped up and down and started high-fiving and hugging each other.

"Why are you celebrating like this?" I asked. 

"Leonardo Dicaprio only dates the BEST women in the entire world. He is the leading expert in the world of pretty. The fact that he is interested in you means that we did an incredible job! He would have never even noticed you this morning when you were invisible!" 

And then I woke up. 

And I realized, before my eyes were even fully opened, that I hadn't just given up pretty pictures all those years ago, I had given up being pretty, all together. I don't own makeup, I wash my hair only a few times a week, and my daily uniform consists of $5 leggings and a cozy cotton shirt picked up at Goodwill. I currently own two pairs of shoes. One is a pair of ballet flats for when I shoot weddings, and the other, which I wear every single day, is a pair of bright yellow plastic flip flops I got from a campground gift shop when we were traveling, so that I didn't have to touch the floor of their muddy showers. 

I woke up this morning and realized, with certainty: I am not pretty. 

Last month I signed up to take a class taught by my dear friend, Carolyn Mara, called The Unapologetic Artist. It's a collaborative class focused on choosing a creative photography project, and then experimenting until you have a handful of images that tell a cohesive story. I played with a bunch of different ideas, but in the end, I decided to explore the idea of being desirable. What does it mean to be desired? What does it feel like? And, more importantly, what would I have to do to feel it? I never shared the images with anyone, and never will, ever. There are frames of me in see-through lace dresses, crawling on the floor. Frames of me with my face covered in makeup, fake eyelashes with feathers on the ends, glued to my lids. Frames of high heeled shoes and fake nails painted red. A collection of images of me trying to fit into a mold I will never fit into. And the reason these images will never see the light of day, is because I hate them. I mean, sure, part of me knows that if I shared them they might garner a bunch of attention, and if I'm being really honest, I think I do look pretty in them. But, through this experiment I learned that I wasn't born to be desired. I wasn't born to be looked at like a glowing fish behind a thick pane of glass. 

I have nothing bad to say about women who spend hours and hundreds (thousands?) of dollars on making themselves desirable, and in fact, I have spent many years of my life wishing I was one of them.

But, it turns out, I am not. 

The other day I was making bowls at my pottery wheel and I asked Thomas to grab the camera. My hair was in the typical greasy topknot, I was wearing the same exact t-shirt I am wearing right now, and instead of pants, I had on his boxer briefs. 

"I feel beautiful right now, and I want you to take my picture," I told him. 

He didn't say anything (because he's Thomas) and just started clicking away. 

And I shared a few on social media and had a whole big blog post ready to publish but then I saved it as a draft instead. My hands look too boney. My hair is too messy... 

And then a few days ago I posted this on my Facebook page:

I keep getting tons and tons of direct messages this week from people selling makeup and wrinkle cream and other stuff marketed to women who feel they need to be "fixed." I love that you guys are trying to get your hustle on, but I'm going to keep it real for a second: I don't wear or own any makeup and I don't put any chemicals on my face; only coconut oil and aloe. I am happy in my own skin and I'm kind of bummed out you think I'm not good enough this way. When I close my eyes and picture myself all old and weathered and covered in a million, billion wrinkles, I get really, really happy. As a little girl, I used to look at the elderly women in National Geographic magazines and encyclopedias from all around the world and seriously fall in love with their intense beauty. I don't need to be fixed or altered. I'd rather pay a therapist to help me love my insides. Sooooo, until you are selling tickets to hear a sage old medicine woman speak about what true self-love and beauty is, with her wrinkles and imperfections hanging proud, I'm not the door to knock on. 

And then someone wrote in the comments, "Saying it's good and right to love the way you're aging makes others who want to use make up and products feel like they're wrong somehow." 

And then I had that dream last night, and I'm sitting here this morning, like ENOUGH. 

You know what, I am not pretty and Leonardo Dicaprio, the royal king of Pretty Land, is not banging down my door. I do not care about being desired and I do not care about the products that grant me a false sense of inner confidence, but, I do feel beautiful. I do. 

And why not share that? 

I feel beautiful when I am in the rivers, covered in mud and sweat, photographing women from around the world. I feel beautiful when I am playing tag with my children in the 99 degree Texas heat, bugs stuck to my forehead like a windshield. I feel beautiful when Thomas holds my hand under the dinner table, and kisses the top of my messy hair. I feel beautiful when I have a fever of 103 and speak in front of a group of hundreds. I feel beautiful with tears falling fast down my cheeks after my son sings "Hold Back the River," while sitting at the end of my bed. I feel beautiful covered in clay, laughing at my pottery wheel, with Lauryn Hill blaring in the background. I feel beautiful dancing around the living room with Lily to the latest top-40 hits, just after she's had her bubble bath. 

I feel beautiful in those moments. Not pretty, not desirable, not ego-driven or self-important. 

I feel visceral and raw. I feel powerful and peaceful. In my own skin, and completely imperfect. 

And I think I never hit publish on the blog post with those pottery wheel images because I knew that people, like that woman who commented on my Facebook post, would feel insulted, somehow. 

But this morning, with the light now clearly peeking through my window, I feel like I need to stop hiding. Those girls in my dream, I think, were absolutely wrong. I don't need a makeover. 

It is, I think, entirely possible to be myself and not be invisible, and, dare I say, to be myself and be beautiful. 

Forget desirable. Forget pretty. Forget makeup and nail polish and expensive jackets that swoop. You want those things? Fine! Awesome! Fantastic! But I wasn't born to care about those things, and I won't feel bad about that, anymore.

So, I'm going to sit my fanny down at my pottery wheel, just as I am, and own it. 

Without apology. 










Megan / A River Story™

I love her. 

There is so much more I could say, but that about sums it up. 

Megan totally stole my heart, and I'm so grateful to have her beautiful self in the River Story™ tribe.

Click Away 2015

I'm back home but behind my eyelids videos of conference room carpets and pug dogs named Bruce Almighty keep playing on repeat. Streets freckled with rainbow umbrellas, and women hugging me tight. I'm home, but I think my cells are swirling in another galaxy somewhere, not lost, just not ready to touch back down. Everything is different now. 

It is only fitting that this all happened in a city most famous for a river. 

Three years ago, I had a mentor who, whenever I'd be extra thirsty for logic and reason, would say to me, "When pilots are flying, all they can see is this tiny window in front of them. But there is such a giant universe of sky all around them. You don't know all the possibilities available to you. Trust the things that haven't come into view, yet." Her name was Liz and she had the best long white hair, and she'd also photograph animal meaning cards and send them in manilla envelopes with no card. When I was a freshman in high school her son asked me to the prom, and I went, and was the worst prom date ever. I wouldn't dance with him, and my dress was blue sequins. Years later, I sent him an apology letter in a manilla envelope. I never heard back. 

It was Liz who encouraged me to take the leap with the Airstream, even when there was no money or plan or rational thought, in sight. "I just have a feeling," she'd say, while I tried suggesting, instead, that I scrap the ridiculous idea and apply to law school. "I just think it's time to listen to that little voice inside, even when it doesn't many any sense." 

We jumped. Sold everything and took a million risks. We almost died, but we didn't. And sometimes, I guess that's all that matters. 

But when that whole chapter was all over; when we came crashing head-first into Austin's city limits, I'm not sure any of us would have said it was worth it. We were immeasurably exhausted with bones shattered and hearts bruised. This wasn't a finish line, it was a surrender flag, waving with a whisper through the thick Texas air. 

Of all the possibilities I had dreamed, of all the crazy scenarios I'd conjured up late at night when everyone else was fast asleep, settling down and selling out in Austin was never on my radar.  

It's never been a secret that I didn't really have a choice in the matter. And it didn't feel like the good kind of ending. 

"If this was the way the story is going to end, then everything was a horrible mistake," I wrote in my journal. 

I had boxes of unsold books piled under the desk in my bedroom. The old cardboard smelled not-so-faintly like failure. 

I gave myself the time and space I needed to grieve. I apologized to Thomas ten billion times, and cursed Liz. She was wrong, I decided. We took a leap of faith and fell flat on our faces. T has the souvenir of a broken collarbone scar hiding just under his t-shirt, to remind us of the impact. 

I tried every solution that I could see out of my little pilot's window but nothing worked, and, for whatever reason, completely forgot about the moon and the stars just out of sight. 

So, when my dear friend Amy Grace called and asked me to fill-in for her as a conference speaker at Click Away, I was totally taken off guard. What could I possibly say that hasn't already be said. And how could my story of defeat inspire anyone? I hadn't yet risen from the ashes. I wasn't even sure I wanted to. 

I've seen enough TED talks to know you don't inspire anyone with your story until after the bandages have been removed and the scars have all healed. You have a best-seller. You have more answers than questions. When you take a deep breath, you should not have a mountain of dusty books taking up space in your chest.

Only afters give talks. Very few want to see a before, and certainly no one is interested in the completely forgotten and always invisible, during. 

When Amy and I chatted, my son's tuition payment reminder popped up on my phone. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't the real reason I said, yes. "I'll go in, collect my check, and leave." 

I had no idea what was about to unfold. 

The days leading up to the conference were ridiculous. I got a horrible virus with a fever, and of course, fever blisters on my lips and inside my nose. I tried to write my speech, but every time I'd sit to do it, nothing happened. I ended up making no less than 10 bowls on the wheel, instead. 

The night before, I made a packing list in my journal and at the very bottom I wrote, "A few books to show?" Question mark. Would anyone even want to see it? 

I woke up at 4am the morning of, and my fever was 103. I took a bath, but was too dizzy to stand in the shower, so my hair was an unwashed tangled mess in a knot on my head. I wore fuzzy socks with bright yellow campground-store flip flops. I just wanted to make it there and then worry about my appearance. I'd get there, sign in, and then turn myself into whatever it is that a conference speaker looks like. 

The 90-minute drive went fast, but I was cold sweating the entire way, and my BO could have seriously rivaled any of Braedon's 13 year old friends. I was, by literal definition, a hot mess. 

The first thing I saw when the elevator doors opened was a little girl, maybe 8 or 9 years old, dressed up like she just stepped out of an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras. She was drinking out of a Starbucks cup and her Mom kept reminding her not to smudge her lipstick. "You have to model for all those photographers in an hour!" 

Gulp.

Up two stories of escalator, and then BAM, class got out the exact moment I flipped my flops onto the third floor to check-in and all I can relate it to is what used to happen when I was little and poured water over ant hills. They'd all spill out and scatter in a million directions, a little carpet of frenetic chaos. This was like that. 

I still had my reindeer socks pulled up to my knees. 

Shit. 

I saw Jesh de Rox and his man bun in the speakers' suite. He was hugging lots of people and smiling with his eyes.

He's the type of guy who walks up to strangers with his arms outstretched and his bottom lip kind of pouty, inviting a deep-breath-eyes-closed-tighter-than-average, hug.  I think he has a song permanently playing in his head that I've heard a few times in fabric softener commercials. I waved when our eyes met and he walked over and asked what I was speaking about. 

"I don't know. I haven't written it yet."  

The soundtrack stopped in his brain. I saw it instantly in his eyes. 

"Oh," he said, quite seriously. That's all he said about it. And then he was back to beaming. 

It was weird because I'd heard he had just been through a break up, but he didn't seem sad. I traced his face looking for signs of heartbreak, maybe some puffy eyes from crying, but the guy seriously looked like a million dollars floating on a cloud. It confused me, and I decided I should avoid him for the rest of the time because I was afraid I'd say something else that might stop the happy birds from chirping around his head in concentric circles. 

They gave me a big white box with presents inside. Lily squealed like it was her Birthday, Braedon pretended to be excited about the t-shirt, and I handed the bottle of champagne back to the sweet check-in lady. There was an awesome Fuji instant camera that Lily instantly fell in love with. Presents are always fun. I felt important and grateful, and, at the same time, guilty for all of the people there who didn't get presents. Was this my first pang of speaker guilt? Is that even a thing? 

Next I found my dear friend/conference doula, Jote. We laughed about my fever, the way you laugh about things when you really want to cry. She helped me find a cozy chair away from the crowds to get it together. She helped me not run, screaming, out the front door. 

It was time to gather my thoughts and write my speech. I mean, it was time weeks ago to do this, but.. 

Just as I finished writing, "1. Tell them your name," I looked up to see Jenny Solar. She was also there to present, and had texted me earlier that morning to meet up for lunch. I packed a hardboiled egg in a ziplock. I'm not sure that's what she had in mind. My first thought when I saw her walk off the escalator was, "Oh man, she's so pretty. And clean. And she's wearing an actual blouse. Maybe I need to buy blouses. Do they have blouse stores? Is that where speakers shop? Her hair is shiny." I was getting nervous. Really, really, nervous.  

I love Jenny Solar. Let me just get that out of the way. There are some Moms that I instantly and easily love and she is definitely one of them. Within ten minutes we were talking about our biggest failures, as you do when you just meet someone, and I said to her, "Maybe I should say all of this in my speech," and without hesitation she said, "Yes, I think you should," and so it was decided.  

I wouldn't go fix myself up. I wouldn't shower first, or put on a dress. I wouldn't run around town to buy some drug-store blush to make me look less, well, sick. I was going to stand in front of a crowd, just as I am, and tell the truth. 

Thomas told me I might fall down if I wore the flops on stage, so I threw on some moccasins. I tripped anyway. Because, it turns out, that's what I was there to do. More on that later. 

About ten minutes before my call time, I went into Salon I, where it would all go down. I sat in the back of the room and watched a line of women, about 50-deep, wait to hug Sue Bryce. I know because I asked the lady next to me what was going on and she said, "What do you mean? That's SUE BRYCE!" I now know what the real-life version of the heart-eyes emoji looks like. This adorable woman actually had giant hearts on her face, where her eyes belonged. 

I was supposed to be closing my eyes and meditating. Calling in my spirit guides and angels, and getting my feet firmly planted on the ground. But instead I grabbed my phone and looked Sue up on instagram. 

Well, fuck.

Shit.

Damn it. 

Staring back at me on my phone screen was this tall, perfectly manicured Goddess. Impeccable wardrobe and perfect makeup. She has about ten gabillion followers, and no children. Her couch does not have popsicle stains from middle of the night toddler fevers and her hair is shiny.  

At this point I was so nervous I could not move. Who the hell was I to even think I could pull this off?

"You should go!" I thought, "Save these poor people from the train wreck you are about to bring!" And I think if it wasn't for my frozen state of extreme fear, I would have actually left in that moment. 

When Sue left, she walked by me and I smelled her. It was like angels mixed with success. And she has an endearing Australian accent. 

Ugh. I had realllly gotten myself in deep this time.

When I lifted my arms up to stretch, the smell of my own armpits made me legit gag. 

"Beautiful people like Sue and Jesh were meant for beautiful things like this. Stinky messy people like me, are not."

If I pretended to pass out from my fever nobody would judge me. They'd whisk me off to a fancy room and feed my grapes, probably. Thomas and the kids would still get a fun trip out of it. Maybe Jesh would appear from a cloud of pink smoke and shower me in positive healing vibes. 

But then I wouldn't get paid. The tuition reminder. I have to do this.  

I can not tell you what happened next. Not because I don't want to but because I have absolutely no idea. Somehow, I landed on the stage, and somehow people sat in chairs. Somehow the doors closed, and somehow, I opened my mouth, and words came flying out. 

Somehow, in that instant, everything made sense. 

I knew why I was there.

I was there to make Miguel, the sweetest Marriott worker ever, blush when he put my mic on my yoga pants, only to realize I wasn't wearing any underwear. Oops.

I was there to stutter, and burp, and say Fuck, and sweat. To be sick, and makeup-less. Braless and brave. 

I was there to, if nothing else, be an example of someone who doesn't have it all figured out, but is still kicking. To be a speaker who speaks her own truth.

To grant myself the courage to change the rules. To burn down all the shoulds. To share about vomit-eating-raccoons, because, why the fuck not?

I didn't record my talks, so I can't really say what was said. But I can tell you that afterwards, when my tunnel vision stopped, and I felt the tips of my fingers come back to life, I looked up and saw all these beautiful people crying. I saw them laughing. I saw them not hating me. 

Oh. My. God. 

Did I maybe just do something good? 

I was so ready for the pitch forks. For the hate mail and the embarrassing hashtags. I was ready to shrug my shoulders at my kids as we walked back to car, explaining to them, "Welp. You can't win 'em all."

But that's not at all what happened. 

Those beautiful people who were in their chairs while I was talking waited in line to buy my book and give me hugs. They bought the books I thought nobody wanted. 

In fact, when the Click Away organizer came to check on me just before my first talk, she asked how many books she needed to put on the table. 

"Just five," I said, "Because then it's less embarrassing when everyone just walks by." 

I sold out of every book I brought, and then sold out of another box the next day. 

And I know for a fact there is a thing called speaker's guilt because I am having it even typing that last sentence. 

But, I have to share it because if I had never ended up in Austin against my will, I would have never been so close to the conference, and Amy would have never thought to ask me to fill in for her, because she knows I don't fly. If Amy would have never asked me to fill in for her, I would have never said yes, and I would have never learned, once and for all, that it's ok to show up in the world as Michelle Gardella. And, it turns out, the more of me I share, the more I know I am exactly right where I need to be. 

Click Away San Antonio was never within view from where I sat all those months, calculating my failures.  And yet, look what happened. 

I found myself thinking so much about sweet Liz on the drive back to our Austin apartment. Maybe I'll try writing her another letter, only this time, I'll say thank you, instead of I'm sorry.  

I'm going to do that with a lot of things moving forward, I think.

I have no idea what will happen from here, and I think I now fully understand that I don't need to.

All I have to do is keep believing in the moon and the stars, and trust that somehow, someway, even without any makeup or fancy clothes, as long as I listen to that little voice inside, everything is going to be fucking awesome. 

You just watch, and see.