In My Body, In My Home

Photography by Valentina Faubion

By. Becca Carucci

This is the second essay from a collection called “Rightful Places: Stories of Coming Home to Myself.” I haven’t always felt at home in my existence, my body or my life and have spent a lot of time looking externally for a place of belonging. I have come to learn that we must begin the journey to peace by looking within, examining our souls and discovering what exists there. Somewhere between the bravery to dive deep, the grief of the losses we face and the freedom there after, within the mundane and the extraordinary we will discover soon that we have indeed found our rightful place. My deepest hope is that between and within the lines of these five essays you become a step closer to a true home within, the place we are all longing for. Yours, Becca. 

I went to a private school where we wore khaki and navy blue uniforms. Sometimes we’d have free dress days but I didn’t mind because I loved my navy blue skirt paired with a white polo. I was a bit bossy, a bit sassy and profoundly curious. I was already a daydreamer, something I carried into my adult years. I would stare off during nap time, never fully succumbing to sleep. I remember the girl who’s dad was the headmaster of the school, I was friends with her until someone called her weird. I remember the mean boy in my class, he used to make fun of my drawings during art time. I was sensitive, attuned already to the way people looked at each other and looked at me. I loved puppies and color. I hated having my hair braided. Something within already told me to make my moves depending on other people’s. I loved my gym teacher, she was big and funny and looked me in the eyes.

In first grade my teacher loved me so much she sewed me clothes. She used fabric that looked like I should have lived on a prairie not upper class Connecticut. I didn’t like the dresses, but I loved the attention. My world outside of school began to settle into itself during these years too. My parents built their dream house with a big pool and acres of land. My brother, Matthew and I spent our evenings walking through the undeveloped neighborhood finding treasures and making up stories as we went. We dug through a rock quarry on hot summer nights, pretending we had found diamonds. We took our cocker spaniels on long walks, ate watermelon while lounging in pool floaties and stayed up past our bedtime. My life was full and happy and already unfolding as dynamic and complex as the world began to announce loudly the little girl I was, and even more impactful, who I wasn’t. 

I must have been 7 or 8 when I came home from school and climbed into my mom’s lap to tell her through tears that I wasn’t pretty or skinny enough. Mary, a girl in my class, had told me. I felt embarrassed and ashamed of something I didn’t even know existed -- the reality that people drew conclusions of worth based on appearance. My body and my face had yet to be brought to my attention. What existed as Becca were all the things I described earlier: my curiosity and my sass, my love of little things and adventure. I felt caught. I didn’t understand how someone could be so aware of their body or their appearance at that age, but it certainly made me aware of mine. I realize now it must have been through pain that she knew. My heart hurts for the both of us. Being told these things stays with you. It sunk deep into a corner of my heart that I couldn’t quite see and latched as truth for me.  This was the first time someone had ever said something to me about my own body but the internal narrative had already started at home, where these things usually find their origin. 

I laid on my mom’s bed as she got ready for the day. Her blue bedspread, the light from a window hitting different spots in the room and me, a young girl curiously watching. She turned to me and asked if I was embarrassed of her as my mom. The thought had never crossed my mind. I was embarrassed at that moment though...should I be concerned about this? My needs were not met based upon what she looked like, ever, but were they supposed to be? My mind began to think somehow I missed something that everyone else knew. Like missing a day in school and being behind in a concept, so I laid there wondering what it was that had escaped me.  Are we to be embarrassed of those around us if they don’t fit into some mold? Should I be embarrassed of myself? The most painful part of this web of questions was that I couldn’t tell what my mom was aiming for so as to clue me in to what my answer should be. Her and I recently had a conversation regarding taking care of ourselves. In the middle of our country’s unrest, I began to find myself slipping into old habits that no longer serve me.

I called my mom while on a walk, telling her how hard it was for me to choose goodness for myself when I am sad or stressed...how easy it is to neglect my needs for ease and perceived comfort. She told me she grew up being told to put her head down and “just get through it.” My heart sank. No one ever modeled the art of self care, the way to identify needs, or the difficult task of saying no for her. She was taught to neglect, deflect and build up high walls around her fragile, beating heart. Although she couldn’t offer me lessons of loving my body which would in turn have led me to feel more at home in my life, she has offered me the gift of championing me to do better. She told me how proud she was of me for beginning to build a better relationship with myself and that I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. I offered the same back to her...don’t be too hard on yourself, mama. I offer those words to you too. 

Our bodies will always be the point of introduction to the world around us. I’ve hated this truth for most of my life. I always hated that there are endless stories, memories, fears, desires and loves that are bound to places never seen by the naked eye. A mystery of life I am still trying to figure out is how to marry those unseen places and the vessel which carries them.  From a young age, I was indoctrinated with messages about my body from those close to me, media, the eventual creation of instagram, movies, music videos, and as you know, the list goes on. I understood that this presenting figure would sometimes be the only thing people would see and somewhere along the way I picked up the belief that it was my duty to offer them something good.

At 25, these long standing feedback loops that some days feel so true for me are beginning to unwind. It will always be true that there will be people who can’t see or function past the surface in relationships. What has unwinded for me is that it isn’t my job to help them see beyond. And it isn’t yours either. These places of home, our entities that carry so much are precious no matter what you are hearing. I see now more than ever how fragile each moment is, how much hangs in the balance of each move I make. I say those words with an urge to live intentionally, not anxiously. I spent years calculating what it would take to make people happy with me. I thought, if one part isn’t good, then I will be the best in every other way. That was my value and for a long time I have measured value against a flawed and hurtful stick that underserves so many. Whether it is your body, your work or lack of, or your perceived idea of what it means to be good that consumes you with guilt and hatred, my guess is that you too are using a measuring stick that isn’t for you anymore. 

We all have formative experiences in our childhoods...situations that began to define how we saw ourselves fitting into this world. For me, these situations began to play a tape announcing that I didn’t have a place in this world. Now as an adult, having begun to do the work of untangling the lies, I see now how common this core belief is. Will my art be accepted? Will I be strong enough? Will I know what to do? Will I find love? Will I be okay? I have heard these questions in just the last week of my life from people I love. It isn’t the answer to these questions that we actually want, we just want to know we aren’t the only ones asking them. The closer we get to the messiness of those young places, the closer we are to finding our places of belonging, our rightful places. And as you begin to make a home in your rightful place, the pressure of pleasing, the anxiety of the unknown and the guilt of your past will begin to find their home as well, in places that do not knock on the door of your heart every moment of your life. 

Becca Carucci works as a therapeutic specialist at a mental health clinic in Southern California and is currently pursuing a Masters degree in Organizational Psychology. Her passion for people having a deeper understanding of their stories began in 2013 when she moved to Ethiopia to work with women and children who had been victims of human trafficking. Since then her life has brought her on a journey of self discovery that has only deepened the desire to partner alongside people as they uncover more about themselves in order to live fuller and more meaningful lives. She enjoys writing and can be found most often holding an americano in one hand, a book in the other with The National playing in her headphones. Instagram: beccacarucci .