When you’re not the prettiest one in the room

This essay was first published on The Daily BS on March 22, 2025.

It came, as so many valuable things do, in a conversation with my beloved Mr. Schrock. It was on a December evening. We had gone out on the road for our nightly walk. Christmas was in the air with all of its lights, and music, and, of course, those living greens.

We were talking, of all things, about the Miss Universe pageant that had recently taken place and which we had not watched. Striding along in the darkness, I said it aloud. “You know, right, that it’s extremely hard for us women?”

He was walking alongside me, so close that I could touch him. “I’m sure it is.” That’s what he said, and I knew that he’d heard what I did not say.

A parade of women in tiny suits with perfect, shapely breasts. Tight bottoms that didn’t sag. Long, muscular legs with no dimpling and stomachs as flat as planed boards. At the thought of all that perfection, I could feel my stomach squeeze tight and the old, familiar distress, it came flooding.

Bodily perfection. Cultural standards. A lifelong curse of shame. It was a toxic stew and a horrid, debilitating deception.

Beside me in the darkness, he spoke again. “But they don’t have what you have.” The words were coming from his heart.

“What’s that?” I said, I with my short legs, not-tight “trunk,” and the tummy that wasn’t quite flat.

“You got four boys out of this deal.” I thought I could hear him grinning. “And you have a loving husband.”

He was right, and I knew it. He was wonderfully, gloriously right, and with tender words and a wise and steady love, he calmed my fluttering heart.

There are many messages that we receive about our bodies that are untrue and cause incalculable harm. Some are spoken, some are implied, but the net result has been great pain and suffering.

One of the chief messages is that women are, first, sexual objects. Society has taught us that bodies themselves, and beauty and youth are the altars at which we should worship. In this paradigm, one’s value is measured in inches and pounds and the smoothness of one’s skin. It’s an impossible formula that’s based on a lie, and a lie will always bring misery.

When we aren’t the prettiest ones in the room, it can lead to despair and self-hatred. We compare ourselves to others, and this comparison turns us into enemies. One more time, how can we love those of whom we are envious?

If we view other women as competition, we are drawing a line that says, “We are not on the same side. I am here. You are over there. We cannot be friends.” All of this, based on physical appearance. How sad.

Men, too, have been deeply hurt by the lie that women are, first, sexual objects to be used for pleasure. The cry of every beating heart is for human connection and love. The lie of pornography is that, “The next one will satisfy me.” Yet airbrushed images of perfect female bodies can never satiate the hunger of the soul. Like drinking salt water, they cannot slake the thirst, and so the soul within remains cracked and dry.

Yes, this war pits women against women, but it also pits women against men. It’s diabolical, really, and it’s hurt us terribly. We need the truth to come and set us free.

As my wise husband has told me, “Babe, I prefer the real. I don’t like the fake. It’s the relationship I’m looking for, and that’s what does it for me.” This man sees beyond my outer house, straight into the inner ‘me,’ and he loves what he sees. It’s so healing and strengthening.

The truth is, we were knitted together by divine fingers in our mothers’ wombs. All of us were quietly woven in the secret place, and we are a miracle and a wonder. Perfection (whatever that is) can never convince us of our value. Should we ever achieve it, time would slowly steal it away, and so we must have a solid rock beneath our two feet. That rock is this, that we are loved. Men and women alike, we are loved regardless of our size, shape, or the numbers on the scale.

We are mothers and daughters. Sisters and cousins. Neighbors and friends and so much more. We are lovers! It is for this that we were made, to be lovers of God, lovers of our families, lovers of others.

We were meant to birth life in all its forms. In the precious babies that come. In the ways that we nurture our own husbands, our friends, our coworkers. In a multitude of ways, we bring life to the world, and it is good.

What if we could bless our bodies instead of hating them? What if we would give thanks for these vessels in which unseen fingers are forming new life? What if we could believe once and for all that we are perfectly loved? What if we would esteem as holy these priceless houses in which we live? What if we used them to walk each other home?

What if that?

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