Being Comfortable in My Own Skin
Read Time: 5 Minutes
Words by Stacy Bronec
It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and my husband, Rich, and I are driving to town. Today is our oldest child’s first parent/teacher conference, and we are meeting him there at the end of the school day. I fidget with my hands, nervous about meeting with his teacher. Rich’s hands are steady on the wheel.
“Babe, couldn’t you have changed your jeans before we went to town?” I ask, looking down at his grease-stained jeans with holes in the knees.
He takes his eyes off the road for a moment to look at me, “Why? I’m not trying to pretend I’m someone else.”
I smile and look back at him. “I know. I’m just saying—you do have nice jeans.”
“I didn’t have time to change,” he shrugs.
I nod, knowing he came straight into the house after spending the day under a tractor in our shop.
His response reminds me that I fell in love with a man who has always been comfortable being himself. I think that’s one of the reasons I fell in love with him so quickly. I, on the other hand, haven’t always been able to say the same about myself. I think back to the “old” me who would change her clothes and sometimes even her personality for someone else.
//
I pulled two dresses from my suitcase, sliding each one onto a hanger. Nervously, I looked around the room for a place to hang them. Just then, my boyfriend walked into the bedroom.
“What do you think of one of these dresses for the wedding?” I asked, holding the two cocktail dresses up in front of me.
He glanced back and forth between them. “There’s a mall not too far away if you want to go and pick a new one,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess they might not be right for such a fancy wedding,” I said, shoving the dresses back into my bag. We were out of state visiting his family for a wedding—and I was already feeling out of place.
Although his family was kind to me, I spent the rest of the weekend feeling uncomfortable, not good enough.
I should have known my discomfort was about something much bigger than the dress. If I had been better about paying attention to my feelings, I might have realized sooner he would never be the right fit for me.
//
I recently watched the movie, “The Family Stone.” Over the years, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with it. In the film, Sarah Jessica Parker, who plays Meredith, walks into her boyfriend’s parents’ house in her stiletto heels, her hair tightly in a bun. She is meeting his family for the first time at Christmas. My stomach clenches as scene after scene unfolds—they do not like her. She is nervous, which is apparent by her constant throat-clearing, a “tic” as put by her boyfriend’s sister, in a not-so-kind manner. All the familiar feelings are coming back to me—and I remember how uncomfortable the movie makes me feel.
//
I threw my phone on the kitchen table, mad at myself for expecting a text back. He had broken up with me over a week ago, and my messages weren’t going to change his mind. Tearing my eyes from the black screen, I looked at the stack of mail next to my phone. Sitting on top of the pile of junk mail sat a card from my sister.
Slipping my finger under the sealed envelope, I tore it open, unsure of what I would find inside.
“I just want you to be happy, and you haven’t seemed very happy in a while. I think you need to take some time and find out who you are.”
The rest of the words blurred on the page as tears slid down my face. My breakup was still fresh, and this felt like adding salt to an open wound.
I tossed the letter to the side, not finishing it. I wiped the tears from my eyes, angry that I was crying again.
I made my way to the couch, rubbing my hand across the brown micro-suede, changing the color of the fabric with each swipe.
Deep down, I knew my family hadn’t liked him, even though they never said it out loud. The few times they had been around each other, I was nervous the whole time. I was worried he would say something rude to them, or maybe they would call me out on trying to play a part.
Burying my face in a pillow, I choke back the tears.
//
When I watched “The Family Stone” for the first time, I thought the family was mean to her (they were) and that they mistreated her (they did). Watching it again from a different perspective, I notice something else.
Toward the end of the movie, the boyfriend’s mom says through tears, “It’s not her. I feel sorry for her.” Her tears brought on by the thought of her son marrying Meredith.
After the credits roll, I sit and analyze that line, one I’ve heard before but never really listened to. The mom didn’t hate her; she felt sorry for her. Maybe this is a stretch, but I wonder if she saw that Meredith was trying too hard—she was uncomfortable being herself.
That she didn’t know herself.
//
My phone buzzed, “I’m excited for you to meet my sister and her husband this weekend. Are you getting all packed?”
A wave of excitement bubbled up in my stomach. I had never felt like this about anyone before.
I laid my phone down and walked back to my closet. The hangers rattled over the metal bar as I shoved the clothes back and forth—I needed the perfect outfit. I was going to meet some of my new boyfriend’s family.
I pulled a couple of dresses off the hanger and laid them on my bed. After snapping a couple of pictures, I hit send.
“Which dress do you like better?” I typed out.
Rich quickly responded, “I think they all look great. But you could just wear jeans too.”
I set my phone down and let out a deep breath—had I been holding it for years?
//
Each time I’ve watched the movie, I felt like the family was judging her, which I never understood. Especially considering they accepted her when she switched brothers. In a cringe-worthy turn of events, Meredith swaps brothers and ends up with the younger brother, Ben. Lying side-by-side on the bed, Ben asks Meredith, “Are you comfortable?” She nods, clearly relaxed, and rests her head on his shoulder. Her long hair is down, cascading around her face in soft waves—a noticeable contrast to how her hair was styled for most of the movie.
I think that’s the whole point. Not just, “are you happy?” But, “are you comfortable?” When she made the switch, she let down her hair. She was comfortable being herself.
//
My seatbelt clicks into place, and I turn around to face our son in the back seat.
“We’re so proud of you, buddy. It sounds like you’re doing great in kindergarten,” I say.
Rich turns the key, and the three of us begin the drive back home—the school day and parent/teacher conference over. Pulling the visor down, I open the mirror and start pressing down the “baby” hairs at my forehead. Their slow growth is a reminder of my postpartum hair loss from our third baby. In my reflection, I see the black “Mama” sweatshirt I’m wearing—for the third day in a row. If Rich noticed, he hasn’t felt the need to comment.
I gently close the visor, letting it shut with a click. I know it was never about how I looked, to my husband or anyone, or if I wore jeans or a dress.
It was how I felt being me.
I reach over and squeeze his leg—grease stains and all.
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About the Author:
Stacy Bronec is a farm wife, mom of three, and lover of baked goods. She and her husband, Rich, farm and ranch in the middle of nowhere Montana. When she's not taking meals to the field or cleaning grain from the dryer vent, she's doing barre workouts in her kitchen, reading, or scribbling notes to turn into stories. She has been published on Coffee + Crumbs, Her View From Home, and Kindred. Stacy is also on The Mom Hour contributor team. You can find her on Instagram or her website.
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