“Thick Skin" continued..
Sometimes, I think we wave off unhealthy, toxic life patterns in the name of “normal.” We don’t talk about things that are off, things that raise a big, fat red flag, because, well, that’s just how things are. And there’s this dangerous line we tread when we think that the very things that are killing us and destroying our purpose and hope are “just how things are” and therefore “how things should be.” This is where the first layer of my diagnosis begins.
I grew up in a home with lots of secrets. Secrets to protect our family name, to keep things nice and tidy. So when I was sexually abused by my dentist as a child, when people started asking a lot of questions about my family, telling the truth was never really an option. We had a close relationship to secrecy; sometimes, our safety depended on it.
But keeping secrets often keeps genuine community -- the kind where someone really knows everything about you and still loves and accepts you -- at arm’s length. Silence keeps people from discovering us, and keeps us from truly knowing ourselves. Modeling reiterated this in my own life. It’s a silent profession, one where you’re certainly seen, but never really heard. As a preteen model, I got attention, but not the kind that was heartfelt, that pushed past the barriers of the exterior straight to my soul. Sure, I was in print catalogues, walked the catwalk, and even moved to Europe for two years as a 19-year-old. I held the attention of the camera lens and of random strangers, yet I lacked confidence in my identity. I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin, and that lack of really believing in myself resulted in a lifestyle of people-pleasing, of wanting to do and be enough.
So when I was diagnosed with skin cancer, and when my son Johnny entered a hellish battle with heroin addiction, I started to do a deep dive into what really landed us here. I pushed past what we were facing on the exterior, and headed straight for the soul. As I started to unravel and reflect on toxic “normals,” I began to see this lip cancer diagnosis differently. Instead of seeing the cancer as a disease that took my lips, it became symbolic of not speaking my truth and most importantly, not using my voice. I went back to the first layer, my childhood. The layer that taught me to internalize. The layer that many other layers grew over. The layer I am digging deep to penetrate and heal from.
Truth is, change isn’t always comfortable. In fact, according to Brene Brown, it’s one or the other. “We can choose courage, or we can choose comfort, but we can't have both. Not at the same time." Transformation lay outside of my comfort zone, and even the tiniest of steps felt like milestones. But one of the most beautiful tools I had was in a new mindset, in a fresh shift in perspective. In the beginning it felt challenging, almost like flexing a new muscle, but over time it grew stronger, allowing me to find the brightest of lights in the darkest of places.
It doesn’t matter where we come from, or what normals we need to break free from. Each one of us has a story to tell. As we do so, we do good to remind ourselves that our stories not only embolden and free us, but they also provide opportunities to encourage others to do so as well. I encourage all of your to take a look at your first layer. It may have a tough exterior, it may have painful scars or it may be undamaged but one thing is for sure, this layer is our roots. When we understand our roots, we heal, we grow.
- Regina
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