Maena St. Paul.
[Part 6/10 of The Body Project]

It was the way my skin was darker than theirs. 

The way I towered over them like a giant. 

It was the way my hair wasn’t as smooth as every other girl’s. The way my stomach wasn’t flat enough, or the way my thighs touched far more closely than they probably should have. Nothing made sense to me as to why I couldn’t be as “perfect” as they were.

My heart hadn’t known the beauty that resided in me when God stitched me together. 

I’ve attended predominantly white schools ever since middle school. It took some getting used to, because I felt the stinging of distinction on my skin over and over again. I never felt like I belonged in such a place, especially a place where sly comments about my skin color were coming from all directions. For the most part, I truly believe my peers weren’t racist, but their comments acknowledging my difference were the ones that increased my insecurities the most; causing my self-worth to plummet. 

But unfortunately, they were only the tip of the iceberg. 

During my fresh years as a teenager, I began noticing the way a bit of my stomach would spill over my jeans, or how my pant size was consistently a double digit number; and as I grew older, the numbers grew higher. My tongue never spoke of this because I was afraid that it would draw attention. What if no one else noticed? I didn’t want to be the whiny, self-conscious, hormonal teenage girl that was merely going through the “normal stages of life”. Still, the pain only grew heavier when I began to notice the way guys looked to the left and right of me, where my beautiful friends stood, instead of at me. 

Some were bold enough to speak the “truth” and call me what I felt was true: ugly.

My body felt like a punishment. I couldn’t understand why my older sister was as gorgeous as she was; and I was but the leftovers of whatever God used to create her. I couldn’t understand why I had to be the really tall, thick, black girl who guys consistently chose to ignore. I tried to make myself throw up but it never worked, I distracted myself with various things so I would purposely forget to eat, but in no time, I’d be head-deep in the fridge again. Nothing worked; my pain wouldn’t subside. I was still empty and unwilling to be filled.

My heart hadn’t known the beauty that resided in me when God stitched me together. 

I wish I could say that soon after, I had learned; but the truth is, it got worse when I suddenly began to receive attention from different boys. It was the way they looked at my curves and instantaneously viewed my body as an object to devour that made me curious. Subconsciously, I knew it was wrong. I even admitted to myself that this wasn’t okay; but it was the only attention I got. This attention acted as a temporal fulfillment, which I believed was a gift. My “friends” encouraged it, and with their approval, I began to feel worth. Although it was a false sense of worth, it was the most I had felt in a while—the only thing that provided me with understanding. It made me feel like my body finally had a purpose and wasn’t a waste. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop the doubt, the confusion about what they could possibly find attractive in this body of mine. The void that was embedded in the deepest corners of my heart had only grown wider and deeper. 

My heart hadn’t known the beauty that resided in me when God stitched me together. 

When I moved out from of the daunting state of Florida to New York City for college, I found the Truth. It was in 2011 that I found out how deep and real my worth truly dug. The Truth was found in recognizing and accepting that Jesus deemed me royalty, a beauty, and full of purpose. It was found by falling to my knees with tears in my eyes because His Word promised me that I was fearfully and wonderfully made. The Truth was what saved me from the lies the world fed me.

Yes, I have bad vision, and sometimes my skins breaks out, and my weight tends to fluctuate. Yes, I am 5’7”, I have the most intense curves, and my thighs probably won’t ever stop touching. Yes, I do have darker skin than most of my friends, and my hair will forever be the most difficult thing to manage. 

Yes. 

But none of that matters because the Truth is: I have a Jesus who looks at me as if I were the most perfect, most beautiful thing He has ever created. I have a Jesus who will never stop loving me unconditionally, immeasurably, as if I deserved it. I have a Jesus who died on the cross because He believed that a relationship with flawed, insecure, unworthy, selfish me was more important than anything else. I still struggle with my image, but God always steps in to remind me that none of it matters because He still thinks, and will forever think, that I’m a ten. 

So, the difference between then and now?

My heart finally knows the beauty that resides in me ever since God stitched me together. 

“Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” - 1 Peter 3:3-4

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These photos help to display the struggles that Maena faced with body image, what she looks like without and with make-up, and the cleansing of her insecurities. 

For more information on Maena’s story, or The Body Project, please contact me at KathleenSayer@gmail.com