I always felt I needed to prove that I was strong

Every picture day we lined up from shortest to tallest. I was always one of the first three people in line. I hated being short. I felt like people treated me like a baby. I hated the names other kids would call me such as “french fry” and “shrimp”.

When I would complain about being short to my mom, she would tell me how much she loved being short. She told me when you are short people enjoy helping you out and you get to go from being a “cute little girl” to a “little old lady.” There was nothing appealing about either situation to me.

I always felt I needed to prove that I was strong. I never wanted anyone to help me when it came to carrying luggage or groceries. If a guy opened the door for me, I resisted walking through the door. To me, it was an insult.

Becoming a National Park Ranger and Outdoor Education Teacher in my early twenties further cultivated my Strong Woman Attitude. I traveled from seasonal job to seasonal job with a HUGE backpack on my back, hiking boots, and a “Don’t try to Help Me” attitude problem.

Part of my job as a Park Ranger was leading spelunking tours (wild caving). One time I was leading a group of ten men on a 4 hour spelunking tour. As I was explaining how to use the rope to move from a lower area of the cave to a higher ledge, one of the guys asked if he could help me out. I remember feeling so angry. What was this guy thinking? Did he actually think I couldn’t do it on my own? I was the one leading the tour.

Did he think I needed help because I was short or because I was a woman? Being a ranger in the early nineties, I was often called a “Rangerette” which I considered extremely insulting.

I didn’t want to be considered a “girly” ranger. In fact, I didn’t want to be girly at all. Even when I was not a ranger, I would wear my hiking boots. They were my fashion statement. It was not until I had my first child that I discovered the beauty of having someone open the door for me. Trying to push a stroller, hold packages, and open a heavy door while you are sleep deprived can be a big challenge. I would still resist and feel uncomfortable.

I confided my “door opening phobia” to a few of my male friends. The men often told me how they enjoyed opening the door and how my actions were insulting to the person making a friendly gesture. I never thought about it that way, but it made perfect sense. Helping other people gives us joy even when it is something small such as opening the door. It didn’t mean they thought I was weak or little.

Accepting my height has been part of my process of Befriending My Body. I often joke that I am still waiting for my growth spurt. I am not going to lie- yes it would be nice to be taller so I could reach the top shelf at the grocery store or see over people when I am in a crowded room.

What I now know is strength has nothing to do with height, how much help we get, or whether or not we wear make-up. Being vulnerable, asking for help when we need it, receiving support even when we think we do not need it, letting go, opening up and just being ourselves are incredibly strong acts.

To finding the strength to be open to support- Michelle