You Don’t Have to Like Your Body Today. But Let’s Not Punish It.
Let’s be real: body love is a big ask.
There are days when looking in the mirror brings up judgment. Days when clothes don’t fit right, when bloat or pain or fatigue cloud your self-image. There are days you feel too big, too soft, too hairy, too flat, too much or too not enough.
You don’t have to love your body every day.
But you also don’t have to punish it.
The Problem with the "Body Love" Narrative
The idea that we should all unconditionally love our bodies is well-intentioned. But for many, it just adds another layer of pressure. Now it’s not just "have the right body" — it’s "have the right feelings about your body."
That demand can feel impossible. Especially for people living in bodies that the culture marginalizes, polices, or shames. Bodies that don’t fit the mold. Bodies in transition. Bodies that are aging, disabled, fat, racialized, or chronically ill.
So let’s reframe it.
Instead of demanding love, what if we practiced care? Instead of forcing positivity, what if we modeled respect?
You don’t need to adore your thighs to feed them. You don’t have to love your belly to soften around it. You can feel uncomfortable and still be kind.
That’s where real change begins. Not in pretending to be confident, but in choosing not to punish yourself for being human.
What Not Punishing Your Body Can Look Like
Not punishing your body doesn’t mean ignoring how you feel. It means not taking those feelings out on your body.
It means:
Eating when you’re hungry, even if you’re upset about how you look.
Choosing movement that feels good, not movement that "burns it off."
Wearing something comfortable instead of something that "proves a point."
Letting yourself rest, even if your inner critic is yelling.
Speaking gently to yourself, especially when the instinct is to criticize.
It also means catching the subtle ways we withhold care: skipping meals, overworking, avoiding touch, refusing softness, denying pleasure. These behaviors might look like discipline, but often they’re punishment dressed as control.
Instead, what would it look like to treat your body like a trusted animal? One that needs food, movement, affection, and care — not perfection?
Maybe it means:
Letting yourself have seconds, even if you’re feeling insecure.
Sitting down during a social event because your back hurts.
Taking off clothes that look good to others but feel terrible to wear.
Letting someone love on you, even when your inner voice says you haven’t "earned it."
These are acts of trust. Tiny ones. But they matter.
And these actions don’t have to be private. You can model body kindness out loud, especially if you're raising kids or in community. Saying, “I’m tired, so I’m going to rest,” or “I’m feeling uncomfortable in my body today, but I’m still feeding it well” is a public reclamation of dignity.
Why This Matters for Erotic Health
Punishment and pleasure don’t live well together. If you’re approaching your body with critique, it’s hard to fully open to touch, sensation, and erotic presence. The more you attack your body, the more it goes into defense. And it’s hard to feel good when your nervous system is bracing.
You don’t need to be in love with your body to access pleasure. But you do need to stop treating it like the enemy. Erotic healing begins with truce.
Let your partner touch you without apology. Let yourself be seen without bracing. Let sensation rise without demanding it fix how you feel about your shape.
Start by noticing what does feel good, even if it’s small. The weight of a blanket. The warmth of your own hand. The sound of someone calling your name with care. These tiny permissions help build safety. And safety builds capacity.
Pleasure doesn’t demand perfection. It requires presence. And presence is possible even on the hard days.
You can also begin by narrating your body’s real-time needs during sex. “Can we slow down?” “I’d love to be held for a second.” “I want to stay clothed for a bit longer.” These are valid erotic expressions. They’re not detours. They’re doorways.
A Truce Is Still Progress
Maybe today your body feels foreign. Maybe you’re in pain. Maybe you feel judgment and tenderness at the same time.
You can still say:
I will not starve you.
I will not shame you.
I will not punish you for not being what the world wants.
You can say: I will feed you, rest you, clothe you, and touch you like you deserve to be here.
Because you do.
Even if love feels far away, respect is always within reach.
Some days, respect might look like rest. Some days it might look like getting dressed even though you’d rather hide. Some days it’s letting someone else hold you. Some days, it’s holding yourself.
You can also build rituals around this truce:
Lay your hands on your belly each night and say, “Thank you for holding me.”
Take a photo of yourself that you don’t need to share or like, just to practice being seen.
Masturbate with the goal of presence, not orgasm.
Let yourself cry when you look in the mirror — and then keep looking.
These are not indulgences. They’re repairs. They build a relationship over time. And every relationship gets to have off days.
And if you want to build this work further, you can also:
Journal what you wish someone had said to your body at different ages.
Create a playlist that helps you move with your body, not against it.
Schedule rest and play with the same priority you schedule productivity.
Wear something soft under your clothes just for you, even if no one else will see it.
This isn’t about faking it until you make it. It’s about making space for the full range of experience. Your relationship to your body will evolve over time. But right now, today, you can start with care.
Truce is enough. Truce is powerful. Truce is a form of love.
One Last Thing
If you’re someone who has worked hard to perform self-love, you don’t have to abandon that. But consider this: there’s space in your erotic life for both self-celebration and self-compassion. You can feel glorious one day and hesitant the next. You can feel brave and uncertain, aroused and awkward.
The body is never just one thing. It’s a living, breathing archive of everything you’ve ever felt. Every form of care you offer — including the days when care means simply not making things worse — counts.
You don’t need to be at peace to begin. You just need to begin.