Soaking in Selfhood - Reunion's Impact on Body Image

A few days after meeting my extended birth family for the first time, I had returned to my home in Guam and went back to work.

That first Monday flew by and I drove home feeling dazed and detached. I turned off the radio to concentrate, my mind buzzing with a thousand small worries. When I got home, my dogs rushed to greet me. Halfway through our usual hello's, the overwhelm got to me. "Back up!" I snapped, pulling off my purse and keys like they were burning me. My body felt trapped and far away. I hurried to the couch, kicking off my shoes and pulling my hair loose. The dogs followed me, confused.

Normally, a few minutes of cuddling with them would help me feel better after a long workday. But today, their wet noses and happy greeting were too much. I squeezed myself into a small ball on the couch, keeping my body as far away from them as possible. I could feel a heavy fog settling in my brain and I knew I needed to do something to break away from it.

First, I tried eating. I couldn’t find anything I really wanted in the fridge, so I poured a big bowl of cereal. I ate in silence on the couch, but the heavy feeling didn’t go away. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through TikTok. I thumbed through the usual mix of funny videos, serious social commentary, and creators showing off new projects, but that didn’t help. In fact, I felt worse. Feeling guilty, I shoved the phone back into my pocket.

The kitchen clock informed me it was only 6:11 p.m. I stared down my empty cereal bowl, wishing it could tell me what to do next. I fidgeted with my hair, twisting it between my fingers, waiting for clarity of some kind. As I twisted my bangs into a tight rope, it finally hit me: I hadn’t had a proper hair wash day in a while, and baths always made me feel better. Maybe that would help tonight, too.

I marched upstairs and turned on the faucet of our ancient jet tub. The bathroom had been built in the 1990s and, judging from the calcifified hardware built into the sides of the tub, the bubbling jets had probably stopped working in the 90's too.

The water tumbled out of the faucet and splashed across the bottom of the bath. I checked the temperature - still room-temperature. I let the hot water run as I dug around the bathroom drawers and found a bunch of self-care stuff I had forgotten about: a DIY rosemary lemon scrub I had made at a women's event, an Epsom salt bubble bath my husband bought to cheer me up a few weeks ago, fancy Korean shampoo I'd been saving for a special occasion, and my favorite argan oil conditioner. I lined them up on the counter. Why not use them now?

The water was warm now, and I plugged the tub. The water level was rising and bubbles were forming across the top. Feeling inspired, I rummaged through my drawers to find some high-end facewash and my favorite moisturizer to add to my self-care lineup.  I lit a few candles and turned off the big light. By the time the tub was full, the bathroom smelled fresh and clean. In the soft glow of candlelight, I climbed into the bath and let myself sink into the water.

Perfect.

The warm water wrapped around my sore knees and aching wrists. I hadn’t even realized how much they hurt. My immune disorder has a funny way of creeping up on me like that, causing aches and swelling into a background throb before I realized it. I wondered what triggered it this time.

I thought about the cereal I had wolfed down earlier. That was probably the culprit. Most likely the extra sugar had made my body flare up again.

"I really need to take better care of myself," I sighed, scooping some bubbles into my hand and letting them pop and fizzle softly. I wiped the bubbles away to study my hands. The lines across my palms were getting deeper with age. I realized, with surprise, they had begun to resemble my birth mother’s hands. Hers also had short fingers and deep rivets, full of stories and shaped by hardships. I remembered how our hands laced together when we met for the first time, how our laughs came out in the same pitch and tempo until we giggled together like schoolgirls.

That had been so long ago. I hadn't seen her now in almost a year. Guam is cruel that way, stranding you thousands of miles from anyone and anything you've ever known, suspending you in this island daze while the rest of the world chugs forward.

I leaned back in the tub and thought about how much had changed over the last year. My adoptive dad passed away, a stale childhood friendship ended, and I got a huge career break. Even with that short trip back to the states to meet birth family, I was still not 'up to date' with things - Not like I had time to really keep up anyway. I swirled the water around lazily, letting the warmth soothe my aches and coax my brain out of the daze and back to myself.

It had been a long year spent tackling the mysteries of my autoimmune disease, undergoing a major surgery, re-learning to walk from a wheelchair, living with my in-laws, selling my car, moving back to Guam, getting another job, and learning my body would never bear children of my own without extensive medical intervention.

I peered down at my body, soaking under the bubbles. How had my body had been through so much but I hardly even noticed the change?

"What a year," I thought, reaching down to touch the pink scars on my legs where the surgeon had left a permanent mark. I ran my hands over my skin. You’d think my body would feel unfamiliar after so many massive life events. But somehow, it didn’t. I knew every ache, every scar, every soft spot. Somehow, I had not been self-conscious of my form in a long time. My body had never felt more my own. Perhaps that was why I hadn't noticed all the changes.

Despite loosing a lot of health battles, my body finally made sense. The many mysteries of aches and absences finally had names and notes, all carefully stored in my medical files.

More importantly, after meeting my birth mother and birth family, the reflection in the mirror was finally familiar.

I knew now, without a doubt, that my height and stature matched the women on my birth mother's side. Our petite shape and strong arms could be traced back through the generations, carrying children, and groceries, and military knapsacks. My nose and jaw looked like my birth father’s, bulbous and firm, rattling around a construction site or doing over a project in the backyard. My eyes carried the same somber look found in the faded photos of my birth mother in her early twenties, when she lost me to adoption. And my goofy grin matched a photo of a grandfather, faded with age, beaming with pride as he got a medal as a Warrant Officer in the Army. Just a year ago, these had all been mysteries, lost in the fog of unknowns. Now they had names, stories, purpose.

As I marinated in that bath, I felt the fog of overwhelm lift. Meeting my birth family didn’t just fill in missing pieces about my history. It gave me a new way to see myself. A year ago, I had brushed off the missing puzzle pieces written in my bones. Now I could look across my limbs and see a form that was rooted in a family history, easily known and loved.

With this peace washing over me, I confidently worked my way through the line of self-care products. I scrubbed away my self-doubts and worked high-end conditioner into hair the same color as my great aunt's. There is no better self-care than adoption reunion and self-reclamation.