Hunger & the Art of Descent

Like many people brought up as a girl, I was raised to believe that hunger was dangerous.

Whether it was for food, for sex, or for comfort, hunger was something I was taught to keep in control. I heard my family talk about weight as if there were a direct relationship between my size and my ability for self-control. I got mixed messages from the media about my sexuality: I was supposed to be desirable to others, but not really desire sex myself. And my parents made it perfectly clear that I needed to be strong, capable and independent, not needing or relying on anyone else to take care of me.

Insatiable

During my teens and twenties, I struggled with anxiety and depression about the craving I felt in my body. I tried to control my weight with disordered eating, skipping meals and then binge eating out of starvation. I underplayed my sexuality by waiting until I was 18 to have my first kiss, and then later making do with lovers that had very different (ie: lower) sex drives than me, and convincing myself that I was satisfied. And I hid my need for help and comfort behind a fierce independence and a debilitating perfectionism that told the world: I can do it by myself.

All of this out of the fear of seeming insatiable. What would they say if I got even fatter than I already was? What would people think if I said I wanted more and better sex? How could I say I was lonely and needed help when my life seemed, from the outside, to be so "put together"?

I was absolutely sure that if I gave my hunger a voice (or even worse, let it out to seek fulfillment), I would lose control and it would consume everything that it touched: my body, my family, my relationships. (I was already fighting depression and anxiety).

So the easiest option seemed to be to downplay my desires or outright ignore them, in hopes that I could mimic some sense of normalcy and contentment. But the result was that I felt alienated from my body, unbelievably lonely, and so damn hungry all. the. time.

Dropping Down

I will forever be grateful to my first pole dance teacher, who helped me to unlock and unleash the craving I felt underneath my skin. In that sacred dance studio — candlelit and without mirrors — I learned to drop down into my body, into the quiet corners of sensation, to the place where my hunger and desire lived.

I learned the art of moving meditation, how to bring attention to every small motion of my body, every contraction of muscle. I felt every hair that brushed my forehead, every breath that tickled my upper lip. When I was dancing, I learned to be present in the moment and bring attention to the sensations in my body without judgment. Whether I felt tired, strong, sore, weak or flexible, I was meeting my body where it was.

I also learned to freestyle by harnessing the power of music and allowing my emotions to guide my movements. Closing my eyes and freeing myself from rules about what was "appropriate," I let my body speak without my conscious mind shutting it down out of shame or "self-control."

Over time, I became more aware of the sensations in my body outside of class, too. I learned to identify when I was truly hungry or full, when I wanted to be touched or left alone, when I needed to rest or to move. I could more clearly identify the way I felt in certain situations: the way my stomach turned when I talked to a certain coworker or the way my heart fluttered with excitement when I got a call from my best friend. I was taking the lessons I learned during moving meditation to my daily life.

The Body Speaks

My body was saying things, relaying messages about my desires and fears. I just needed to listen. And the more I danced, the better I could hear my body outside of class. My intuition sharpened. My courage grew. My understanding of the person I was (instead of who I thought I should be) became clearer and clearer.

The Art of Descent

This is a process, always unfolding. I finally have a taste of what feels like to be full (something that had always seemed impossible). And it was the practice of descent — of dropping down into the dark, quiet space of my body— that gave me the tools to look my hunger in the eye and decide that it was time to feed it.