I Keep Forgetting I'm Not Broken

The culture keeps telling us to fix ourselves. But what if the problem that needs fixing isn’t us?

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After I went to see the Barbie movie, over a year ago — I wrote about the unexpected grief that followed, and the ancient voice that rose up from inside the wave:

This is not mine.

That post—What Was I Made For? Barbie Names the Invisible That Anyone with Eyes Can See—touched a chord.

In the comments, one of you wrote:

“Oh my, Amy. This will be several re-reads and contemplative absorptions that feed into my being, my whole heart.”

Another wrote:

“I told myself, ‘I need to read this at least six more times.’ I love your list. Especially the part about telling the truth. Please keep going.”

So I am. I’m keeping going. Because this week, the wave returned.
Of course it did. (It always comes back. It’s a pattern—and it’s a teacher.)

It’s also a gift
—because the more often it returns, the more we can learn.
About it. About ourselves.

And that’s a good thing
—because the more we learn, the more ready we are to bless it.

Which brings me to the secret of all of this work—the secret I’ve been writing about this week in The One Who Blesses workshop.

When we bless what comes toward us, we integrate it. . .
we receive its gifts.

When we turn toward a problem—or a problematic person—and instead of arguing with it, or ignoring it, or condemning it and trying to eradicate it…
we bless it.

We include it in the wholeness. We integrate it into the world—and into our life. And like a crazy miracle, the thing we’ve been wrestling with . . . cracks open to reveal, at its center, a pearl.

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So now I will tell you what happened this week when, once again, I became obsessed with my appearance.

My nails look messy, I thought, nibbling at the cuticles.
I’m gaining weight, I noticed, putting myself on another diet.
I look old today, I winced, catching my face in a too-brightly lit mirror.

Caught in the same trance. The shame spiral that’s been spinning me since I was a tweenager, attending middle school in America.

This week, I found myself binge-watching What Not to Wear—the old BBC2 version, the one with Trinny and Susannah. You know the one: middle-aged women “helped” by being dragged through public critique, their clothes shredded with scissors, their bodies “corrected” with shapewear and a long, carefully draped scarf.

I was appalled—and I couldn’t look away.

There’s a moment in What Not to Wear that keeps circling me.
The moment before the mirror.

After the wardrobe has been discarded, the high heels agreed to, the proper bra purchased… we find our subject dragged (often kicking and screaming) toward a culturally sanctioned version of attractiveness.

Knee-length skirt. Kitten heel or strappy sandal. New haircut. Lots of makeup.And there she stands, perfected. Transformed. Marveling at her own reflection.

“I never thought I could look like this,” she says.

“You look like an entirely different person,” the hosts marvel.

“I am,” the woman replies.

And every time, there I am: transfixed, chills up my spine. There is something I want here. I watch one season after another, until finally I ask: What is it I want?

It’s not the clothing. I like my clothes. It’s not the haircut or the makeup or the shoes.Oh. I realize—all at once, suddenly: It’s the moment in the mirror.

And seeing this, tears fill my eyes.

I want to be stand before my own image - and not pick myself apart. I want to be seen, with full approval. Not just for how I look but for who I have finally discovered myself to be. I want someone to look at me—really look—and say:

You are just right. You always were. You are loved and included. You belong.

That’s what the woman in the mirror seems to receive—even if the path there is paved with cruelty. That moment—that luminous breath of recognition—is what we’re all aching for.

It’s not a makeover I want. It’s a blessing — inclusion in the circle of the lovely and the good. Oh, I think, exhaling as I remember. I already have that.
I have it because I gave it to myself.

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And that’s when I started to laugh. Out loud.
Long enough that my husband came into the room.
Whats funny? he asked.

The irony was almost too much to bear.
I explained: All week, I’ve been trying to write Module Two of this workshop on blessing - while trying to change everything about myself. How can I guide others to radiate love while feeding myself shame?

He lifted an eyebrow. “And that’s funny because . . . ?”

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Photo by Joel Naren on Unsplash

Look, this is the bind we all live with.
It’s what I want, more than anything right now, to talk about with you.

How the culture we live in literally teaches us to be at war with ourselves.
It hands us a bottle of poison, then blames us for getting sick. It sells us beauty—but only after convincing us we are ugly. It says: You’re the problem. But don’t worry. We’ve got a fix.

Here—take these pills.
And rub this lotion on your face.
Slather this cream on those sagging, crepey arms.

The message could not be more clear:

You are broken in any of a long list of ways—but don’t worry.
We will sell you what you need to put things right.

Slip on these kitten heels. Slide this lipstick over your mouth. Here, purchase this “Sexy After Sixty” workshop.

I know this voice. We all know it. It’s everywhere. But it is a liar.
And, as I wrote in my Barbie post.

It is not mine.

This wave of grief? Not mine.
This self-doubt? Not mine.
This war with my body? Absolutely not mine.

It’s the voice that says: You’re broken, then punishes us for trying to heal. It’s the voice behind cancel culture, diet culture, hustle culture, spiritual bypassing. It wears the face of patriarchy—but patriarchy is just one of its masks.

In the Barbie post, I called it by one of its names: Wetiko, a psycho-spiritual sickness that thrives on fear and disconnection. Named by Indigenous teachers and illuminated in our time by Paul Levy, Wetiko is a mind virus that spreads from one person to another - invisibily, insidiously feeding on fear and self-loathing.

Here’s what I said then—and I’ll say it again now:

We are not hurting because something is wrong with us.
We are hurting because something is hurting us.

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So what’s the antidote?

Well, blessing. We stop feeding the virus when we stop fighting with reality. When we bless all of it: the imperfect body. the feelings of doubt and shame. We bless the forgetting who we really are—and we bless the grief that comes when we remember. We bless what we’ve lost. What we’ve learned and we bless the parts of us still caught in the wave.

Nothing is excluded from blessing.
It’s not the opposite of Wetiko, it’s the medicine.

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The One Who Blesses – A Becoming Real Workshop
Module One is free. It’s gentle. It’s deep.
It begins where all true things begin: With love.
With you.

xx
Amy

Module Two drops tomorrow.

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