So much of body image is defined by other people, namely how other people see and treat our bodies. I’ve noticed this the most with my hips.

For almost all of my life the message I have gotten about my hips is that they’re too large. These hips got me “husky” jeans as a child and now keep me in high-waisted “women’s” jeans as an adult. These hips were subjected to my mother’s projections about her own weight and attempts to change it. If she couldn’t lose weight herself surely should could slim down the child she saw too many of her own “flaws” in. These hips are hips that routinely get me gendered as female and have caused much dysphoria accordingly. These hips are hips that generate disgruntled sighs from fellow passengers on the bus as they realize I cannot, in fact, move over any farther.

Yet in the past few years, I’ve learned that these hips that have caused so many problems are also an object of desire. Since moving to NYC, more than a few men have watched these hips sway back and forth with desire. A few have had the chance to express that desire directly, but too often in gendered terms. The she/her/girlfriends that slide out of their mouths so easily, no matter how many corrections, or the ways I’m incorrectly gendered regardless of the pronouns used. I have felt the difference of these hips being touched while I’m seen as me in all of my he/they and the intoxicating way it fills me with desire and affirmation. I have felt the sadness of wondering when I’ll feel that again.

It’s tiring for your relationship to your own body to rely so heavily upon the whims of other people. Appreciating my body because of the appreciation of others is no more affirming than criticizing it because of their criticism.

But lately I’ve been noticing myself touching my hips and liking what I feel. I enjoy feeling the way my hip swells before subsiding back into my thigh, the way it fills out my high waisted skinny jeans (an old millennial habit). I enjoy their fullness, even as I try my hardest to slim them down as I sit on the too-full bus. I enjoy the way they sway, especially in pants and skirts with natural flow. I enjoy the way they make me feel sensual, regardless of if someone else appreciates them or not or whether they see me in them or some projection of gender.

It’s a kind of peace I never anticipated and I’m sure it comes from some of the good experiences I’ve had. After all, good experiences can define your self-image just as much, if not more, than bad ones. And I’ve had some really good ones.

Either way, I find myself planning something I’d never considered before: getting a tattoo on my hip/thigh. Before a couple of months ago, it would have been unimaginable. Even if a limited few would see the tattoo, it would always draw my attention to my thigh and, well, that’s not something I would have wanted. But a few weeks ago as I smoothed my hand down my supple hip, as I do more often lately, I decided to schedule a tattoo appointment. The tattoo? A version of the Queen of Cups. Abundance personified on my hip.