Built like a brick shit house

An uncle once told me I was built like a brick shithouse.

At the time, I didn’t know what it meant. I laughed along because that’s what kids do when grown-ups say things with a smirk. But even without understanding the words, I felt the weight of them.

I knew it wasn’t a compliment.

Not when the girls around me were slender and delicate, and I was built… differently.

Broad shoulders. Strong legs. Thick in the middle. A body that couldn’t hide, no matter how much I tried to shrink or smooth or silence it.

I had forgotten all about that comment - until last night.

It was our anniversary.

I wore a fitted dress, the kind that hugs every part I used to wish away.

We ate a spectacular meal, the kind that deserves to be savored, not picked at.

I left the restaurant feeling full. In every sense.

And then I caught my reflection in the window as we walked back to the car.

Without warning, that old phrase crashed into my brain: “Built like a brick shithouse.”

And just like that, I deflated.

From joy to self-consciousness.

From soft and full to hard and ashamed.

From woman to wounded girl in under three seconds.

I was quiet on the ride home.

I slipped into that old familiar fog, the one where I question how I look, how I’m perceived, how lovable I really am underneath it all.

My husband could tell. He held me, patiently, until I found the words.

I told him what I had seen. What I had heard, all those years ago.

What I still sometimes believe.

And in that space, something softened.

He didn’t rush to reassure. He didn’t try to fix it.

He just saw me.

And told me what he sees.

That I am beautiful in the body I’m in.

That there is no part of me that is hard to love.

That my strength, my softness, my fullness - all of it - is part of what makes me me.

Later that night, I looked up what brick shithouse actually means.

Turns out, it isn’t as derogatory as I always thought.

It’s slang for someone solid. Powerful. Built to last.

But when you're a girl hearing it from someone you trust - with a tone that drips comparison and quiet judgment - it doesn’t land like a compliment.

It lands like shame.

It roots itself in the body. And it stays.

Until a moment comes when you see the story clearly… and choose not to carry it anymore.

That night, I released the belief that I am hard to look at.

That I am hard to love.

That I am too much or built wrong.

Here’s the truth I’m keeping instead:

I am built to be held.

To be cherished.

To take up space - in love, in rooms, in my life.

---

✨ A Soft Invitation

We all carry stories we didn’t ask for.

Stories about our bodies. Our worth. What it means to be lovable.

Sometimes they echo in our heads when we least expect it.

But those echoes don’t have to stay in charge.

They can be seen, felt, and softened -

with presence, truth, and a little rewiring.

If this stirred something in you…

You're not alone. And you don’t have to unravel it alone, either.

This is the kind of inner work I live for.

Come find me over in the 11:11 Club, or book a SEER session if your body is asking to be heard.

You are not too much.

You are not too late.

And your body is not the problem.

It's the place your healing lives.

L