Confidence isn’t static. It moves. It shifts.
It rolls in and out like the tide.
Some days it crashes against the shore, loud and undeniable,
reminding you that you are more than enough,
that your presence is magnetic,
that your body is power and story.
Other days it recedes so far you’re left staring at the exposed sand,
vulnerable, uncertain if the water will return.
through the quiet comparisons I make when I don’t mean to.
I have a stocky build.
Legs that prove I’ve pushed forward again and again,
muscles shaped by grit, by impact, by momentum.
But I’m also 5’5”, carrying softness in my belly and face that wasn’t there before.
And next to my partner (tall, six feet, muscular,
the embodiment of daily discipline)
I can feel the tide shift.
People tell him he’s handsome, fit, striking.
I smile, because it’s true.
But inside, I feel the water pull away,
and the soft sand of my insecurity exposed.
It’s not that I don’t get compliments.
I do. I’m told I’m handsome.
That I have a great smile.
That my energy fills a room and leaves it lighter.
That I’m charming, magnetic, unforgettable.
And I love hearing it.
But the truth is: sometimes those words slip right off me.
Like waves that kiss the shore and vanish back into the sea.
And that’s the part no one talks about.
Confidence isn’t about whether people see your worth.
It’s about whether you let it soak in and stay.
The Ebb: When Confidence Pulls Away
The ebb comes in silence.
It comes when I measure myself against someone else’s “ideal.”
When one too many comments about him echo louder than the compliments sent my way.
It comes when I stand in front of the mirror
and zoom in on the parts that changed,
forgetting the things that never left;
my strength, my humor, my warmth.
The things people actually fall in love with.
The ebb is subtle but heavy.
It convinces me that I’m behind.
That I’m not enough.
That desire is a currency and I’m running out.
The Flow: When Confidence Returns
The flow, though, is what saves me.
It comes in moments that never make it on to Instagram.
Laughing so hard with friends that my cheeks ache.
Hearing someone whisper, “You make me feel safe.”
Watching Nova explode with joy when I walk through the door,
tail wagging like I’m the best thing she’s ever seen.
Feeling my thighs carry me uphill, strong, steady, unshakable.
The flow reminds me that confidence is not about perfection.
It is about presence.
It is the tide returning, slow but certain,
reminding me that I have always been more than
what the mirror decides to highlight.
Learning the Rhythm
Right now, I’m learning to trust the rhythm.
To remember that low tide does not mean the ocean is gone.
It means it is gathering itself to come back in full force.
When the tide pulls away,
I have rituals that help call it home:
- I speak to my body like it is a friend. Thank you, legs, for carrying me through scrums and stairs. Thank you, chest, for housing breath when the day runs long.
- I dress for belonging, not illusion. Clothes that fit the body I have make me feel present. Presence looks better than pretending.
- I choose movement for joy. Dodgeball, a brisk walk, a solo dance in the kitchen. Motion reminds me I am a living thing, not a still image to be judged.
- I gatekeep comparison. Less scrolling, more sunlight. Fewer silent measurements, more real conversations.
- I practice mirror neutrality. Look once, name one thing I like, step away. No trials, no sentences.
- I let compliments land. I say thank you out loud so my brain hears it too.
Confidence, like the tide, doesn’t return
because you shout at the ocean.
It comes back when you learn the moon.
For me, the moon is rest, water, food that feels like home.
It is boundaries, knowing when to leave,
admitting I am in my head,
and still allowing myself to be touched.
Naming What Hurts
It also means honesty.
It’s okay to tell friends that I'm insecure about standing next to my partner sometimes.
It’s okay to say it without making it his fault.
It’s okay to ask for new language,
language that holds us both.
On good days I see a man in the mirror
who is compact and powerful,
a body that plants and pivots,
a face that looks content.
On hard days I see only the softness;
in my belly, in my cheeks.
But even then I remind myself
that tide tables exist for a reason.
Low tide is not failure.
It is the ocean gathering itself to rise.
The Goal
The goal is not to become a different shoreline.
The goal is to know mine so deeply
that I stop being surprised by the water.
If you see me next to someone taller, stronger, leaner
know that I can hold two truths at once.
I can admire him and still love me.
I can feel a pang and still choose kindness.
I can work on my health
and refuse to make shame my coach.
The tide is coming in.
Slow, steady.
Not because anything out there changed,
but because I did.
Because I started building confidence
the way the ocean builds waves
with rhythm, with practice,
with pull and return.
So yes, I am still figuring it out.
Still learning to love myself in every version of it:
the heavier, the softer, the stocky body
that doesn’t always feel like it belongs in the frame.
But confidence, like the tide, always finds its way back.
And I am learning,
finally,
to trust its movement instead of fighting it.
