Tall Tales from an Insecure Tall Guy

Since this is only my third-ever blog for YOB, I figured it would be nice to share more of my life with you and get to know each other a little bit. So, pull up a chair! I have a story to share.

I grew up in an Irish-Catholic family, nestled among the golden, rolling hills of California’s Central Coast. Though I do not live there anymore, I frequently find myself longing for its scents and sounds, the myriad oak trees baking in the summer heat, the grass silently freezing over in the winter.

It was the fall of 2010, and I was just starting my first year at the local public high school. The night before my first day, my older-by-two-years sister barged into my bedroom saying, “What’re you wearing to school tomorrow? You better not embarrass me,” and proceeding to tear through my dresser.

I had to be honest with her that I hadn’t even thought about it. Although perhaps I should have. After all, this wasn’t the small, private, Catholic school I’d spent the first 13 years of my life attending. I didn’t want to be embarrassed either, but I must admit that I was enthralled by the fact that I no longer had to wear a uniform. I could wear my “weekend clothes” to school — how odd and exhilarating! 

My sister, quite satisfied with herself, whipped up a concoction of clothes from my dresser that I had never even remotely fathomed as an option. “Here,” she declared, shoving the wad of clothes into my lanky arms.

“Thanks,” I said, not really sure what made this outfit “not embarrassing,” or whatever, but I decided that since my sister was a seasoned high schooler, her opinion could be trusted.

And, ah! What a sight I’m sure I was to behold that first day of school, walking past the flagpole at 7:40am, wearing a white t-shirt underneath a black t-shirt (even though it would be over 80 degrees that day) with black, knee-length shorts, red Vans, and, yes, even a full-on 2010s Justin Bieber mop-head haircut.

I remember feeling so odd in this ensemble of garments, so insecure as I dragged my lanky, 6’4” body through the threshold of my first period class. My graduating class in 8th grade had only been 16 people. How was I supposed to survive this massive school of 1,200 people?

This won’t be a fashion blog. If that’s more of what you’re looking for, I highly recommend Andrew’s blog on men’s fashion.

Instead, I’ll focus more on an oft-discussed topic in YOB: body image.

I had always been the tallest kid in my class by a mile. At nine years old, I distinctly remember measuring 5’2” because I was the same height as a statue at one of California’s missions (we were on a field trip). Nine-year-old boys in the 50th percentile of height are 4’5” — so that put me a solid nine inches above most of my peers, blasting me well beyond the 99th percentile.

At my middle school graduation, the P.E. teacher (6’2”) made a special award just for me (6’3”) because I was the only student he’d ever taught who was taller than him at graduation day. By the time I started high school, I was 6’4”; thankfully, I capped out my sophomore year at 6’5”. And before you start to think I’m going to subject you to endless gloating about how amazing and awesome it is to be tall (though it certainly has had its perks), being tall has not always been rainbows and sunshine.

I have many memories where being tall did not work in my favor. 

I remember being ten years old, going trick-or-treating with my friends. I had dressed up that Halloween as a basketball player (because: tall people), and on maybe the third or fourth house, I was turned away because, “You’re way too old to be out here trick-or-treating. Stop trying to steal candy from the kids.”

This lady had spoken to me like I was not a kid. I remember sulking later, counting out my candy, wishing I were someone else.

When I was twelve, I remember trying to do push-ups during P.E. and failing miserably. I could hardly do a single push-up. While other boys (and girls for that matter) were plowing away at their push-ups, I tried my best to play it off, but really I was thinking about how long and thin my arms were, how weak and awkward I felt. I remember feeling proud about my height but embarrassed about my weird, beanpole-like body on numerous occasions.

It was like I hadn’t gained a single pound since I was a toddler as someone kept stretching out my limbs more and more. I often found myself wishing I could be strong and attractive and well-proportioned like some of my peers.

So, you can imagine that when I stepped onto my high school campus at fourteen years old, I did not feel super confident in my own skin. I felt like a scarecrow in the clothes my older sister had picked out for me. The outfit she selected did not fit my personality, and it certainly did not fit my unique body type.

Perhaps you still feel that I have nothing to complain about. I agree with you on some level. There’s an aching pang of embarrassment I feel in writing about the insecurity of my body resulting from my height. I shouldn’t have anything to complain about. People gape at tall humans in awe. Friends are always begging me to give some of my height to them.

Oh, if only I could have; I would have.

But here's the thing I want to land on: your body type doesn’t matter when you’re insecure about your body. 

I’ve heard from all kinds of people over the years about all kinds of insecurities. They wish their stomach were flatter, their eyes bigger, their nose smaller, their body taller, their skin tanner, their hair more voluminous. I even have some rather fit friends who’ll espouse dissatisfaction with their body. It would seem that many of us struggle to convince ourselves that the way we are is okay.

I’m not really the theologian-type, but I know that God does care about our bodies. 

Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So, glorify God in your body.

— 1 Corinthians 6:19 (ESV)

And I can’t help but wonder what it must’ve been like for Jesus to have a body, too. I don’t imagine him complaining, even though “he had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him” (Isaiah 53:2).

I see a Jesus who had a body, knew his body, took care of his body, and used it to make God known. 

And so, as I’ve aged, I’ve attempted to show more grace for myself regarding my body type. (Fun fact: your body is dynamic and changes as you age! Unexpectedly learning this fact has been … interesting.)

I’m still tall. I’m still thinner than a rail on a train track. And, yes, I still get jokes about being “Slender Man” or “Skeletor” or “Stretch.” But those things don’t define me anymore (turns out they never did), so now I kinda chuckle at all those jokes and nicknames. “It’s true!” I laugh.

To close: I imagine Jesus was very secure, regardless of his body type (even before he had a glorified body). He had a brilliance about him louder than any getup your older sister could curate. And I’d bet my top dollar he’s more than willing to build out that same security within us as well, if we’ll only open ourselves up to him. It certainly seems that he’s been doing so with me.

How have you experienced security and insecurity in your body from puberty into adulthood? Where have you seen struggle with your body turn to gratitude?