How Rio de Janeiro’s Carnaval Changed My Relationship With My Body

“It’s photoshoot time,” my friend Yara declared once we were all dressed in our costumes and had applied copious amounts of glitter on our faces and bodies. On a hot, sunny Saturday in February in Rio de Janeiro, we had woken up at 7 a.m., slathered ourselves in SPF 50, and attached any accessories we needed to the little clothes we had on before we headed out into Rio’s street carnaval. But Yara stopped the six of us in our tracks as we were leaving — she wanted to take individual photos of all of us.

My relationship with my body is complicated. And how could it not be? I have lived a lifetime of having other Latine people give their unsolicited opinions about my body, pointing out when I have gained or lost weight, or discussing how my body has fluctuated over the last 10 years of adulthood. Rationally, I know bodies change depending on context and age, but for a long time, looking at the rolls of fat on my belly and the stretch marks on my legs in photographs was difficult for me. I felt ashamed of not being able to be as slim as society tells me I should be. 

We had spent the first hours of that Saturday exchanging opinions on what looked good, giving each other compliments on our sparkly costume choices, and hyping each other up.  But Yara’s idea to take individual photos of our costumes — where my full body would be on display — took me a few minutes to process. That meant a phone camera would document all my flaws in a photo that would perhaps wind up on social media. I wasn’t wearing a loose T-shirt to hide my belly, nor could I feasibly hide my stretch marks by posing in a specific way. All of it would be hanging out, in front of everyone. 

“Who wants to go first,” Yara asked. I took a beat and said: “Screw it; it’s Carnaval.” 

I awkwardly positioned myself in front of a white wall and smiled, and the other people in the room started complimenting me: “Your makeup looks so good!” “Let me see that ass!” “You look so good!” I was suddenly able to see myself in the same way my dear friends were describing me. It’s exactly how I wanted to appear that morning: as a beautiful, silvery alien superstar goddess — a woman undeterred by the constraints of body standards. 

We all took turns posing — yelling positive things about each other’s bodies, costumes, and poses. In those moments, we decided that all that mattered was that we were feeling comfortable and happy, and we were invested in helping each other feel that way. It was magical, and it worked.

I once heard someone say that if you want to be comfortable with how your body looks, you should spend more time naked. Being naked allows us to perceive our own bodies in their fullness, without the draping of clothes to disguise perceived flaws. During the four days of Carnaval, my ass was out, my belly was out, and, at some points, even my boobs were out. I couldn’t ignore the solidness of my own body as I moved toward other half-naked bodies sweating under the Rio de Janeiro sun. My body was alive and beautiful; it was a part of something.

After that impromptu photoshoot on Saturday, we walked to our first street party, the block party group Amigos da Onça, where they played pop and axé music (a danceable rhythm from the northeast of Brazil). We danced, often bumping into strangers who were also dancing. Spirits were high. Everyone smiled at each other. Complete strangers complimented my alien superstar earrings. I told random people I loved how they looked. We were all in sync with each other, and under that sun, it was simply impossible to feel like my body was a bad body. My body was with other bodies, and all bodies that were there were good bodies — therefore, so was mine.

For four days, my group of friends — there were always at least five of us, but sometimes there were 10 of us, depending on who was available — went through the same morning routine. We woke up, had breakfast, chugged coffee, and started getting ready for another day of dancing in the streets of Rio. Every day, we hyped each other up, did individual photoshoots, talked about our favorite things about each other’s costumes, and laughed at the inside jokes we had created the previous day. I had never spent so much time in a space where others cherished my body, where my size or flaws weren’t remarked on, where they were truly enjoyed by others. 

Walking from one block party to the next, I also started appreciating the strength of my legs, the stamina of my breath, and the resilience of my mood. At the end of each day, my phone informed me that I took 20,000 steps, and I marveled at how functional a body can be, rather than purely existing to reach aesthetic goals that make nobody happy. My feet walked that far! My legs danced for hours! My hands held my friends’ hands! 

During our lunch breaks — an essential part of my Carnaval experience, as refueling allowed us to keep partying — I ate with gusto, not caring about calories or whether I was eating too many carbs. If my body carried me through Rio’s Carnaval, then it felt like the perfect body for me. Of course, I often saw people at block parties that were thinner than me, but I never felt inclined to compare myself to them. There seems to be an agreement in the Carnaval air that we are all there to have fun and enjoy the moment.

On the last day of Carnaval, we went to the beach to relax after partying. We rested under the afternoon sun as we spoke about the last few days, and how much we had enjoyed each other's company. My friend Charlie took a photo of me from below, an angle I usually hate because the folds under my chin make my face look unflattering. But this photo was different. I looked so much like my true self, the self I want people to see and the self I want to be. Covered in glitter, sand, and sweat, I had never felt so proud of my body, because I had allowed it to experience four days of fun, pleasure, and wholesome friendships.

Since that hectic, wonderful week in Rio, my relationship with my body has become easier. I am no longer deterred by my belly if I really want to wear something. I enjoy the strength of my arms when I need to lift something heavy, and I don’t worry about the thickness of them at all.