I’ve spent most of my life hating it. I’ve hated the outside of it for being too big and too round, and I’ve hated the inside of it for being too damn fragile. I’ve hated that it needs to be pampered to function well, and I’m envious of people who seem to run through life with little thought to how their bodies look or feel.
In 2010 I completed a 12-week “Body for Life” program, and I was happy with my results.
In 2012 I decided I was sick of not being able to keep up with family on bike rides, and I declared it the year of better health. Then I decided that I was sick of thinking so damn much about my body and I was just done. I was done thinking about it, fighting with it, sacrificing for it, and obsessing over it. I was checking out of the game completely.
It’s now 2013, and I am perhaps the fattest and most out of shape I have ever been.
And I want very much for that not to matter.
I love who I am. I love my courage, my good intentions, my curiosity, my creativity. I love my curly hair and my ginormous smile.
I want that to be enough.
But I do not love being afraid of my body. I don’t love knowing that there are things I can’t do, bike rides I can’t take, and things I cannot wear. I don’t like knowing all the things I’m too afraid to try because I know my body will fail.
I feel like I’m not supposed to say I want to lose weight. I’m supposed to accept and love myself exactly how I am.
But then again, I think about all the changes I make on the inside without guilt. I make them because I love and accept who I am. I practice gratitude. I work to be more patient. I strive to apologize more often and argue less. And none of that is a sign of self loathing.
I hate that this is so complicated.
I hate that the way my body looks and functions has become so inextricably linked to things like self worth and self esteem that I feel like I’m cheating on happiness by admitting that I’m unhappy with my weight.
And I hate the idea of hopping on the rollercoaster again. Part of me is afraid because I have succeeded and then quit so many times before. I’m not afraid of failure as much as I’m afraid of succeeding and quitting again. I’m afraid of being a joke. I’m afraid that Jared will appreciate my success, and I’ll know then that he’s disappointed in me right now.
But mostly I’m afraid of admitting that there’s something about me that I don’t like right now. I feel like I’m breaking the code, the one that says happiness comes from acceptance and self love.
I do love me.
I just don’t love how much I weight right now.