Not Learning to Love My Body

She said the hair on my arms were beginning to turn a hazy grey.  I glanced down to examine her observance and I shrugged my shoulders to brush it off.  My best friend’s mom was gently pointing out the changes that were becoming more and more apparent as I awkwardly stumbled late to the puberty party at 15.  I was the last of my gal pal posse to shed my toddler pudge and get a visit from Aunt Flow, and ultimately, the last to purchase a body suit. After all, my boobs were in no place to give them that sort of grand entrance quite yet…… still working on that.

The grey hair on my arms had arrived as a side effect of my lack of eating a nutritious diet.  Nothing was intentional, but rather the life of a busy teen. More time was spent practicing the signature of my current crush’s last name than ensuring I was getting proper nutrition.  Little did I know, my weight loss had become noticeable. And I was intrigued….

Enter intentional eating deficiency.  I may not have noticed my grey haired arms, but I surely noticed the attention I had (finally) been gaining from the male species as I bid farewell to my chubby youth.  I was beginning to look and feel like a woman. As if I had finally arrived. But I’ve never been great at committing to a diet regimen, so that truly didn’t amount to much and with relationship comfort came weight gain, and with marriage came more, and with 2 babies came much MUCH more. 

The quick fix supplement programs were incredibly enticing to a tired and fluffy mom of 2.  I got to a point where I was desperate to feel like myself again, whatever “myself” actually meant to me at that time.  I honestly have no idea. Maybe it was the “myself” before I had kids, where every shred of freedom from work wasn’t spent with spit up, a leaky boob, or shopping for pants that flattered my new, much shapelier, ass.  Maybe it was the “myself” that hooked my arm in the crook of my husband’s as we would impromptu dash for late night drinks from our sweet little apartment not far from the city. Or the “myself” that always felt more attractive as a size 4, not an 8.  Good Lord, not an 8 and definitely not a 10. Yet, here I am.  Size 8/10 and 40 lbs extra, just making itself at home on my hips, thighs, waist, face, ankles….fingers? Yup, that’s my wedding ring that doesn’t fit anymore. It’s everywhere, but my boobs. God made a funny with that one.

Self-love affirmations are everywhere and I dig it.  I want to love my body in its current state, but I do not. I want to love the journey and the changes and maturity my body is gifting me, but I do not. 

I was at the lowest on the scale since BC (before children) and the fittest and strongest I had honestly ever been, just a handful of years ago.  There wasn’t a goal weight or size, I just kept working towards something. That something was never clear or concrete. Brewing under my firmer and fitter physique was a haunting lack of confidence and disillusion that I had buried for years.  Mentally, I was beginning to crumble. I didn’t want to live off these supps and shakes and patches, and whatever else I was consuming, for the rest of my life to maintain my shape. I didn’t want to feel like I was chasing something…. whatever that something was…. anymore. So when I quit cold turkey and phased in a normal nutrition plan, my body still freaked the eff out.  Quickly, I lacked the desire to work out and my body headed straight for gainsville. And not the gains you get from hours a week of crossfit. 

The only comments I had been receiving were about how much weight I had lost, how great I was looking, and friends were dying to know what I was doing. But it felt fraud-like. It felt icky. Inside, I had been punching demons. I was once again getting attention for something that was physical and had nothing to do with who I was as a human being. Who I had worked my whole life at being…… ME.

I believe that self-love can come in many forms, such as, loving the personality that you have been given and realizing how needed your specific person is on this earth.  Loving the quirks that others find charming, unique and make you sparkle. Loving the talents and gifts that bring you the most confidence. You don’t have to be a star athlete or fortune 500 exec to be successful and be a hero in someone’s life.

As I am discovering this new version of me, I am realizing how much stronger my relationships have become, which actually is a reflection of how I am feeling about myself.

Crazy part? I love who I am now. I mean, I’m hiding under sweatshirts like 6 out of 7 days a week, but mentally I feel the healthiest, emotionally I feel the most stable, and my strength comes in the form of speaking my truth and standing in the storms with my feet locked in place where I would normally collapse. All this is so much more fulfilling and freeing than the size on the label of my pants. I look back now and realize that the size and numbers never truly mattered and regardless what size I got to, it was never enough…. I was never loving my body. If anything, I was disrespecting her.

Now, respecting my body means pleasurable movement and exercise, eating foods that are both healthy AND I actually love (sorry kale, ya nasty), and not waiting to lose those extra five pounds to buy that beautiful new pair of jeans. Most of all, not talking down to her when she’s vulnerably naked in front of the mirror. She’s doing the best she can right now.

So, no, I don’t really looooove my body, nor do I feel like I have to, but dammit I will respect the hell out of her. She carries me every day, nourishes me and keeps me going. She has birthed two beautiful babies, has been a vessel of love and comfort through outstretched arms, and she rests against the body of my one and only each night. No number on a scale can compare.

The relationship I have with my body will always be a work in progress and it will always have its ups and downs and inbetweens. I’m leaning in to the notion that my body just wants to be treated with the utmost respect. So while, I am not necessarily “learning to love my body”, I am learning to honor her, and appreciate her, and remind her she’s exactly where she needs to be.

PHOTOGRAPHY: DEMRI RAYANNE PHOTOGRAPHY

LOCATION: THE BANANA STAND