Most of the time, I hate exposing myself. Most of the time, I’m not comfortable in my body. All of the time, I’m worried about how I look. And damn, is it exhausting.
I used to spend no less than 3 hours at the gym before. I’d do cardio. I’d lift weights. I’d work my core till I could barely stand up. I measured my worth by how small my waist was, and whether or not I could fit myself into a size 2 pair of jeans. The number on the scale determined the amount of calories I ate for the week, and I’d say “it’s just water weight” and cut back on water to satisfy myself with how heavy I “really” was. I ran marathon races because running was the fastest way to drop unnecessary pounds around my gut, and I lifted weights because it was socially acceptable to diet if you were a lifter.
Why is that? Why is pushing ourselves to challenging diets okay only if we’re working out? “FuElinG my b0dY f0r hEaLth.” When does it become an eating disorder? Where do you draw the line? I used to purge when I was barely a pound over the weight I wanted to be. Everyone applauded me for being so disciplined with my macros, and even then, I never felt good enough. Then I got pregnant with Maverick, and Lawd help me with what I thought (and still think) about my body now.
The extra skin that folds over when I sit down, when it used to be so tight. The extra cellulite on my legs when I’m not flexed. The extra love that is constricted by my high waisted jeans because I’m too embarrassed to admit I have a postpartum body. I gave birth to a human. My body was adored for growing this human, and now, I scorn at it when I pass by a mirror after I shower. My heart pounds when I step on the scale (especially this week since I gained +4 pounds). I suck in my stomach to feel smaller, even though no one sees beneath my extra large t-shirts.
So this past weekend, I decided to challenge myself. I wore the damn bikini and decided to try my hardest not thinking about my body and what I looked like. I tried my hardest to be present with who I was with, and I tried my hardest to feel good about myself in clothes that didn’t hide me. And honestly…
It felt fucking great. I ate great food. I didn’t hold back on treats. I drank merrily with my family. And even though I’m back in the mindset of wanting to get smaller (it’s a hard mindset to escape for very long), I’m happy I was able to enjoy my time.
Here’s to trying to overcome diet culture and self-loathing behaviors. Here’s to trying to have confidence in myself because I’m a damn good person, and none of that is measured by my waist line or my weight. Here’s to putting on the damn bikini and enjoying life, because my son doesn’t care what his momma looks like… he cares about her being present and engaged. So PUT ON THE DAMN BIKINI GIRL.