I’m 40 lbs past the version of my body with which I am most comfortable and familiar. My thirties have stretched my skin and softened my edges, and I’m learning to get comfortable and familiar with my new dimensions. There are moments of panic, like when I see a picture taken from a strange angle, and think “Fuck all, is that me?” But there are also moments like this, after a run and a shower, where I put on as little clothing as possible to walk around the apartment because I feel strong and healthy, and I am fully inhabiting every square inch of myself, even the new ones. I’m dating again, and I’m a little bit nervous about about my body in a way that I never was in my *18 yoga classes a week* twenties. I don’t have any solutions or pithy quotes about motivation or self-love for you, just this truth: I really love my body, today. And three days ago she felt like a stranger. That’s how relationships work, though.
I will not force her to “diet”, I will not ask her to change, I will not remove from her what brings comfort and pleasure. I will take her on long hikes and slow runs, because that’s how she likes it. I will lift weights so she gets to be as strong as she feels. Sometimes I’ll drink whiskey to help her shoulders drop, and sometimes I’ll drink it because it tastes so damn good. I’ll eat real fucking food. I’ll stretch and move in ways that feel truthful and spacious to my body, because she deserves that from me. Some days we’ll feel like strangers, and some days we’ll be naked together all damn day. We get this one go together, my body and I, and I will love and protect and serve her with abandon because she has never let me down.
As Thanksgiving comes and we are surrounded with bullshit messages from diet culture about all the ways we have to earn our calories, burn off what we ate, be “good”, and every other kind of noxious and toxic noise, let’s practice being in and maybe even trying to love these bodies… exactly as they are.