When I started defining it by what it wasn’t
instead of what it is.
When I came to despise my hips and thighs
and cover up – not for modesty – but to hide my flaws.
When I looked in the mirror and saw only
double chins, extra fat, and curves too much for even Marilyn Monroe.
Going to the gym became shameful.
I was too bulky, too clumsy, too sweaty, too bouncy. Too too.
I defined my body by what it could – or should – NOT do instead of all it could.
The biggest obstacle to enjoying living in my own skin was not magazine covers, mean words, or not fitting in at the gym.
It was me. My fears. My insecurities. The possibility of failure and maybe even success.
I’m learning that my body is amazing.
It deserves good fuel.
It deserves to ride a bike, hike, do Zumba, try a cartwheel, swim, or do whatever I want to try.
Even if I fall
or look foolish
or jiggle too much.
I’m not sure when I learned to hate my body,
but I know it’s not too late to learn to love it.