*PTW: this post mentions exercise and scales.*
The other day, I got home from work and went upstairs to change. Sounds typical, right? But for me, what happened was huge. When I got home, I was in a hurry to run out and pick up something for supper. When I got to my closet, I automatically picked up my favourite pair of shorts – shorts that I bought 3 years ago and somehow had not yet deteriorated after all the times I had worn them. I threw on a random shirt and the shorts, and turned to leave my room. The title of this blog post gives it away, but guess what happened? My shorts ripped.
This is something that would have left me feeling shattered, unconfident, and probably brought me to tears a few months ago. At that time, I was so afraid of my body taking up more space, or getting bigger. I have been exercising more lately (blog post on that coming soon), but finally in a way that is good for my body and mind. In a way that doesn’t feel like a punishment. Over the past couple of months, I’ve been trying to improve many balancing yoga poses, and my legs have been getting stronger. My legs are more muscular than they were before, because I am actually eating enough for my body to build muscle (*self-five* this is a win for me – actually learning what my body needs). My legs are also bigger than they were before, and are now too big for those shorts. So, they ripped.
I’m someone who used to let the number on the scale determine her worth. At this point in my life, I haven’t weighed myself in almost a year (other than at my doctor’s office, but even then I’ve been stepping on the scale backwards). Am I still tempted to look at that number? Quite often, actually. But at the point I’m at in my life right now, I’m so much happier not knowing. Even though I know that I’m healthier than I was 3 months ago, I still don’t think I’m in a place to see that potentially different number. I know that no matter what that number is, there will be that punched-in-the-stomach feeling, because I still have some work to do in the self-growth and self-love department. So, for now, I choose not to know. And that’s okay.
All of that being said, yesterday had the power to be a major set-back in my self-love journey. I’m someone who so strongly wished to be a smaller size. When I did work out, I would avoid lifting weights at any cost, or even anything to strengthen my core because I really just wanted to be small. I wanted to be perfect. (Or what I *thought* perfect was). I would spend hours either running/jogging, walking around wandering aimlessly, or even doing really weird things like tapping my feet. or changing my sit/stand desk at work to standing. I remember setting my alarm 40 minutes earlier each morning so that I could do yoga before work (I was also doing it wrong, and did hurt myself on several occasions because I was trying to do asanas that were too complicated for my level). At this point, yoga meant something completely different to me than it does now. It was obsessive, and I hated it. But I wanted to look like the yogis you see on Instagram, or on yoga studio advertisements. I wanted to be thin. Now, thankfully, I’m at a place where I genuinely do enjoy exercise, and do it intuitively, and because it makes me feel good. But, this was after my psychologist recommended I take several months off of exercising; what was at first such a challenge ended up being one of the best things I have ever done for my mental health. I’m now (mostly) confident and comfortable with my body, and on most days, I really do love it. I’m at a point where I think that thin women are beautiful. I think that fat women are beautiful. I think that curvy women are beautiful. Now, when I hear another woman bashing her beautiful body, I just want to wrap her in a blanket, give her a cup of tea, and tell her that she’s perfect just the way she is. I’ve been there, and I want her to know that she doesn’t have to feel that way forever. I’ve made peace with the fact that my body will change as I move through my life – just like I will.
So, over the past two weeks, I got a C, and my shorts ripped. And I’ve never been happier. If you had told 17-year-old me that I would be saying that, I wouldn’t have believed you. But I’m happier and healthier than I can ever remember myself being, and I am finally so proud of myself. My legs are imperfect. They’ve grown. They have cellulite, they’re scarred. They’re bruised. (Seriously, ask my sister somehow I always end up with new bruises and scars because I’m clumsy AF).
Long story short, I put on a different pair of shorts and went to pick up some supper. I’m stronger now than I was 6, 3, and even 1 month ago, physically and mentally. I can’t wait to keep growing, and if my legs grow with me, well, maybe the world just needs a little more of me ;)
Ally