I’m turning 43 this summer. That’s officially middle-aged. I’m supposed to be wiser and more evolved as a human. I’m responsible for three small humans and a life-long relationship with their father; my partner. I work many hours in the career I madly love. I am lucky beyond measure. And yet.
I hate my body. Like a deep hatred reserved for Trump and Nazis. This body that bore my children, that rises every day and walks thousands of steps in a hospital taking care of sick children, that occasionally and begrudgingly exercises, that supports friends in crises and that dances ridiculously in my mini-van. My body can do all those things- with jiggles and wiggles- but does it nonetheless. I should be proud of it. I should be thankful that I can do all the things. And yet.
I look in the mirror and see a cross between a manatee and the Michelin Man. I actually gasp sometimes when I catch a reflection of myself in a window. Who is that heavy chick? When did THAT happen?? It’s been a slow and steady climb up the scale. To be clear, I’ve never ever, not even for a moment, been small. I was a D cup in 7th grade and had child-bearing hips in high school. Forever dieting, forever awash in self-loathing. Mirrors became verboten since they just caused me anguish. How am I still here? After so many years of therapy, of self reflection, of WORK.
After growing and birthing my three kids, my body took a sharp turn for mom-bod. I’m at my heaviest weight I’ve ever been and it makes me mental. There’s the sharp dissonance of wanting to be past this juvenile phase of body obsession and being stuck in its vortex. I want to be body positive and full of flowery acceptance of me at any size. I want to look in the mirror and be cool with it. I want to take pictures and not cringe every time I see them. I want to look down and see belly rolls and be casual and kind to them. I want to not decompensate with zipper pants. I want to focus on my full and gloriously messy, chaotic life without getting sidetracked by the scale. I want to swim in the summer without adjusting and readjusting my bathing suit in pained discomfort.
I’ve learned that wanting something isn’t enough. It’s a start though.
The other things I need to do to get closer to what I want are: write, eat real food, be nice to myself, tell the fat obsessed voices to fuck off because they’re crazy makers, read books written by my tribe, keep exercising even if it’s a slow trot and listen to my 10 year old daughter when she says “We’re awesomely thick, mommy”. She’s wiser than her mama and my deep hope for her is to never have to write a blog like this one.
To all the struggling mamas out there- let’s do this together. Let’s swim and dance and jiggle and not give a shit. We can help each other by perhaps faking it at first but then maybe, just maybe- it will become real.
Here’s to a summer of jiggles and body rolls and radical joy that we are alive and able. Let’s not get sidetracked by the noise in our heads. I’ll keep reminding you. Remind me too.