Yesterday I told my husband, “I love my body.”
And I do.
I love what my body does.
I love being strong and capable. I love running. I love being able to run and run and run without stopping. I like being able to stand like a flamingo and tie my shoe without losing my balance. I like the muscles I’m seeing popping up through my flesh, reminding me they’re there, encouraging me to keep working. I like being able to go to quiet places in the mountains, losing myself in the beauty of it all, available only because I can walk. I love that I can breathe deep, catch my breath and keep going. I love my balance. I love going to the zoo and not getting tired. I love walking down a hill and not freaking out that I’m going to have to walk back up it. I love being able to carry my kids, on my hip, on my back- it doesn’t matter. I’m just glad I didn’t miss out on carrying them around.
I have gratitude for my body that I’ve never had before. I marvel at it, what it can do, what I can force it to do. I love that it is plastic, moldable, shapeable into the kind of body I want. I like that I can challenge my body to be healthier, better, more resilient.
I have reverence for myself. I know that I’m brief, youth is fleeting and this body is giving me everything it has. I understand now that my body will do whatever I want it to, I just have to respect it enough to make the right choices.
It surprises me to learn that I can love this part of my body to clearly, but my insecurities over being a non-standardly attractive woman have completely overshadowed my ability to appreciate even this one, compartmentalized version of myself. No matter what I look like, I can always be strong, capable and healthy. Focus there, right?
I love my body.
Perhaps not in the way that we typically desire, but I’m on my way there. And in the meantime, what I do love about my body is fabulous.