(Image found @ The Kissy Project)
So holy shit.
I thought I was doing really well, folks.
I’m super pro body positivity. I encourage the shit out of people embracing their wonderful selves and feeling comfortable in their skin, and I support them when they make changes if they are not comfortable.
You go, amazing people!
Here’s the thing. I made a choice to make changes in February. TLM hit the six month mark (which makes him eleven months old tomorrow. I know, right? So fast) and started rocking solid foods, and I decided that I needed to get my shit together. I needed to get back out and walking, start eating more cleanly, and start upping the energy level that I was going to need to keep up to this little tyke as he grew bigger and stronger (every single day).
So I did. We started walking (mostly around the concourse of a local hockey arena, open during the week for walking, because February in Northern BC is cold), I started eating better, and I joined My Fitness Pal (because I know the virtue, for me, of a food diary. I’ve done it before, pen and paper style, and it’s a great tool to keep you motivated and to understand what you’re eating and when).
Between then and now, I’ve lost over twenty pounds. I am, in fact, at a weight I can’t remember ever being. (I had a pre-pregnancy weight goal in mind and when I trounced it, I challenged myself to a loftier, but still healthy and realistic, goal.) I feel great. I am stronger and have more energy than I can remember being or having for a long time. (I still have a long way to go. I’d like, when I go back to work, to join a gym again and start a weight and resistance regime to go with my cardio program.) And hey? I won’t lie, it feels great to fit into my jeans again.
Now, here’s the shit. I stepped on the scale (don’t get me started. We actually bought the scale so that we’d have a better idea of how TLM was progressing weight wise, between appointments with our family doctor), saw that number that was ten pounds less than I was at my previous Best, yearsandyears ago, and I cringed.
Twenty pounds and I fucking cringed. Because I had gone up a pound in a week*.
You like that?
Me either. I caught myself doing it though and shook my head. And okay, I was more amused than frustrated. Or amusedly frustrated, anyway. I know where it comes from and at least I recognized it and cut that shit out.
That’s how deep it runs, though. I know damn well where healthy lives for me, and I’m there. I’m proud of myself for deciding to make changes, for me, and meeting them. I’m thrilled with the progression I’ve made. (Without, I might add, cutting my ice cream consumption. I still have a small bowl every night.) More than that, I’m really happy with the confidence it’s helped to build. Not physical self-esteem confidence (though that’s there, too), but “make a decision, put your mind to it, work hard and you’ll succeed” confidence. It’s helped me understand, accept, and not fear the work that will go into writing my Magnum Opus, completing birth doula certification and pursuing more freelance writing gigs. This success has had a monumental effect on my attitude.
So my cringing when I looked at the scale and judged myself for gaining a pound makes me angry. It makes me angry because I have so much residual self-condemnation after having been judged, and taught to judge myself, for so many years.
The work you have to do to let go of all of the negativity that the assholes of the world push on you is fucking mind boggling. I’m so sorry if you have ever felt an inch of this. It’s bullshit and you shouldn’t feel it. You’re amazing. Did you know that?
Be gentle with your awesome selves, folks. Be gentle and fucking pwn the world, because you’re BAMFs.
*And let me tell you, this has not been an easy month, nevermind week. It’s actually been a pretty shit year. We thank our lucky stars that TLM came to us when he did, our bright little beacon of amazing. (Honestly? I think he was a bit of balance in The Universe.)