Why the Struggle with Body Image Isn’t an Overnight Fix
This post is part of a partnership with FIT4MOM DuPage County. All opinions are my own.
I started 2019 off disenchanted. I avoided my skinny jeans. I found solace in the brilliance of leggings and long slouchy sweaters. I took entire bursts of photos just to find one shot where the angle was flattering enough. Every time I looked in the mirror, I felt all the emotions: Denial. Disgust. Frustration. Guilt. Regret. And utter powerlessness to change anything.
Just seven weeks ago, my self-image was at a low that I haven’t felt since the gut-wrenching instability of high school. It wasn’t the same depression I experienced as an adolescent because I just kept pushing through and doing all the things that I have to do as a mom. I still had moments of genuine happiness and joy amid the fog (so it really wasn’t that bad, I told myself). But most of the time, I was just existing, going through the motions and spinning my wheels instead of ever getting ahead.
The self-love that I had been cultivating piece by piece over the past two years was suddenly shredded. I couldn’t shake the belief that I’d had everything I wanted (energy – strength – confidence – calm) and then I ruined it in a tornado of excess.
I couldn’t let go of this anger/guilt shame spiral. But I couldn’t move forward if I didn’t let it go. Something had to change. So I did what I always do: I signed up for the winter session of FIT4MOM Body Back.
Flash forward seven weeks. Seven weeks of eating clean. Seven weeks of listening to my body, working out less and taking the low-impact option. Seven weeks of practicing kindness to myself. Seven weeks of getting real honest about what I need.
And then … the a-ha moment.
They say it takes 4 weeks for you to notice a difference in your body, 8 weeks for your friends and family to see it, and 12 weeks for the rest of the world to notice. It doesn’t surprise me to discover that my body image IQ is skewed and I’m behind the curve. It takes me at least 6 weeks to acknowledge my own efforts.
The time between the sixth and seventh weeks is always when it starts to come together for me – just when I’m about ready to give up and give in with a well-deserved glass of wine and chocolate, the magic happens and the hard work becomes visible.
It caught me off guard this time. I was getting ready in the morning in front of the bathroom mirror like I always do, and I got a glimpse of my body in profile. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t hate what I saw.
Then I went to a bra fitting at Nordstrom, where I basically stared at my half-naked body in that series of dressing room mirrors for a solid half hour. I snapped a picture. I had an epiphany.
Never in my life have I been the girl to wear a bikini. Never have I been the person to post an underwear selfie to social media. But when I took that picture, I felt proud. Proud of my progress and proud of the results.
This is me.
I see a tummy that grew two babies. Easton lovingly molds it like Play-Doh, kisses it, and asks me if it will always be so squishy. I tell him, yes it probably will, the better it makes a pillow for his head when we’re reading before bed. Then I flex my abs and show him the strength underneath the squish.
I see jiggle in my triceps. Sawyer hangs off those arms like the little monkey he is. Those arms can still handle that 37-pound 3-year-old like a boss, when he’s having a tantrum and needs to be wrestled under one arm out of there.
I see love handles. I see stretch marks. I see cellulite. I see a million other “flaws” … except they’re not really. They’re just another part of me like my lips or my eyes, and I won’t let them carry the emotional weight that was weighing me down at the beginning of the year.
Whatever my assessment metrics clock in at and whatever the final number on the scale shows, I have everything I need right now: my confidence back. My self-image under repair. A lightness to my spirit once again that mirrors the newfound lightness in my body.
This is me, raw, exposed … and rocking it.
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