Way to Go, Body
“As I look at my body, I think back to a moment, long ago, when I had looked in the mirror as a child and wondered would anyone ever want this odd, pale, freckly creature.
And I decide, now, in this moment, that I want it; I want this body.
I want to inhabit her, enjoy her, care for her, and defend her in this world. And I no longer want to be yet another voice telling her she’s disgusting or embarrassing or inadequate or too much. I want to be one of those arresting voices of love and compassion, to offer her a space where she can go to restore, to feel safe, to grow. And I don’t want to be another person spreading hatred towards women in a society that has already profited too much from the pain of the female body. One day, not too far in the distant future, this body will be a pile of decaying flesh and dust in the ground. But for now, she’s alive and vibrant, and I want to stop hurting her. I want to be the adult in this relationship: to look out for her, to have her back, because, more than anyone else, she has always had mine. ”
My body was never quite good enough. I know this, because recently I was looking at photos from the year I lived in DC. I turned thirty-two in DC and I weighed 135 lbs in those photos. It was the skinniest I’d been since before moving to Mexico at twenty-eight. My commute to work involved nearly three miles of walking a day, easily 45 minutes of city strolling, my work bag slung over my shoulder.
I didn’t bother with a gym membership. I kept a couple kettle bells and used online videos for a weekly session of weightlifting, because my personal-trainer sister said it was good for me. That was the extent of my exercise routine. I ate whatever I wanted, and I drank a lot.
I look at those photos and think, “Wow, I was so skinny! Look at those muscle indentions in my thighs!” But even then I remember wanting to get rid of the thin layer of belly fat on my stomach that had shown up in my late twenties and never went away.
I can’t even see that belly fat now. I don’t know what I saw back then. From a photo perspective, my stomach is entirely flat. Yet at the height of what some might call my ideal body, I still found something to critique.
It’s interesting to observe now, how my body was never quite good enough. It’s a metaphor for how I ultimately felt about myself. Never quite good enough. Never quite satisfied. Something could always be better. I could always be better. Do better. Always.
I try to remember if there has ever been a season where I was entirely at rest. Where I’d done enough and could just be.
I think I’ve grown toward having small moments like this. At the end of a thirteen hour workday, I might close my computer, ending the frenzy with the words, “You’ve done enough today.” I’ll pull out my yoga mat and do a quick routine while the bathtub fills with warm water. I’ll add a few drops of essential oil before stepping into the warmth of the tub and giving myself a few moments of mindfulness as I focus on the feel of the water on my skin, inhaling the scent of lavender.
I might feel settled and calm as I finish the bath and make my way to my couch to watch a show or two before ending my wind down routine with a few pages of a fun book before finally turning off my the light at around 11PM.
For most of my life, I’ve felt like I had to earn my rest. It took great effort to bring myself to a place of equilibrium and truly believe the words, “You’ve done enough. For now.”
What ultimately shifted my relationship with my body was my study of trauma. The more I learned about my body’s internal, instinctive mechanisms for keeping me safe, the more in awe of my body I felt.
These internal mechanisms prompted me to dissociate during my years with my family. I shut down emotions that were unacceptable and shape-shifted in the presence of my abusers in order to keep them happy and keep their eyes off of me. I learned to adapt and blend in. I learned to be what I needed to be in order to survive.
My body worked so hard! “Way to go body,” I’ll say these days. Lately, I’ve begun engaging my body in conversation, like it’s a real person. “How ya doing, body?” I’ll check in on it periodically, just to make sure I’m paying attention.
After a rough season with the nonprofit that caused my body to shut down, I had serious conversations with my body. “Do you want to keep doing this?” I asked. “You’ve worked so hard. You’ve done so much. You’ve kept me safe my whole life. If you’re ready to be done, if you’re ready to move on, just let me know.” I was willing to give up an organization I’d built from the ground up, in order to care for my body. I’m learning to see rest as something my body deserves just for existing, not as something I need to earn by killing myself.
Exhaustion was once a sign I could take a break. Now, I just take a break. Exhaustion is no longer the norm. My body deserves good things.
I deserve good things.