I have wanted to create a spot for my personal journey/struggle with eating, weight, and body image for a while. To be honest I didn’t want the accountability. I also didn’t know what I would offer. I am not an expert. I am just a girl that lost sight of a simple fact:  I am more than just overweight. I am a pretty good baker. I can do the sprinkler dance move like no one else and my dolphin impression is off the chain. I am a pretty awesome painter. I don’t have all the answers. I am not some huge weight loss success story … yet. I don’t work out hardcore … all the time. I am just trying to figure out how to piece all the parts of getting in shape together. Then I read this (seriously, click and read, then come back to me).

When did fat become a feeling anyway? And because I believed I was fat, I knew I was no good.

This is the published letter that Kasey Edwards wrote to her mom, and I cried the first time I read it. My mom taught me so many things about myself. She was my biggest cheerleader, yet, I remember looking her value herself by the number on the scale or the number on a tag of jeans. I (like mother, like daughter) began to slowly but surely adopt the same apathy and sometimes disdain for the reflection in the mirror. It is not just our mothers that show us this, it is our best friends, the girl sitting next to you in the waiting rooms, the newest diet craze. There are all these little messages that tell us to rank the value of our life and the beauty of a person by their appearance. How is one supposed to get healthy when we are deemed failures day in and day out already? Health is reflected in our appearance but it goes beyond that and is reflected differently in each person.

Let us honor and respect our bodies for what they do instead of despising them for how they appear. Focus on living healthy and active lives, let our weight fall where it may, and consign our body hatred in the past where it belongs.

So many times I use the excuse, “I am just trying to be healthier, I don’t care about the weight.” But I did care about the weight. The weight haunted me. I was terrified to step on a scale. More than that, I hated going shopping. This was not me. I wanted to be healthier, but I wanted to enjoy shopping. I had to get past the mental block that allowed me to believe the number on the scale told the whole story of who I was and what I was capable of. I had to honor that number, good or bad. More than that I had to honor the girl that carried that number. At the end of the day, no matter the number on her scale or the size of her jeans, I saw my mom, it’s time to start seeing me.


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