Today, I woke up and looked in the mirror, and I didn’t hate what I saw. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but for me, it’s revolutionary.
I’ve been trained my entire life to hate myself. Words from well-meaning family members to bullies have conditioned me into thinking I’m not good enough. Childhood bullies called me everything from Shrek to The Jolly Green Giant to even worse names that are too unkind for the internet. My mom once sent me a pair of jeans three sizes too small as “inspiration.” A family member once told me that a fit man could never love me unless I were also fit (this is extremely untrue, by the way, as evidenced by my very fit husband), and another person once told me I would never get a job unless I were thin (also very untrue).
Five years ago, when I was officially diagnosed with Body Dysmorphia, I breathed a sigh of relief. It meant that my self-hatred didn’t hold the permanence I’d given it for 27 years. It meant it was something I could change, something I could heal.
And so, for the past five years, I’ve been working diligently to do everything I can to learn what it’s like to love yourself. I’ve got not one but two therapists who have helped me work through the intricacies of my trauma and reshape the way I look at my mental health. I have also made significant strides in my physical health. I finally found a doctor who believed me, who told me about the various deficiencies I knew I had but couldn’t get anyone to check for. I’ve fixed my hair loss caused by said deficiencies.
As of the day of posting this, I’ve lost 70 pounds (or 32 kilos, depending on where you’re from).
Weight loss has always been a difficult thing for me – I’ve always tackled it in an unhealthy way. When I first lost weight at 17, I did an insane diet. It wasn’t remotely sustainable, and I used my self-hatred as a tool to propel it. I hated myself so much that I tricked myself into thinking that I didn’t deserve to enjoy food.
Now, I’ve noticed how people become kinder to me with every pound I lose. As much as I can fix my own self-hatred, I can’t fix the systemic issue of the way people treat people when they’re thin versus when they’re not. However, I can fix the way I take it.
The number on the scale does not define my worth.
I no longer restrict what I eat but try to make healthier choices. This journey is not about weight loss; it’s about running faster, climbing higher, and being happier. A compliment about my weight loss no longer makes my entire day. Yes, I say, I have lost weight. I’ve also become stronger. I’m also happier. And that’s what I’m most proud of.
In the society we live in, it often feels like being fat is everyone’s biggest fear. I can’t tell you how frequently I hear people talk about calories like they’re the devil, openly telling me how they’re going to starve themselves because they had a cookie someone baked. They act like enjoying food, loving sweets, and gaining a pound is the most significant moral failing.
I’m here to tell you, it’s not.
My therapist had me do an exercise where she asked me to talk about different parts of my body and how I felt about them. The first time around, I mentioned that I didn’t like my legs or stomach. She looked puzzled and said, “Do your legs not let you travel, swim, and hike?” and “Does your stomach not nourish you and allow you to enjoy the foods you love?” I was dumbstruck. I’ve spent almost my entire life thinking of my body in terms of form over function. I’ve been punishing myself, hating my legs, my stomach, and my arms while never thinking about how much they do for me.
At my highest weight, I swam in the Aegean Sea with my friends, drank champagne under the stars in Porto, and hiked the faerie pools in Edinburgh.
I have lived a beautiful life, regardless of what the number on a scale indicates. My legs, arms, and stomach have always been there for me, pushing me to do the things I want to do, and I’ve spent years unappreciative of them, not giving them the recognition they deserve.
And yes, sure, I have less pressure on my knees now, which means I can hike for longer and do pilates without feeling like I’m going to die. I feel lighter and my clothes fit better, which is great, but my focus has shifted. It’s more important to spend time celebrating the non-scale victories instead and doing my best to appreciate getting stronger, swimming faster, and improving my tennis serve.
I am so proud of who I’ve become. The only thing I’m sad about is that it took me until my thirties to learn how to love myself. I wish I could go back in time and hug the little girl I used to be, the one who would cry in her room because she didn’t think she was good enough, and tell her: You are beautiful. You’re worthy. You are kind. You are, you are, you are.
And the most important thing I’ve learned?
Body Dysmorphia is not something that will go away. There are days when I’ll wake up and won’t like myself as much. There are days when I’ll see a picture of myself and think, my god, I look terrible. Self-criticism is, unfortunately, a part of being human, but the difference now is that I have the tools to fight against it. I can let the bad thoughts slide off my shoulders like water droplets. And on the days when I can’t do that, I can recognize that it’s just a bad day. We all have them. It doesn’t reset my progress.
I love myself, regardless of the bad days I have. I love myself, despite living in a world that is less than kind.
I love myself because I can, because life is too damn short not to.
If that’s not a success story? Then I don’t know what is.
