Worth the Weight

Facebook has notified me that I’ve been tagged in an album. A wedding album, specifically. I flip through the pictures of that gorgeous happy day, on which I got to watch two very dear friends of mine pledge their love and lives to one another. Then, I get to a photo of me – taken from the side, and I look past the smile on my face (mid-song) and the joy around me. Instead, all I can see are indentations in my legs under that tight blue dress. I see ruching that only somewhat covers a more prominent tummy and arms that are less defined than they were before. I begin to revert to a former way of thinking – the self-conscious girl who has battled weight and self-esteem her entire life threatens to come forward and snatch up any happy memory of that weekend. A year ago, I would have untagged that picture, but today, I allow it to grace my timeline.

You see, I’ve spent the majority of my life worried about my weight. (This post is the short version – I’d be happy to discuss the rest of it with any of you over a lovely cup of coffee. It’s quite a tale.) I was a chubby one all through grade school and my waistline only increased as I made my way through high school. I remember auditioning for “Thoroughly Modern Millie” during my junior year fearing that regardless of my hard work, I would not get cast. I didn’t look like a thin, modern, flapper type straight out of the 1920’s. I am eternally grateful that the directors did not see the world my way, because that show was one of the highlights of my teenage years and gave me a newfound confidence to chase after my musical theater dreams.  College was another story. I was indirectly told by some that my chances of getting in would be greater if I put down the cookie, so to speak. I made friends with rejection that year, opening “We’re sorry” letters from 9 out of the 11 colleges to which I had applied. Still, I held my chin up and decided to do something about it in the first year.  

Since my freshman year of college, I have lost and gained 40 pounds twice. I’ve noticed that there seems to be a pattern. I lose it, keep it off for a while, experience some kind of transition or heartbreak (or both), and then gain it back. Whenever I’d have gained, I would get angry and feel bitter toward myself. How could I let this happen again? Fast forward once more. By the time I went back for my senior year of college, I was, again, 40 pounds lighter and curvy in all the right places. And STILL, I did not feel good enough. I was working toward being smaller, not stronger, thinking that happiness was only another 20 pounds away. Whenever I looked in the mirror, I saw imperfection. I saw cellulite. I saw myself “not working hard enough”.  If people said that I looked great, I’d smile and say thank you, but would silently think that I could do more. If I indulged, I would feel guilty and punish myself by filling my head with lies I had told myself over and over again. It began to take hold of me in more ways than one. The odd thing was that I was still a physically healthy human being.

It wasn’t until recently that I began to face insecurity (or punch it in the face, rather) and embrace who I was as a person. After going through another somewhat stressful transition, I started to gain again. On top of this, I was put on a medication upon arriving in TN that had the negative side effect of weight gain as well, so even though I was going to the gym and watching my food intake, I still could not make the numbers go down. However, when the wedding came along, I made the decision to take it in stride. And I found that no one commented on my dress except to say that the blue was a lovely complement to my eyes. No one gave me a sideways glance for having a piece of the cake that evening. No one asked me to step away from being in the wedding pictures. Because no one else was paying attention to that stuff. The newlyweds enjoyed the song we prepared for them. We tore up the dance floor. We laughed and talked about life’s plans for us in the coming months. And that was all.

So when I returned, I looked in the mirror and complimented myself for the first time in a long time. This was what I looked like today – fearfully and wonderfully made. 

I have since become more active and have been putting better fuel into my body for the sole purpose of feeling my best. But this time, I am in a much kinder headspace. The obsession is no longer at the forefront of my mind. I am much more interested in being a good person and being nice to myself at any size, age, etc. Because why would I tell someone that they needn’t change a thing while I’m tearing myself apart in my own bathroom mirror? Here’s what I know: I am soft. I enjoy good food. I have a major sweet tooth. I like leggings and oversized sweaters, and I will probably never be able to wear a crop top or pull off the runway like the VS Angels do. But you better believe that I am strong. And I’ll rock a floor-length, curve-hugging red dress on Valentine’s Day. I’ll own a coffee-shop stage in cowboy boots and dark-wash jeans. You will see what I want you to see. And that is that I am me and that’s enough.