For the vast majority of my life, I have lived on the chubbier side. Now when I say chubby, I mean I have always held weight. I was never a skinny person. Even in my “Skinnier” Days, I always had puppy fat chilling in my mid section and thighs. There is a photo of myself and my sister when we were little bubbies, and I was this Michelin Baby. I had rolls on rolls on rolls and I must say, I was flipping adorable for it! I have always been conscious of my squishy bits. They are always there when I don’t need company. Reminding me that I’m not alone, I will always have something to keep me warm.
My body has always had shape. Its in my genetics. When I was younger, I absolutely hated my body shape. I wanted to be like my friends, who were all skinny and straight up and down. I felt like I was always the odd one out, I couldn’t really share my friends clothes because nothing quite sat right and I was embarrassed by the little puppy fat pouch that I had at the bottom of my stomach. A pouch I still have to this day, which is a bit more pronounced thanks to carrying my son.
When I looked in the mirror when I was younger, I consistently compared myself to others. I wanted what they had. I hated that I wasn't blessed with a long lined, model like body. My grandmother once said to me, you look like Twiggy the Model, but you’re fat and Twiggy isn’t…. That one comment stuck to me like glue. As a young girl, around 10-11 years old, that is not the sort of thing you want to hear. You look like a model, but you’re fat. Way to kill any hopes of becoming a model!! (I’m kidding, I’m wayyyyyy to short and I like food too much). But in all seriousness, when we are younger, what people say to us has the potential to make or break us. All the little remarks stick to our sub-conscious like glue. Then as we get older, those little remarks start coming out of the woodworks and we wonder how the hell we didn’t flip out. If someone said that to me now, I would politely tell them to get fucked and punch them in the throat.
I came into my own in my early 20s, I slimmed down and thought that was the key to my happiness. I thought I could conquer the world because i wasn’t the chubby girl anymore. I rid myself of a toxic person and gained a little bit of self respect. I had always been the ‘friend’, never the girl anyone wanted to get to know more, but suddenly, because I was skinny, I was getting attention. You would think that would make me feel amazing, but I can tell you now, it didn’t. I have always been excessively level headed and aware of myself. I thought to myself, wait, what is the difference between me then and me now? How come before when I was bigger, I wasn’t worth your time?? How come now, when I’m skinny, I’m suddenly worth your time?? Fuck that noise. I’m not about that life and I sure as shit was not willing to sell myself short for a bit of male attention.
As I have gotten older, I have fought the good fight when it comes to my body image. It’s been a battle. I go through periods of feeling phenomenal, then days when I would quite happily to never leave my bed through fear of people seeing me. Since taking the leap into a healthier lifestyle, my body has changed again. I beat myself up some days because my pants size doesn’t seem to want to budge too much, but hell, you can’t really do much about bone structure, can you? I can’t physically make my hip bones shrink, thats just bloody ridiculous!
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning. Crop top and boy shorts on. My waist continues to shrink and my hips are looking even bigger for it, but I didn’t think, oh god, my hips are giant. I thought, holy fuck, look at my shape! I’m a fucking goddess, look at them curves!!!!! I looked at my stomach, which has been the bane of my existence, and I thought, shit, you’re getting flatter and flatter, you go Glen Coco! I didn’t see my stomach to vag line stretch marks for a brief moment, I saw the hard work and dedication I have consistently put in to create a body I can, for once, be incredibly proud of. For all of these moments of clarity and strength, I gave thanks.
I gave thanks to myself for working so hard to achieve one of the most difficult things I have ever had to achieve. For a brief moment, I have achieved body appreciation and confidence. I couldn’t be more proud of that. I gave thanks to my body for not giving up on me, for appreciating what I am trying to do to improve for the benefit of me and the benefit of my body. I gave thanks to my heart, because despite it being a broken mess sometimes, my heart has never decided to give up completely, my heart as pushed through the hardest of times and it is so much stronger for doing so.
I gave thanks to my Son, for blessing me with my stretch marks. Something I have never thanked him for. Those stretch marks should serve as a reminder that I carried one of my most glorious gifts safely into this world. My son is completely obsessed with my stretchmarks, whenever I have my stomach exposed around the house, he always has to touch them. He knows he made them happen, but I haven’t ever told him that they are a gift from him that I will always get to carry with me, a gift that will always be so special and close to my heart.
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