For as long as I can remember I’ve been unhappy with my body.
There’s too much of it.
It’s too wobbly.
It’s unattractive (in my eyes).
It’s a perfectly common attitude for anyone to have (though, women do seem to have a bit of a monopoly on self-loathing), but it’s bloody unhealthy.
The reality is my body is not magazine beautiful, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be a model. I don’t want to be held up as an example of “this is what we aspire to”. I’m just not that type of person, and I have no intention of treading that path.
My body is that of a 35 year old mother of five. This body has already done amazing things, it has been through one heck of a lot and it’s still functioning at the end of it. In all honesty I should love it. Every flabby, wobbly, stretch-marked part.
But I don’t.
I have not yet accepted it for the beautiful vessel it is.
Because really, when you think about it, it is just a vessel that enables me to do everything else. It doesn’t matter if it’s pale, tanned, toned or jiggly. If it gets me from A to B then it’s doing its job.
I’ve put accepting my body on my list because I think it’s something we all need to learn to do, and I want to make it something I actively think about rather than wave a wishy-washy “yeah, I’ll work on that” at it.
For me, acceptance isn’t about a certain weight or body shape, it’s about loving what my body can do. What it allows me to do. What I can push it to achieve. It’s about ensuring it’s as well looked after as it can be, so it will keep allowing me to function for as long as possible.
For the first time in my life any changes I want to make to my physical self are coming from a healthy place. They are coming from a desire to be better, to be healthier, to be fitter rather than to be less fat, or weigh less, or have smaller clothes.
I don’t want to be less.
I want to be more.