A reminder I needed today

I’ve been doing my best to check social media only once a day. Mainly because mindless scrolling is not only a huge time-waster for me, but also because it feeds my anxiety. I’ve been mostly doing a good job of this, and I’m definitely noticing a difference in my mood and my productivity– highly recommend if you’re also finding yourself in a bit of a funk.

Anyway, part of my daily check is looking at my Facebook “memories” because I’m a sucker for nostalgia, especially now that I’m a mom. Two years ago today, I was 5 months postpartum with my first daughter. We were entering swimsuit season, and I decided to go to a pool party in one of my bikinis, despite feeling self-conscious about my new mom bod.

Somebody at this party made a less-than-kind comment about the way that I looked, and at first, I was crushed. I felt ashamed and like I maybe shouldn’t have even gotten into the pool in the first place.

But then I looked at my daughter. I imagined her twenty-some-odd years down the road. I imagined what I might tell her if she were in my shoes. And it definitely wasn’t what I was saying to myself in that moment.

Then I got angry. At first, my anger was directed at the person who made the comment, but then it blossomed into righteous anger at an entire system that benefits from people, namely women, feeling hatred for their bodies. Two years ago today, that anger pushed me to write this poem:

My body

Created human life

From scratch

With love

.

My body

Alone

Nourishes and sustains

That human life.

.

My body

Is proudly polka-dotted

With stretch marks,

Tiger stripes

.

My body:

A little more to love,

A little more to handle

Love handles

.

My body

Will not be a roadblock,

A red light to

Making memories

.

My body

Will not tolerate

One ounce of self-hate,

No sliver of shame

.

My body

Is a miracle,

Made

A miracle

.

My body

Is a celebration

Of life

And love

.

My body

Will be loved

So my daughter

Can one day feel

Free to love

Her body.

And after having two babies in two years, I really needed to see that. Despite all the work I do to try to love my body as it is, doubt creeps up often. When I see pictures of myself, my first thought is sometimes: “Oh, gosh, look at my double-chin.” I feel self-conscious about my belly, about my clothing sizes, about my body that is now the biggest it’s ever been, despite the fact that I now eat more nutritiously and move my body more than I ever have in the past.

Still, I will continue to do the work. I will continue to live and love myself inside this body. I will continue to make memories with my babies even when my body doesn’t conform to societal expectations. Because I needed that role model, and I’m going to strive to be that role model for my girls.

The truth about women’s sizes

A few weekends back, I went shopping. There was a time in my life when shopping was fun and exciting, but as a mom who’s spent most of the past two years being pregnant, it is less so these days.

After weeks of trying to squeeze into my clothes that had fit me pre-baby number one, pre-pandemic, and pre-baby number two, I decided it was time to find some new clothes in which I could feel both comfortable and confident. 

Prior to this outing, I could not tell you the last time I had been shopping in an actual mall. It was also the first time we’d taken our two girls out shopping in this capacity, so it was really an adventure for us all *insert eye roll here*. So not only was I uncomfortable because I was trying on clothes in a cramped dressing room, but I could also hear my 2-year-old shrieking out in the store which, as you might guess, is not super relaxing for anyone within earshot. 

I’m barely 5 feet tall, and up until my first year of teaching, I could comfortably fit in a size 2 or 4 jeans, and that number steadily increased as I entered a high-stress job, got married, had kids, and just aged. As I discussed in my post A Letter to My Body, I’ve been doing a lot of work to unlearn the fatphobia that has been with me ever since I can remember. Still, I did not want to go up to “double digits” in pants sizes, since I’ve been at a comfortable 8 for a couple of years, and it just felt so final for whatever silly reason. However, I decided that I was going to buy myself some things that fit me comfortably, regardless of what the size on the tag said. 

We decided to go to Old Navy first, as it seemed like a safe choice since they have a wide range of sizes and styles for our whole family. I picked clothes off the racks, piling them over my arm until it felt more like a workout than a shopping trip, while my husband pushed our girls through the store in the stroller. I had absolutely no clue what size I’d wear anymore, so I was going based solely on how the garment looked. I picked out clothes ranging from small to XXL, and went back into the into the dressing room hopeful that something would fit. 

I was eager to try on one specific shirt because it was adorable and on mega-sale (I’m talking $3), but the only size they had left was small. I knew it was a long shot, but it was a shirt that’s supposed to fit loosely, so I thought, Why not? And to my surprise, it fit perfectly. I was super jazzed and feeling pretty great about myself. Then I tried on some jeans. I had grabbed a size 12 because my brain convinced me I’d feel better about myself when they were too big for me, but the problem was…I couldn’t even button them, so I was back to feeling crappy again. I decided to go for the safe bets next, and found about a dozen blouses and dresses that I loved, ranging from mediums to larges. The last thing on the rack I had yet to try on was a cute yellow sun dress. I picked it off of the clearance rack even though it was an XXL because it was on sale, and I thought at worst it’d be too big for me, and I’d have to put it back. When I could barely get it over my head, I knew it was a no-go. I stood there, buttons gaping, and couldn’t help but laugh hysterically (hopefully no one else in the dressing room was traumatized by my cackling). In what world do I fit perfectly in one shirt marked “Small,” fit loosely in a dress marked “Large,” but bust out of another garment marked “XXL?” And how does a pair of size 10 jeans in one brand fit loosely, but a 12 in another is way too small? None of it is standardized. None of it makes any logical sense. So why have I been feeling any type of way about myself, good or bad, when the sizes and numbers fluctuate and change? 

I went into this shopping trip looking for some clothes that fit me (and I did get a nice haul!), but I came out with a new resolve: Women’s sizes are truly pointless, and I’m no longer going to let some arbitrary letters or numbers on a tag dictate how I feel about myself.

In case you need it, here’s your sign:

Go out. 

Get some clothes that fit. 

Give yourself some grace.

And carry yourself with such confidence that you turn heads. 

The aforementioned Small

XL- the large could hardly fit over my shoulders

Medium- I was swimming in the large

Medium (and fits perfectly). PS I bought this dress in every color they had because I loved it so much. I don’t pass up cute dresses with pockets. Also, don’t mind the wrinkles.

A Letter to My Body

I have spent a sizable part of the last few years trying my damndest to unlearn the fatphobia that many of us have had drilled into our heads since before we could even talk. It’s such a toxic and pervasive part of our culture, and a lot of people don’t even realize that these internalized ideas are incredibly harmful– even deadly in some cases. 

I grew up and found that I hated my body, especially after I first became a mother. Since about the time I was twelve, I have engaged in many disordered eating habits in order to try to get my body to look a certain way. As I tried and failed, starved and binged, compared and criticized, I began to hate my body–and myself–in the process. 

As my oldest daughter grew, I began to see what an absolute powerhouse my body was. I could grow an entire human being and feed her with my body alone. I could get minimal sleep, and still, my body could carry me through an entire day. I saw my body help my little preemie, who was 5 lbs 9oz by the time we left the hospital with her, grow into a chunky, healthy, thriving baby. 

And how are my girls supposed to feel anything but animosity toward their bodies when they constantly hear their mother criticize hers? 

Then the comments started coming. She was four months old the first time I remember someone saying, “Don’t worry. She’ll lose that baby fat once she’s mobile.” As if I needed to be concerned with the BMI of my infant. As if it would matter if she didn’t lose her “baby fat.” And it was then that I realized that I would never give a single care about her weight. She would always be beautiful and perfect to me no matter what any number on some scale said. And I knew I never, ever wanted her to feel about her body the way I sometimes felt about mine.

And how are my girls supposed to feel anything but animosity toward their bodies when they constantly hear their mother criticize hers? 

How is my daughter supposed to hear me say, “Ugh, I hate my nose,” and not hate her own after being told how much she looks like me?

How is my daughter supposed to hear me say, “Ew, I hate these rolls” and see her own tummy and not feel that same disgust?

How are they supposed to hear me say, “Oh, no. I can’t wear that. I know it’s hot, but my arms are too flabby and my thighs touch,” and not want to cover up as much as possible instead of dressing for comfort? 

So I started doing the work. I knew I had to learn to love my body as it is each day and set that example for my girls. I read books by fat authors who shared their experiences with body shaming and diet culture. I followed Instagram accounts dedicated to confronting fatphobia and adopting body confidence. And, probably most importantly, I started learning about intuitive eating and The Health at Every Size Approach from various nutritionists and dietitians online. 

As I was scrolling through Instagram one day last week, I saw a post from Nourishing Minds Nutrition, a team of nutritionists and dieticians, that challenged followers with a reel that said: “Write a letter to your body.”  So I decided to do just that, and my hope is that sharing it might bring some comfort to someone, somewhere. 

I’m sorry

For the times I starved you

And for the subsequent binges

For hating and wanting to 

Change every part of you

For overworking

And undersleeping

For allowing other people

To use you 

Rather than demanding 

That they cherish you. 

For punishing you with exercise

Rather than moving because 

It feels good

For dehydrating you

–Often–

For cursing what I thought 

Were your inadequacies

For neglecting your needs

For resenting you for changing.

Thank you

For allowing me 

to encounter the world 

For every

Road trip

Plane ride

Hike in the mountains

Walk on the beach

For allowing me 

to experience the extremities 

Of love

Compassion

Sorrow 

Pain and pleasure

For growing

Carrying

Birthing 

Feeding

And comforting

My babies

I love you

And the hanging, 

Tiger-striped belly

I wear as a badge of honor,

Emblazoned with 

MOTHER.

I love you

And the thighs 

That kiss each other

Each time I shift,

walk, 

Or step-ball-change.

I love you 

And the breasts 

That seem to swing lower

With each nursing,

Each pumping–

A reminder of this season,

A reminder that I nourished

And gave life.

I love you

And the softness

That is a home base 

To my babies,

A lap to read upon,

A waist to wrap 

Clingy arms around,

A shoulder to nuzzle into.

To my body,

I’m sorry. 

Thank you. 

I love you.

I love you.

I love you. 

If you’re wanting to start the process of healing your relationship with your body, one simple step you can take today is to get some people who advocate for intuitive eating and body confidence into your social media feeds. This is something that has helped me tremendously, and I highly recommend the following Instagram accounts:

• @nourishingmindsnutrition 
• @thebirdspapaya 
• @diet.culture.rebel
• @the.mama.well

Be kind to yourselves and happy healing, friends.