Last night as I was sitting here thinking about how much my back hurt but how much I should get up and try to walk so I can move these pounds around I had a moment of clarity.
I like my body. I am no longer ashamed of the extra 30 pounds I’ve got.
I weigh 142 pounds. I wear a size 14 in most things. My BMI says I’m overweight but honestly – so what? My belly has a large bulge – but it’s from the prednisone that helped to save my life. My hips are wide but they made having babies possible and easy. My thighs are thick but it’s because I sit all day – which also helped keep me alive for the past 3 years (keeping the plaque on my spine from doing more damage).
I got my figure from my mother. She’s considerably skinnier than I am but our frames used to be identical. I love that – I’m proud of it. My mother is beautiful outside and in. Any way that I am more like her is something I will always be proud of – but more than that, I aspire to it! So how can I feel that way and then curse the body she passed on to me? How can I hate mine but love hers? I can’t. And I no longer will. I love my body.