What It Feels Like to Truly Love the Skin You’re In

I now weigh almost as much as I did at my heaviest in high school.

This isn’t earth-shattering or new for most of us women: Our weight fluctuates throughout our lives and tends to get a little higher toward our “middle-aged” years. Or so I’ve been told.

I never really believed it about myself, though, because I’ve hovered around the same weight – 96 pounds – for nearly a decade and a half. (Yeah. 96 pounds. Before you judge, remember I’m not even five feet tall. So there’s that). My body remained relatively the same shape during that time: Slender hips, smooth belly, small breasts.

But at my recent doc visit with its requisite weigh-in, I tipped the little black marker of that horrible stand-on metal scale past the 100-pound mark (shrug), past the 105-pound mark (gulp)…and aaaallll the way to 109 pounds, where the damn marker finally decided to stop.

I stared for a moment, sure the nurse had made some kind of mistake. ‘Cause that’s, like, thirteen whole pounds heavier than I’ve been in too many years to count. It’s only five pounds away from me at my heaviest (aside from pregnancy), when my hips and bum were too big not to be noticed and people made nasty comments about my body right to my face, calling me “ugly” and “fat” and…

Just like that, I was wrapped in shame and loathing, emotions I can describe in intimate detail without pause.

An Unfamiliar Encounter

But here was something new. About as quickly as those memories and associated feelings swept me up came the thought, unbidden, “But I LOVE my body.”

And I do.

I love her new curves, her strong thighs that carry me up as steep a hill as I’m willing to climb, her soft and rounded belly that allows the deepest breaths I can hold, her arms that refuse to stop reaching out for hugs, and her all-around able-bodied-ness that allows me to function easily in a world that isn’t kind to those with physical impairments.

I love this softened body at the age of 44 in a way I never knew I could at the age of 16, 21, 25, or 32…and 32 is when I was at my thinnest. 35 is when I began rock-climbing and scaling literal mountains, when my muscles were at their strongest, most sleek, and most eye-catching.

Those muscles are now hidden by a stubborn layer of fat. That fat, in some areas, is becoming dimpled. Those dimples seem to be spreading like chickenpox into areas I didn’t know were ready to receive them.

Society tells me I should be ashamed of those dimples. It tells me any BMI over some arbitrary number is “unhealthy” and, likewise, shameful. It tells me that unless you can see every one of my ribs, I’m not sexy, desirable, or even really likeable. 

And yet, I love this body. I think, every one of those dimples means I enjoyed that bowl of homemade ice-cream or cookies to the fullest; I accept those dimples as proof of my delight in yummy desserts. I think, that curve to my belly means I’m full. Really and truly full. Not of food, but of life.

This is the healthiest I’ve ever been. I know this because I’m happy and at peace. My body takes up more space than she has in a very long time, because I know now she deserves to. She’s big enough to hold space for more love, energy, joy, and delight to fill her. No longer will she tolerate being shoved aside or ignored or made fun of for being too little or too much of something.

She’s perfect, just as she is. And I refuse to let three little numbers – or someone who lives outside of my body – tell me anything different. 

A Delightful Discovery

In that moment at the doctor’s office when something inside me arose to whisper, “But I love my body!” I felt an extreme giddiness. Because this was the first time I wasn’t just telling myself I SHOULD love my body and then feeling guilty because I didn’t. I was genuinely loving her, exactly as she was.

Later that week, I took part in a self-embodiment practice where I was invited to caress my own skin, softly and intentionally, remaining present with what it feels like to welcome touch of the physical self without need or expectation for sexual fulfillment. And the realization dropped in: I’d spent my entire life using my body as a vehicle of separation rather than as a conduit for communion.

I’d villainized her, and berated her for her imperfections, and used her to get my immature emotional needs met when I felt too alone or afraid. But I’d never let her exist without needing her to satisfy some sort of role or function…ones often created by men but subscribed to, and allowed by, me.

I’d squeezed her into clothes that didn’t allow her to take a full breath. I’d refused to allow her to bathe naked in the healing waters of earth because I found her lacking in external beauty. I’d suffocated her, hidden her away, and allowed unworthy hands to violate her sacredness and exploit her gifts.  

I filled her with myriad poisons: cigarette smoke and mind-altering chemicals, food toxins and cheap alcohol. I didn’t allow her to run barefoot in the dirt or to swing from branches in the trees. I stuffed her into boxes between four walls and never opened the windows to allow her fresh air and bird song and the scent of spring.

It’s a miracle she hasn’t mutinied against me.

And that is the real gift of our bodies. They want to be whole, happy, and healthy, and they are so eager to return to those places that after years of abuse and neglect, they still welcome us home with open arms as soon as we re-awaken to that desire.

This morning, I took this beautiful body of mine on a five-mile walk in my local city park. As I write this, I’m enjoying a handful of jellybeans. Because why not? I give thanks for the body that allows me to do both without my needing to feel pride about the former or guilt about the latter.

Your turn. How do you show your body how much you genuinely, truly love her? 

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