The Woman Smiling Back

I wrote this two years ago. Minus the parts that date the post, I wouldn’t know any time had passed between then and now. There are new words because they needed to be added. But the message is the same: I will waken up every day for the rest of my life reminding myself that I am worthy of my love, efforts, and attention. I will go to sleep every night reminding myself of the same. There will be good days. There will be bad days. But as long as I keep trying, I’m doing alright. 

 

I am 33 34.

I weigh 203 234 pounds (which I only know because the doctor forgot that weighing me and putting the number on my medical file that they send home with me is an emotional trigger and fucks me up for months).

I have kinky hair.

I have curves that fill clothes out in all the right places.

And for the first time in my life, I am appreciative of it all (most days, at least.)

I’ve spent far too many years looking forward to where I wanted to be, ignoring where I actually was.

We all want to be older when we are kids. We can’t wait to be 10. We can’t wait to be 13. We can’t wait to get our licenses. Or be old enough to not have to hope the homeless guy hanging out in front of the closest liquor store to campus will actually return with our hard earned cash and our cheap vodka.

I suppose it’s normal enough. As is the eventual wish to be granted the power to slow down when our own little ones are growing before our very eyes; their hopes to be bigger and older reminding us of how fast it really goes by.

Then there are the Untils...You know, the ones that are supposed to come prepackaged with happiness and a pretty little bow?

I can’t wait until I lose (five, 10, 20, 50) pounds. I’ll celebrate with a cruise.

I can’t wait until I can do downward facing dog without looking like a hospital patient in traction. That’s when I’ll know yoga is working for me.

Or: I can’t wait until I get that (tummy tuck, boob lift, nose job). I’ll feel so good about myself then.

But what about now?

Why put our happiness and self-worth on hold for a future we can’t predict, no matter how hard we workout, how many calories we count, or how much we plan to take out of our retirement funds to pay for that plastic surgery? Why not just open our eyes, look in a mirror, and be happy with what is?

I’ve spent so much energy planning for a better/skinnier/prettier me when I should have been saving some of that Until for the Here and Now. I’m not telling you to forget about your health goals or to give up on your dreams of a six-pack, but I am asking you to take a moment to honor the you in the mirror. The one looking back at you this very minute. The one who deserves to be applauded for getting out of bed another day and just fucking trying.

I’m allergic to so many foods and preservatives that just by looking at the scant list of foods I can actually eat you’d think I’d be shopping at Forever 21 right now. But here’s the kicker: I’m hypothyroid. I’m insulin resistant. I have PCOS. And my first sign that I’ve ingested or been exposed to an allergen? Water retention and instant bloating. It might take me six months to lose 10 pounds, but give me some dairy and 24 hours and I’ll show you how easy it is to gain those ten pounds back.

So I’m on a special diet now for my health. I’m getting over an allergic reaction to a decongestant I took when I had a sinus infection that caused a rash and an instant bloated belly. Slowly, I’m starting to lose what I’ve gained and am feeling more and more like myself. I’m ignoring the scale. I’m focusing on health. Fuck the BMI charts. I am not every body and neither are you. I know I need to weigh less to be healthier and live longer and cost myself less in co-pays at the doctor for obesity related conditions. But guess what? I’m not trying to lose weight to impress you, my doctor, or fit into a category on the BMI chart that just so happens to not have been intended to be used in the way modern medicine has taken it to be. I’m just trying to be healthier and that means focusing on how I eat and taking my medications for anxiety, ADHD, and depression because my mind is the deciding factor in how the woman in the mirror is feeling and that, my friends, is the only difference between a good day and healthy choices and a bad one where I purposely self-destruct.

There’s a photo of me on my dresser that The Husband took on our first vacation together. I was 21 and looking happy, care-free, and thin…

There are times I look at my former self and wish I could look like that again. That my thighs would be as toned. My waist as trim. But that’s the hindsight talking. If you had asked the me in the photo how I felt, I would have told you I couldn’t wait until…

Until what? I lost 10 more pounds? So I could look exactly like I did in high school?

But the high school me wasn’t happy, either. She was miserable and lost in sea of self-loathing, only coming up for air to binge again in preparation for the next purge. But both the 33-34-year-old me and the 21-year-old me wish that we could go back in time and explain to the 15-year-old with the eating disorder that she is beautiful. That she is not meant to look like the cheerleaders she admires.

That her curves are something to be admired, not cursed. That her body is exactly what it should be.

Maybe the 15-year-old would have listened. Maybe she would have realized that the reflection she sees in the mirror needs acceptance and love. Maybe it would have made all the difference in the world.

I am 33. 34

I weighh 203 234 pounds.

I have kinky hair.

I have curves that fill out clothes in all the right places.

And I am beautiful.

 

Pauline Campos contributes to Funny Not Slutty, Owning Pink, and 30 Second Mom. She blogs three times a week at Aspiring Mama and is the founder of Girl Body Pride.