This is me talking to my body. For years I treated you like you were the problem. I tried to fight you, shrink you, starve you. But the truth is, you carried me through everything, even when I didn’t want to keep going. I owe you more than I ever admitted.
My story with my body started when I was a kid. It’s not an easy thing to share, but I lived through years of abuse from my father. Fourteen years. Way too long. His words were cruel, and one of the things he always said was that he didn’t like “fat girls.” To protect myself, I started gaining weight on purpose. Food became my shield. It was how I tried to make myself less appealing to him. Survival looked like overeating. When he finally went to prison, I was left in a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore. The extra weight had been my protection, but now it just felt heavy.
I hated mirrors. I hated how clothes fit. I hated myself, honestly. Out of that shame, I swung the other way. I went down the path of starving myself and making myself sick. I dropped pounds fast. Everyone around me praised me. “Wow, you look amazing.” “What’s your secret?” They had no idea what I was doing to myself behind closed doors. Their compliments kept me stuck. I felt trapped, miserable, and weak.
Something shifted when I found faith. That was the first time I felt like maybe I could heal. I found Jesus, and slowly I began to believe I was worth more than how I looked. My mom was a big support too. I told her the truth about my eating, and that was the first step. It wasn’t easy. It never is. But little by little, I started to feel some peace. For the first time, I felt okay in my skin. Not perfect, but okay.
Years later, I met my husband. He’s been my rock ever since. We built a life together, and against all the odds, I had two beautiful daughters. Doctors once told me I might never be able to have kids. But here they are—my miracles. Pregnancy changed my body again. I gained weight, and this time it stuck. Everywhere I looked, it seemed like other moms bounced back overnight. I didn’t. I pushed myself with diets and workouts, chasing the idea of what I thought I should look like. When the results didn’t come, I felt like I was failing all over again.
Then one day my husband said something that made me stop. He told me that when I insult my body, I insult him too. Because he sees me as the most beautiful woman in the world. He reminded me of the progress I never gave myself credit for. I could hike again. I was healthier. My skin had cleared up. I was stronger. He saw it, even when I didn’t.
That’s when I realized I had to shift my focus. I couldn’t keep chasing perfection. I had to start chasing health. Not the kind of health on a scale, but the kind that lets me be present with my kids, laugh with my husband, and feel alive.
Now, I try to see my body for what it really is. A survivor. This body carried me through years of abuse. It carried my babies into this world. It carried me through heartbreak and healing. I don’t want my daughters to grow up watching their mom tear herself apart in front of a mirror. I want them to see me love myself so they can learn to do the same.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know something. Your body is not your enemy. Stop comparing it to everyone else’s. Think of what it’s carried you through. It’s been with you through every single moment. It deserves kindness. Feed it, rest it, move it, thank it.
Life is too short to spend it at war with yourself. You only get one body. Learn to love it, even in the mess, even when it’s not perfect. You are loved. You are needed. And your body deserves peace.
