They're Just Numbers

Since I was 16 I have been a 00, 0, 2, 4, 6, pregnant, 10, 8, 6, pregnant, 10, 8, pregnant, 8, 6, 4, 2, pregnant, 6, 8, 10, 12, 10, 8, 6, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 10, 8.

Those are my sizes throughout my life; my numbers.

Those were my ever-present source of shame.

Those were the numbers that took up space in my thoughts every. single. day.

Those were the numbers that dictated how I felt about myself; the numbers that were a measure of my self-worth.

Those were the numbers that had at times kept reconnecting with old friends and meeting new friends because I feared their judgment.

Those were the numbers that even though I love who I am on the inside, kept me from loving myself wholly.

Those were the numbers that have kept me out of the pool on hot summer days.

Those were the numbers that made me so quick to volunteer to be the photographer so I wouldn't have to be in the picture.

Those were the numbers that made me feel fat when I looked in the mirror - all of those numbers.

Those were the numbers that had me constantly comparing myself to every woman I saw, envying their lives convinced that their magic numbers were the key to their happiness.

Sad, isn't it? For just a moment, resist the urge to tell me I'm beautiful on the inside and that's what matters most, or that those numbers are meaningless. Instead, stop and ask yourself, can you relate to any of those statements? Some? Many? Most? All? Do you have your own thoughts you can add to that list?

We are fighting generations of toxic beliefs regarding our standards of beauty. And make no mistake, it is nothing short of toxic. Poison. Cancer. Even if we think we are immune to it, those toxic ideals still exist in the world. They invade our subconscious and at the very least influence our definition of beauty, and at the very worst form it.

I wore a form fitting dress to my senior prom. For most of the night I pretended I was cold so my date would let me wear his suit coat because I wanted to hide my body because I was afraid I looked fat. I wore a size 00 and weighed 95 pounds.

I was a coxswain my freshman year of college on the crew team. I was always reminded to keep my weight down. I weighed 100 pounds at that time.

When I went to my second wedding dress fitting, I got scolded by the seamstress because she had to let out the seams on both sides about a quarter of an inch. My dress was a size 2. I got shamed for being half an inch bigger than a size 2.

I was in a relationship and I was told that I was too fat to be desirable. I was told that when I took off my shirt at the end of the day, the sight of my body turned him off and the last thing he wanted to do was be intimate with me. And I believed every word he said. I weighed 163 pounds. Bet you didn't see that number coming...

So let's talk more numbers. My blood pressure averages 100/70. My resting heart rate is around 66. My triglycerides, and cholesterol levels are all within normal limits. The last time I had my A1C drawn it was 5.4. I don't drink, I don't smoke, and I don't have any underlying medical conditions. So what exactly is it that is unhealthy about me? Science says it's my BMI of 27. Even my BMI calculator app tells me, "Time for a run!". But the numbers aren't unhealthy. No, the most unhealthy thing about me are my thoughts and the power I give to those numbers to shape my opinion about myself.

With science, society, and media as our guides, we equate beauty with skinny. We make thinly veiled - or sometimes outright - body shaming comments. "Are you sure you want another serving?"; "A moment on the lips, forever on the hips."; "That outfit is so cute - it makes you look skinny!"; "You look so good since you've lost weight!". But when you strip away all the nuances and semantics, the heart of the message is: thin, good; fat, bad. Thin, beautiful; fat, ugly.

It's time to flip the script and screw the numbers. Let's stop giving these numbers so much credence and importance. Let's stop hiding behind our numbers and stop judging others because of their numbers. Instead let's focus on being our healthiest selves, not our skinniest selves. Let's tune out the body shaming comments and fill ourselves with acceptance and self-love. Let's affirm the beauty we see in one another no matter what our numbers are. They are just numbers and numbers don't measure worth and they don't measure beauty. So, my beautiful friend, go on with your beautiful self and leave the numbers for the math books.

Comments

Dear Grace

Dear Grace, Happy 12th birthday!!! I know I usually write a list of reasons telling you why I love you on your birthday, but as you approach your twelfth year I can't help but notice how independent you are becoming. Time is flying by and before I know it, you will be a young woman. So here we are... I'm trying to step back and let you stretch your wings more and you're busy going about the business of becoming the beautiful young woman I know you will be. How I wish I could freeze this moment in time and keep you my little girl forever. But time doesn't listen to the pleadings of a mother's heart and keeps marching on. So this year, I want to do something different. I want to make you a list of 12 things I hope you will always remember and keep in your heart as your journey through life continues. 1. I love you, forever and always. You are my joy and no matter what, I will always love you. 2. You are enough. Ther...

Dear Kind Friend

I struggle with depression. To the point that two years ago I was hospitalized three times in the span of six months, each admission lasting 10-14 days. That was when my depression was untreated and at its worst. It was so debilitating that I had to take a year off of work just to get my feet grounded and start functioning again. Two years later, I have come so far, but I'm still learning how to live with this. At this time in my journey I have to be intentional about staying present in the moment, disciplining my thoughts, and making healthy mental and spiritual choices - each and every day. One of the hardest things about depression is trying to reach through that thick cloud of despair to find my strongest self and summon her forth. If even a tiny piece of her had a voice, this is what she would've said to you. This is how she would have asked for help. To my tribe that has endlessly stood by my side through it all, thank you for listening...

The Monster in My Basement

I want to tell my story. I need to tell my story. To speak it aloud and release the shame and regret I feel. To absolve myself of the responsibility I have taken for other's actions. To learn how to live with my past decisions. To discover how my past is a part of me and shaping me, not ruining me. Because even though I am moving forward, I feel stuck. When my kids were growing up, I would read them this book where a boy saw a monster in the basement. His mother was busy in the garden and didn't believe him, so he tackled the monster himself. At first the monster was a looming presence, but with each swipe of a broom and words of bravery, the monster shrunk. And shrunk, until it was just a tiny little guy, no bigger than the size of a mouse. The monster, realizing he could no longer scare the boy, ran away and the boy had nothing left to fear. My story is my monster. And speaking it aloud is how I face it, shrink ...

What if...

I just took all three of my kids for their annual physical and there's nothing like a plot on a growth chart to remind me of how fast they are growing. Time just keeps marching on, and at my urging, all those vegetable and fruits they consume are doing their job. They are growing. Sometimes it feels as if these days of their childhood are just slipping through my fingers, like grains of sand that I can't keep from finding their way through the cracks in my hands. My middle daughter is having a hard time. She's going to make it, I know she will. She's tough and she's loved - it's just the getting through it that's hard. Tonight she asked me to lay with her until she fell asleep and I found myself staring at her; all 46 inches of her curled up next to me, chest rising and falling in a deep fresh air induced sleep, skin bronzed and kissed by the sun. She was the picture of childhood and summer days. She even smelled like the sun and t...

Be Amazing, Fantastically Amazing

I am an amazing Mom. Not pretty amazing, more along the lines of fantastically amazing. My house is a mess. There is dog hair everywhere and toys in - Every. Single. Room. Laundry is done on a strictly need-to-do basis only. Four kids later, I'm rockin' the "Mom Bod" hard core. I co-sleep with my 4 year old, and have no plans of stopping any time soon, just don't have the fight in me at the end of the day. I won't drop her afternoon nap because I need one too. When I come home from working a midnight shift, I put on cartoons and give the 4 year old my phone and let her go nuts for 2-3 hours while I sleep on the couch. Because of my work/sleep schedule, I rarely volunteer in my kids' classrooms. I don't buy them brand name clothes, I'm too cheap. I haven't taken a family portrait since the baby was born (she's the 4 year old), so I only have three of my four kids immortalized in a professional photo. My go-to meal is...

Grace

My little girl is so sad. Deep, from the gut, sad. She is always missing someone. In the moment, it is whoever isn't there - either Mom or Dad. But really, I think she misses the family we once were. The wholeness of the unit. The complete picture. "Can you find a picture of 'The Five of Us'?" To keep under your pillow next to your baby album full of pictures of your Dad and I beaming as we stare in wonder at the miracle of you, beautiful you? Sure, baby. Of course. I can see the memories of "us" beginning to fade and slip through her fingers. Like the image of a loved ones' face starting to fade with time... And no matter how tight you squeeze your eyes shut and ball up your fists, you just can't make your brain recall the image in focus. And all you're left with is a fuzzy blur that seems more like a feeling than a memory leaving you wondering - was it ever real? "Mom, did you ever come to the cabin with us? Have you ev...

Pandemic Thoughts from a 14 Year Old

I have wanted to write about this pandemic for some time now. But I can't find the words. They elude me and I can't put together my thoughts and feelings. From day to day, I vacillate between fear and hope and a gamut of feelings in between. My focus has been on my job as a nurse, making sure my kids are emotionally nurtured, and protecting those I love by doing what I can to make it possible for them to stay home and out of danger. I'm too scared to focus on more than that. But this morning, my daughter Grace shared this journal entry she had written for a social studies project she's working on. And once again, I found myself at a loss for words. She succinctly captured this crazy, turned upside down time with a simplicity and clarity that cut through the extraneous and hit right at the heart of it all. An authentic uncensored mix of grief, anger, frustration, compassion and hope from the heart of a 14 year old girl. I'll let h...

Bird Tattoo

I got a tattoo. A huge tattoo. It was about as impulsive as I get, which means - I let it percolate in the back of my mind for about a year, then researched it for about a month, then made an appointment with the tattoo guy - and impulsively (ahhh, that's where it works itself in!) got the outline done on Design Day as opposed to 2 weeks later when I had actually scheduled Tattoo Day... that's me living on the edge. I got a phoenix on my back. I told Mr. Tattoo Man that I wanted a phoenix with its head up, wings out, ready to fly. I wanted it to look strong, but beautiful - and it does, just like me. Up from the ashes, ready to fly. Part of me loves the fact that looking at me, and even knowing me, one would never think I would have this gigantic bird on my back - make no mistake, it's freaking huge. Part of me loves the fact that I was able to lay on a tattoo chair and have a stranger look at my bare back without being filled with shame and self-...

Out of the Darkess and into the Light

I haven't written in weeks… It hasn't been due to writer's block, but rather the fear of judgement. I've had all these topics floating around in my head but have stopped myself from sharing because I didn't want to alienate anyone or make them feel uncomfortable. Isn't that silly? Silly but true. Why are we so afraid to share our inner truths? I'm spending the week in a beautiful log home in northern Michigan with my family. All the cousins are together and there is constant chatter and laughter. The soundtrack of innocence and the essence of childhood. They are unapologetically authentic and vulnerable. Where along the spectrum of maturing did we learn to let the fear of judgment lead us to hide those parts of ourselves that we deem shameful, or "bad"? How did we develop a culture of perfection? One that values the image we project over the authenticity and rawness of our humanity? What if we celebrated our diversity beyo...

Broken Hearted

Last night some ghosts from the past rose up and it felt as if my heart was breaking all over again. I was so sad. Over a year ago, I remember feeling ready to lay down some of that grief I had been carrying for so long. Grace, time, healing and love had softened the edges of that grief and I was left with a gift. Grief had turned into acceptance, forgiveness and peace. And I realized what a treasure this grief had become. So many lessons learned from that experience. As scary as it was to sink into my grief and find my way through the sadness, I knew that somehow, this grief would always be a part of me. But last night I wasn't prepared for how quickly those old hurts could resurface. The ache was so familiar and deep that for a moment I wondered if I had indeed experienced any healing over the past years. It felt as if my heart was broken into a million tiny pieces... and then I realized, my heart had broken into a million t...

brand new day

Search This Blog