This morning, I did what I try to avoid: I stepped on the scale, and looked down. The number glared up at me like an angry monster screaming in my face. I panicked. I tried to justify the increase, but reality is that the justification is all lies.
I know that since I’ve been off work, I’ve been physically inactive, and I’ve indulged way too much. I’ve created excuses for special occasions, and promised to get back into routine when I return to work.
Now, I’m looking in the mirror, my least favourite activity, and picking myself apart like a vulture enjoying brunch.
It’s just a number, right? My jeans still fit the same way, right? (I hope so! I mean, who’s actually worn jeans this week???)
Why am I panicking? For one thing, I worked desperately hard to get to where I was physically, and emotionally a few months ago. I was actually starting to feel HAPPY in my skin, and in my body.
For the first time in my life, I was shopping for clothes in the spirit of “Wow, that’s going to look amazing on me!,” rather than “Wow, that’s going to hide all of my flaws!”
I know the scale is a roller coaster of numbers. I know it’s not a reflection of who I am, or my worth. The thing is, I also know that my body has its comfort spots and once I reach those weights, returning to my happy levels is treacherous work.
I hate feeling discouraged, and scared.
I hate having to pretend that I’m happy to be sharing fun foods with everyone, when in reality, I simply want my veggies.
My solution to not altering others to my woes is to continue eating with everyone, but cutting my portion sizes to satisfying, not over-stuffing.
I will take the opportunity of time to return to my home gym instead of taking another two weeks off of my workouts.
I will try to be kind to my body, while still recognizing that I have goals and that the only way to achieve those goals in a healthy setting is to commit to self-care, and to be aware of my fear of numbers.
Beautifully Broken 