Healthiest at my Heaviest

This is a post to say that no matter what size we are, we can all struggle with body image.

It's easy to assume that because I'm naturally thin, I'm healthy and happy with my appearance, but in reality, I have struggled to accept my body for all of my teenage and adult life. As a young teen, I avoided shorts like the plague because I thought my knobby knees and pale, gangly legs were better off hidden. As a tween, I couldn't care less about my thin, flat stomach because I was too hung up on my itty-bitty-titty-committee status. When my boobs finally arrived, it was only because they filled with milk to nurse my newborn, and I would have traded them in for my previously flat stomach any day.

In the years to follow, I was extremely strict with my food and a total over-exerciser. I created countless uncomfortable situations when I'd unpack my own dinner during holidays, eat separately from my family, and refuse to indulge in treats people would make for me. I embellished minor gut-related diagnosis in order to create this false world where I "couldn't" eat something. Even at my most strict and most thin, I always had a little lower belly; in part due to scar tissue from a surgery, but mostly because of some legitimate digestive struggles that leave me constantly inflamed. The reality of this belly was that it occurred whether I was drinking wine and eating ice cream or chugging water and downing salads. But my clothes kept fitting and my body, for the most part, remained the same, so I kept on with my over-doing it lifestyle.

And then I turned 30.

I don't know what F-you switch my body turned on with this new decade, but suddenly, my body hated me back. The hips that were supposed to arrive during puberty or pregnancy decided they'd hold off until now. If I chose to eat something glutinously-gluten filled, I remained bloated for days. I started sweating. And smelling. My husband has had a lovely time pointing out nose hairs that decided to live a wild life outside my nostril. I can't have more than 2 drinks without paying for it as if I spent the night ripping shots of tequila. I cry all the time. Those laugh lines around my eyes along with the WTF lines between my eyebrows are not going anywhere. And my lower abdomen decided it was going to stay in a constant state of pooch.

Knowing there had definitely been some out-of-the-ordinary indulging going on between a summer filled with family gatherings and the stress of selling our home, I decided to do what I do best and scale the food and drink back once again. I thought "maybe 30 means I can't just run off an indulgent night anymore and need to start being even more careful" - because as healthy as I may eat, I can eat. And so, away went most carbs, the wine was scaled back, the exercise was consistent, and yet...nothing. That number on the scale - the highest it's been since pregnancy - wasn't budging.

Initially, I wanted my control back. I wanted to hold myself accountable for a few extra pounds after a weekend away or a food-filled holiday, and know I could re-set after a long run and restrictive day. I felt down about the fact that, no matter how much I ran, lifted, and gave bread the evil eye, my hips couldn't squeeze into those jeans anymore. And you know what? This was the exact lack of control I needed.

Getting older and watching my body go through changes I couldn't control allowed me to develop what I like to call the fuck-it-but-moderately lifestyle. My spin on YOLO, if you will. If I was going to look the same whether I chose salmon for dinner or pizza, I was going to start allowing myself to eat the damn pizza occasionally. Another huge factor right now is that I am healthier this way. The number on the scale or size of all the new jeans I just had to buy do not define my health. Recent PR's in the gym, injury free running, and, most importantly, a guilt-free relationship with food is. The fact that I just came home from a weekend in New Hampshire where I did nothing but hike, eat pizza and drink beer, left me filled with the memories I will forever have with my dad, not how many miles it'll take to run it off. And guess what? Scale number and belly-pooch ratio remained the same even after that weekend.

I am by no means overweight. I can still see abs. I know I am thin. I live a healthier life style than most. And here I am, one of many women who is trying to love her body for it's health and not it's appearance. Defining myself by how love-handly or belly-poochy I feel that day does zero for my mental health. This is the heaviest I have ever been, and yet it is the healthiest I have ever been. I have the choice to throw out the clingy-make-me-feel-shitty tops, and switch my focus to how strong I feel when I lift, or how long I am able to run, or how much I enjoy sharing family meals and the extra glass of wine. If this is 30, I accept you, and I thank you.