I have to be honest. I just read an article written by an elite athlete now finally coming out to the world about her eating disorder. She was talking about every (literal) body looking different, whether it is fit or not, disordered or well. It made me think of my own thoughts about fit bodies and what I think they “should” (which argues with reality – see my blog about that) look like.
Which most of the time, isn’t what I think I do. I’ve lost weight. I don’t know how much, as I don’t even own a scale. But I wear clothes every day and I have access to plenty of mirrors and comments have started. My pants are baggy, my shirts looser, my workout clothes sit higher, and I am more comfortable in general, and happier. One person made notice of my “more defined cheeks” while another said I look super lean. Someone else said “you look soooooo good”, while notably Mike said I look sexy.
This is great! I am not upset that people take notice to the changes in my body resulting from genuine hard work. The change in shape and size are a result of the proper balance of work, rest and fuel – not a result of starvation or restriction of any kind. In fact, I am eating more than I ever have and more flexibly, too. I am proud of myself and starting to like what I see in the mirror, fascinated by the changes incurring. It’s not always easy to eat the amount of food I’m prescribed, but I do it anyway knowing I’ll be that much better for it, and the next time my disease tells me “it’s too much”, I’ll have an easier time brushing that aside. Having energy and being able to sleep far outweigh the gnawing hunger and exhaustion produced by not properly fueling yourself when you’re logging the miles and hours that I have been.
So, what’s the problem? As someone who has narrated a story that the size of her body is best small, and that the worth of her person is determined by the size of that body, comments that take notice of my shrinking frame fuck me up. Not because they aren’t true, but because the narrative attached says that I wasn’t good enough before my cheeks were as defined. The narrative attached says that I wasn’t as worthy of attention or love as when my hips were a little fuller, my ass a little rounder, and my legs a little thicker. The narrative attached says I wasn’t as sexy before, and when I am not in full training for ultra-events, I will return to the less than ideal size that I was before and be found … less than. Undisciplined. Unfit. Less inspiring.
Losing weight is hard for me. As someone who holds a smaller size in high regard for better or worse, lost weight triggers an underlying demon that says I’m not enough when I’m bigger, while simultaneously triggering the thought that I’m not worthy of looking the way that I prefer because then what? I’ll have arrived. Being leaner is what I want: I am naturally attracted to fit bodies. I always have been, and I always will be. I can always find beauty in other shapes and sizes, but my preference is smaller, leaner, fitter, and stronger – male or female, me or you. I don’t know if it’s because my preference is that, or if it’s because I have disordered and distorted thinking around bodies and the food that nourishes them, I’ve maintained a narrative that in order to look the part and walk the walk and be fit, I must look a certain way. I am supposed to have defined abs (all 8 of them) and I am supposed to have defined hamstrings and I am supposed to have (insert literally anything here attached to a look you’d find on a magazine cover or on the starting line of a big Spartan event). This narrative also says that in order to be disciplined and motivated and successful, one must look a certain way and that if I don’t, it means that I am lazy, sloppy and lacking will and motivation.
A changed body ignites the want for more (or less): to take up less space physically, to work harder to change the shape even faster, to add more something to propel the aesthetics in a certain direction, etc. The reality is that this body I am being lent to experience this life with today is the healthiest body I have ever had. She is fed, hydrated, rested, slept, and challenged. She is respected and regarded. I still have thoughts that encourage me to ignore, forget, disrespect and disregard, but my actions do not align with those thoughts. I’m in the phase of acting my way into better thinking; I’m just still fucking waiting for the thoughts to catch up sometimes.
I knew this would happen, because it has happened before. I have progressively trained for big events and my body has changed as a result. I fantasize about the body I will have, instead of honoring the one that I have right now. I get excited and more comfortable in my skin, because let’s face it: nobody likes their waistline to be tight or their thighs to jiggle, and when you find that suddenly your waistline is shrinking and your thighs aren’t jiggling, it’s hard not to want to kick-start that baby forward. And many people can sustain a weight loss progression or pursue a sport with the side of a changed body in a healthy manner, while some of us – like me – have to be more careful or it can become all-consuming and incredibly distracting.
Because I get attached. Because I get attached to the happiness that is the temporary state of waking up with a flat stomach and exposed abs. Because I get attached to this body, assuming that any shape of the one before it wasn’t enough. Because I get attached to losing more, altering myself and changing what you see, assuming that it needed to be changed at all and having something else to focus on besides life itself and the feelings that come with that life. Because I get attached to the idea that I must look a certain way in order to be something; the idea that the smaller and leaner I am, the more worthy and powerful I am. Because I get attached to the idea that more people will find me attractive and being attractive is powerful. Because I get attached to attention and then I forget that it is who I am and how I treat people that actually matter – the shape and size and aesthetics of my body (or any part of me) are a byproduct of so many things out of my control.
We all have the right to look a certain way, and the right to want to look a certain way – so long as that want doesn’t alter our quality and balance of life. So, if you are reading this and if you are close to me, know that it is OK to comment on my changed body. As counter-everything I just wrote is, I appreciate the acknowledgment of what I already know and can feel and am working on. But before you do, and before you comment on anyone’s changed body, think about how you may not really know how that will affect them. Think about how you may not mean it or consciously intend for it to affect them in any way other than celebration. Think about how people are so much more than their bodies, even if that body you’re commenting on is perfect to you and all you can see in the moment. Our bodies aren’t the problem, and they never were; it’s the thoughts we attach to them, often unconsciously through comments made about them. Respect your body and respect the next person’s body as you would their soul.
It is the soul’s house, anyway, and when I can remember that, it’s a lot easier to lift my eyes and look at them, instead of staring at the oblique lines I want more defined.