I don't know if 248 pounds was my heaviest weight or if it just happened to be where I was when I realized I couldn't keep getting heavier. I stepped on the scale and when I saw that I was well over what I weighed when I was pregnant with my second child, I was heartbroken.
I would normally have expected myself to cry. That didn't happen. I just stared at the flashing numbers on the scale and something clicked. I didn't want to keep getting heavier. I didn't want daily tasks to get harder and harder until I couldn't do them anymore.
I struggled with the feelings I was having. I am a feminist. I am body positive. I am all about taking up room and reclaiming space. I felt that I should have been happy regardless of my weight. Was I betraying myself and my beliefs and giving into the male gaze?
Sitting down on my bed, I blinked a few times trying to clear the number I just saw from my brain and looked at my chihuahua. He loved me regardless of my weight. He didn't require long walks or fast jogs, so my slowness didn't bother him. He slept by my side every night, but never got squashed. He was happy with me.
I thought about my two daughters. They were average, healthy weight. They ate without worrying about their size and I felt proud that they weren't negatively influenced by our culture of "thinspiration." If I started to lose weight and was open about it, would I be opening the proverbial door to the submission of the male gaze for my daughters?
(I tend to overthink things).
I thought of my husband. We had been married for 14 years. Our 15 year wedding anniversary was a few months away and he has loved me regardless of my weight or size. I thought about the eating habits that had assisted me in gaining an additional 100 pounds and I thought about how he gained 2-3 pounds for every 1 pound gain of mine. I didn't want to lose him to health-related issues.
So I made a decision. The decision to lose weight. The decision to take pounds off so that I could be active again. So I could lift heavy things, walk far distances, climb ladders without fear, and push myself to see how strong I could be.
I would normally have expected myself to cry. That didn't happen. I just stared at the flashing numbers on the scale and something clicked. I didn't want to keep getting heavier. I didn't want daily tasks to get harder and harder until I couldn't do them anymore.
I struggled with the feelings I was having. I am a feminist. I am body positive. I am all about taking up room and reclaiming space. I felt that I should have been happy regardless of my weight. Was I betraying myself and my beliefs and giving into the male gaze?
Sitting down on my bed, I blinked a few times trying to clear the number I just saw from my brain and looked at my chihuahua. He loved me regardless of my weight. He didn't require long walks or fast jogs, so my slowness didn't bother him. He slept by my side every night, but never got squashed. He was happy with me.
I thought about my two daughters. They were average, healthy weight. They ate without worrying about their size and I felt proud that they weren't negatively influenced by our culture of "thinspiration." If I started to lose weight and was open about it, would I be opening the proverbial door to the submission of the male gaze for my daughters?
(I tend to overthink things).
I thought of my husband. We had been married for 14 years. Our 15 year wedding anniversary was a few months away and he has loved me regardless of my weight or size. I thought about the eating habits that had assisted me in gaining an additional 100 pounds and I thought about how he gained 2-3 pounds for every 1 pound gain of mine. I didn't want to lose him to health-related issues.
So I made a decision. The decision to lose weight. The decision to take pounds off so that I could be active again. So I could lift heavy things, walk far distances, climb ladders without fear, and push myself to see how strong I could be.
Comments
Post a Comment