Why I Write About Body Positivity

I can’t pinpoint exactly when I became aware that my body was different. It may have been when my dad forbade me to have another dessert or when my brother called me “Thunder Thighs.” Perhaps it was that time a coach called me “fat” or the numerous retellings of a family story involving me and the word “husky.” Most likely, it was any and all of these incidents, along with my propensity for people pleasing. 

My efforts to re-shape my body into a smaller version of myself began in earnest with a gym membership when I was sixteen. Daily workouts and restrictive eating allowed me to lose weight, but the number on the scale never reached “perfect.” I yo-yo-ed from smaller to heavier and back with a “less is better” mindset that persisted for years.

Then, the year I was twenty-three, two incidents altered my destiny. 

First, my mom died. She was only forty-six when she received a colon cancer diagnosis and she passed away within five months. During her illness, I was her primary caregiver and witnessing her decline made me downright ashamed of the damage I had willingly inflicted upon myself. It taught me what an incredible gift my strong, disease-free body truly was. My eating issues fell away.

Second, I ran my first marathon as an homage to her. We’d had deep conversations when she was ill. She was anguished that she’d been robbed of the time to accomplish life-long dreams and brimming with regrets when she died. Her ruefulness haunted — and galvanized — me. A marathon was first on my bucket list, so I did one. As I crossed the finish line, I heard her whisper, “If you can do this, what else can you do?”

Her question fueled me to run further. I loved how running made my body feel — like a gazelle, graceful and mighty at the same time. If Mom’s death had motivated me to live without regret, running taught me how it was done, and I used my body to make it happen. For the first time in my life, I embodied my power.

I kept running, eventually completing multiple marathons, ultramarathons, and even the Ironman triathlon. For almost thirty years, I felt unstoppable. Until I didn’t. One day, I set off on a fourteen mile training run and returned with a broken pelvis. 

In my late teens, doctors diagnosed me with scoliosis and my parents decided against putting titanium rods in my back to straighten it. The fifty-degree angle of my spine, combined with the relentless pounding from running, created a breaking point on the left side of my iliac crest. Although I recovered, running became impossibly painful.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the “break” the universe gave me was sorely needed (pun!). The pain I still fight every day demands that I be kinder and gentler to my body, that I listen to the messages sent by its muscles and bones. In the fifteen years since my injury, I’ve learned to treasure the body I inhabit instead of beating it up. This body is the vessel of my soul, after all. 

I keep a bright pink post-it note stuck on my bathroom mirror, exactly where my face looks back at me. Each morning, it asks, “What are you grateful for today?”

My answer? My body. 

The arms hugging my kids and husband; the legs carrying me that walk and dance and move; the hands typing the words you’re reading right now; the brain that is capable (mostly!) of thoughts and ideas; the ears hearing music and the mouth that sings along; the eyes seeing the shock of orange autumn leaves in my backyard; the nose effortlessly breathing in and out; and the heart, my heart, that feels everything and overflows, steadily beating with blessings and love.

I’m grateful for my body.