Better than a thousand words.
Yesterday I cleaned out my closet and dresser of everything that is, by my own definition, “too tight.” Goodbye, size 10s! Granted, my husband is bereft because he likes me in too-tight pants, but as they made me feel badly about my body, he’ll just have to get his kicks in some other way.
I loaded up a huge bag of clothes and another huge bag of shoes (including a few pairs I’d never even worn, so that’ll be fun for someone else!), and donated them to a local women’s shelter. They’ll serve a much better purpose there than in my closet, encouraging me to hate on myself.
In related news, I spent the weekend out of town with my mom, sister, and Girl Cousin, and we took lots of pictures of our adventures. I was looking at them on Sunday afternoon after we got home, and I was struck by how pretty I looked.
Pretty. Me. All 149 pounds and 31 years of me. I looked relaxed and happy and my skin was all glowy and my body looked strong and I didn’t look tired or gaunt or terrified. I can’t remember the last time I looked at a picture of myself and thought I was pretty.
During the dieting days, I would scan pictures for proof of my “hard work,” trying to spot bones or sinew as evidence that I was getting skinnier. At the very worst of my behaviors, I saved pictures that showed a too-frail wrist jutting from a sleeve or a visible hipbone pressing against my pants, and I reviewed them regularly because it kept me focused on my diet. Even then, though, I never found the pictures pretty; I’d mention how badly I photographed and I’d avert my eyes from the sad, scared face looking up from the glossy print.
But these pictures? That girl is pretty. So that must mean…I’m pretty.
It’s amazing what you can see when you start looking through your own eyes.
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