closer through distance: how i grew more accepting toward my body by moving away from it

4:15 pm. My reflection in the basement bathroom mirror. Phone up, camera open. A drop of sweat trickles down my forehead, navigating the red sea that has become my cheeks. Today I’m wearing a white sports bra. Nike spandex hug my legs, hiked up to sit right below my belly button. Purple and green sneakers support my frame, shoes that have never seen the outside world, bottoms clean and pure white. Indoor use only. Another day, another after school workout. Done and dusted. Adrenaline courses through me, my arms jello after ending with planks. I pose for my first selfie. Lighting could be better. I turn on the second light. Fluorescent beams flood the room, highlighting new muscles and shadows. I flex my arm, cover my face with my phone, and snap a picture. Another ten or twelve later and I leave the room. I return to the home gym from which I emerged from earlier and sit on the floor. Swipe, swipe, swipe. Each picture warrants careful scrutiny. I evaluate the tone my body carries, do I have abs yet? My legs look leaner, so that’s good. But this picture here, when I turn to the side, why isn’t my belly flat? I pick out flaws, engrave them onto a mental list, and swear to address them in the coming days. Tomorrow’s workout will include four rounds of two minute planks, because clearly three rounds isn’t enough.

By my senior year in high school, I’m finally weight restored and cleared for exercise. I had spent the previous seven months on exercise restriction, a daunting task for a young girl battling addiction to activity, to movement, to sweating and calorie torching. I was up nearly sixty pounds from my lowest weight. Absolutely necessary for my health and wellbeing. I grew up an athlete, an active kid, craving movement and competition like it was candy. I felt trapped by my exercise restriction because it sent a sense of loss flooding over me. Everything I had known was taken from me. But this only motivated me commit to my doctor’s orders.

So there I am. 17 years old and slowly entering the arena of fitness all over again. Young and sponge-like, I turn to Instagram to guide me, absorbing advice left and right. I don’t know better. All I want is to be “strong”, to “have abs”, to be “in shape”. In shape in shape in shape. I’ve been “out” of shape for so long, sitting on that damn bed day and night. The society around me pressures me to get “in” shape, as it’s good for my health. So I follow bikini competitors, personal trainers, and fitness gurus. They infiltrate my timeline and my mind. I’m drowning in what I don’t know to be misleading information. My internet mentors instruct me to inhale protein bars and shakes, to eat and move for the sake of changing my body. There is nobody addressing health as peace, but rather health as tone and muscle. The hundreds of influencers I follow post daily progress pictures, promising me that this workout listed below will help me get the abs I’m supposed to dream of each night.

And this is how my senior year takes shape. I go to school, request early release so I’m home by 2:00 pm. On days I don’t work at a local supermarket, I quarantine myself in our home gym for nearly two hours and obediently follow workouts promoted by perfectly sculpted strangers online. Once I finish, I walk down the hall to the bathroom, close the door behind me, and take a slew of “progress pictures” that I obsess over that night in bed, when I can’t sleep and darkness is closing in around me.

For nearly a year, I take photos of my body on a daily basis. I compare them, I pick them apart. I stare at my body until my eyes glaze over and the glow from the screen puts me in pain, stirring up a headache somewhere on the outskirts of my brain. My guides are bodybuilders who are busy pumping iron somewhere across the country, across the world. They teach me that muscles and abs and tone are the epitome of “healthy”, and shouldn’t I want to be healthy? They promote protein bars made from chemicals and who-knows-what, bragging about macros and intense workouts that last longer than my shifts at work. I’m young. I buy it all. Their propaganda. Their inspirational captions. The forty different types of protein bars that decorate their Instagram feed. My gold card from GNC is soon weathered from overuse.

At this point in time, I’m working around the clock to cultivate the body of my dreams.

So why do I feel so uncomfortable toward it?

I had finally reached a point where obsessing over my body e v e r y single day became emotionally taxing. I couldn’t live my life without constantly thinking of the flaws I’d picked out the day before. Every choice I made seemed to beckon the question “will this help me get ______?”. Paying such critical attention to my appearance was stressful. For so long, it had been my crutch. I had felt comfort in knowing that I had the power to change my body. But now, now it was overwhelming. I felt I had too many expectations to meet, to many orders to follow, and that if my body didn’t look a certain way there was no chance of me communicating my success to others.

I remember the first day I finished a workout and forced myself to walk past the bathroom. I take that back. It wasn’t much of a walk. It resembled dragging, my sneakers made of lead, my feet fighting against an emotional storm, one that cried out for me to walk in, snap a few pictures. For old time’s sake. To track my progress.

But I didn’t. I walked down the hall, stopped in front of the door. If I hadn’t already been sweating from my workout I would have surely broken out in nervous perspiration. I broke the silence. “Not today” I barked aloud. To the door, to nobody, and yet to every single fitness guru that breathed down my neck.

I went to bed that night without new material to pore over.

And again, the next night.

Gradually, I moved away from my obsession with my body. I stopped taking selfies all together. My camera roll grew barren. And I grew too, more relaxed, more mature, more at peace.

I rarely take pictures of my body anymore. I judge my workouts, my eating habits, and my overall decisions based on how happy they make me, how confident I am, how empowered I feel. My worth no longer rests on what I look like. By distancing myself from my body, I grew closer to it. Removing the physical aspect of evaluation, I was forced to focus on the things you can’t see. The feelings, the strength, the passion. I am strong because I feel able, not because an outward manifestation of toned arms says so. I am confident because I can push myself to be better, not because I possess a body that others will praise. I am healthy because I make decisions that leave my body and mind their happiest, not because I always say no to dessert.

The other day, I tried on a new pair of leggings and stood in my full length mirror to take them in. Without thinking, I snapped a picture in the leggings and my sports bra and sent it to my mom, asking her if she thought I should keep them. It was then that I realized I haven’t take a picture of this nature in months, years even. The action sent me spiraling into a reflective process. When we are with ourselves every day, we can easily miss the growth we undergo. Taking this time to step back and appreciate my journey, I was floored by how far I had come. I never realized how at peace I was with my body until I remembered how deeply I had been at war with it years before.

If you’re in a place where you wear your worth externally, take a moment to step back. Realize you don’t need external validation to live your best life. Understand that the outward appearance of your body does not communicate your success or failure as an individual. Make decisions based on how they make you feel, do they make you happy, are you a better person because of them?

I only grew closer to my body when I began to listen to it. What it has to say is arguably more powerful than what it has to show. My body’s appearance is a combination of exercise and diet, yes, but it is also subject to genetics, to nature. I can’t help certain aspects of my body. Accepting that there are some things I can’t change allows me to grow through them. My entire eating disorder was an attempt to be in control, to dictate something. This is typical of EDs, many victims identifying with Type A personality traits. Body acceptance challenges this completely. I can’t control every detail of my appearance, but I can control how much I allow this to weigh me down.

What our bodies have to say is so important. Listen, let it speak, don’t interrupt. You can only grow closer to your body when you step away from it. Today, I can comfortably say that I’m happy in my body. I love how it feels when I eat my favorite bowl of oats, or when I lay in bed all day when the gym just seems like the worst place in the world. I love how it feels when I eat until I’m full instead of forcing myself to finish. I love how it feels when I say yes to dessert and sit at the kitchen island with my younger sister watching SNL reruns and sipping on hot chocolate. I love how it feels when I finish an empowering workout and smile in the mirror in the locker room, silently expressing my gratitude for a body that allows me to do such things. I love how it feels when I prioritize my family and friends, the people I love. I love how it feels when I’m jumping into the pool on a hot summer day with my best friend, not thinking about how my body looks but rather how the sun on my back feels like love, that this is what love feels like.

My body is more than what you can see. Your body is more than what I can see. Our bodies feel, they speak, and they know what’s best for them. It’s our job to listen more and look less. Only then can we grow closer.