Sometimes I can’t help but be sad over my size. Sometimes I don’t like what I see.
It’s as if my body is the mountain I have to chisel down in order to get where I need to be. I fight against every pucker of fabric, every sidelong glance during a race, when all I’m really fighting is my self-worth; beating myself down until there is nothing but the number of my waistband.
There is a constant battle between the folds of my stomach and my feminist-book-binge-self which chides, “I am more than my size.” No matter what I eat, how far I run, or how the scale slowly ticks downward – the real battle is between my heart and this world telling me otherwise. Do I go back to where there’s nothing left but to struggle and sweat with a constant heartache as companionship? Or do I push the veil aside and stand on my stocky, strong legs, declaring that this body is not a prison.
This body is a temple, housing the ability to grow forward, not immovable. Never immovable.