If you know me well, you know that bodies are basically my favorite thing to talk about. If you know me really well, you know that the above is true about all bodies except for mine.
I have never considered myself pretty. This isn’t a fishing for compliments, woe is me kind of thing, it’s just what it is. I had freckles before people decided they were cute, hair that I brushed for many years before I realized I shouldn’t (my mom still begs to differ) and a little thing called thunder thighs to the extent of when I wear corduroys, I’m not one hundred percent certain I won’t start a fire. I’ve a torso that goes on for too long and legs that go on for too short. I had family judgments, comparisons and a diary filled with pages of self hatred. I have lived a life where body dysmorphia not only existed, but thrived.
A year and some change ago I was the heaviest I had ever been. I’m not sure when it started or how I got there, but I became pretty disgusted with myself. In a time of people preaching self love, I just couldn’t. Well, I could in some ways, but it’s certainly one hundred percent possible to love and hate yourself at the same time.
And then it happened.
I was scrolling through Facebook when a good ol’ sponsored ad hit one hell of a slam dunk with its target audience. “Looking for thirty women who want to transform their bodies completely in six weeks,” with the real hook line and sinker, “for free.” I reached out immediately and in a matter of days was face to face with a real life fit human giving me my consultation. There was paperwork and weights and goals and a contract just requiring one smooth flick of the wrist. But wait. There’s also a $500 deposit that you only get back if you meet the goal. FIVE. HUNDRED. DOLLARS. My brain did the swiftest speed walk that ever was, right out that door, wishing it had middle fingers to hold up. But then, six weeks passed and I still hated my body and I realized that I have often squandered money on lesser things that actually didn’t benefit me at all.
I went back. I flicked that wrist. And the challenge began.
The challenge is hard. Like, really hard. The diet is intense, you drink so much water you might as well pay rent to the restroom and the classes will make you want to walk out during the warm up. That’s probably why they call it “the challenge” and probably why I’ve heard “if it doesn’t challenge you, it doesn’t change you” more times than I can count. But I did it. And it did, in fact, change me. I met (and exceeded) the goal. I was sixteen pounds lighter, down over eight percent in body fat and five hundred less dollars in credit card debt. I felt stronger, happier and honestly, just pretty damn proud.
But, and get ready for this spoiler alert, you can still change even if you’re not challenged. Unfortunately, that change means gaining back most of your weight, the body fat and that little devil perched on your shoulder asking you, “how did you let it get to this?”
Instead, now, I need to focus on another “how.” How do I make this better? How do I fix this? How do I learn to love this freckled skin I’m in? I am mentally clicking on that sponsored ad once more, holding myself accountable and putting myself up to another six weeks of chicken breasts, gallons of water and five days a week of I’m pretty certain I’m about to pass out-ings. And this time, I’m going to tell you about it. And not just at the end when I post a picture of pants that once did not fit that I now swim in (another spoiler: these fit again), but through the whole dang thing. The frustrations, the hurtles, the times when I get too emotional and create fake scenarios in my head about how my dad doesn’t love me because he didn’t answer my phone call kinds of things. And the good stuff too. The tips, the triumphs and probably that asparagus guacamole recipe that absolutely does not taste like guacamole but will actually give you life at the point when you need it the most.
Let’s kettlebell swing on in to this, shall we?
the length of waves 