In February, I went for a routine check-up and almost cried when I saw the number between my feet on the scale at the doc office. And lemme tell ya, I wasn’t wearing heavy enough clothes to account for the number at my toes. That day, I began a diet that I followed for weeks and then months. I started exercising more and harder. I lost 7 pounds in the first 10 to 14 days and gained a whole bucket of pervasive anxiety. And then, I hit a plateau. I have been stuck at a certain weight for weeks despite exercising more than ever and following a diet. Each morning, I stand on the scale and wait for the numbers to blink and then disappoint. 

The first few times I broke the diet (had a bite of pizza / a homemade blueberry pancake the hubs made), I experienced anxiety for an inordinate amount of time. And when my family brought delicious takeout for my birthday dinner, I felt so guilty indulging. I didn’t enjoy it for even a second. I can’t live like this and be a tolerable person to be around. What would have happened if I had reached my goal weight? Would I have been afraid to eat a slice of bread? Could I have enjoyed a splurge here and there? Or would I have felt guilt and shame creeping in every time I took a bite of food that wasn’t part of my diet plan?

I’m a moody person by nature, and my body struggles exacerbate my moodiness. I refrain from talking about my body image issues and concerns, so they ping pong around in my head all day. Trust me, you don’t want to spend time with my internal mean girl; I’m downright cruel to myself. Sometimes I stand in the front of the mirror and absolutely bash my body. I’d never say out loud to someone else the things I think about my own body. It’s pretty awful. I go through the same shit-talking criticism take-down of my appearance when I see pictures of myself. A case in point is the image right below. This picture was taken in January, when I was likely at my heaviest. This picture bothered me so much that I asked my husband to delete it. I made myself post it as part of my new plan.

So, I’ll tell you what. I’m creating a new goal that doesn’t involve weight. I’m really, really tired of the self loathing. And I’m so tired of punishing myself. I know these two things: Everyone likes me better when I’m enjoying life regardless of my weight. My kids, my husband, my family, and my friends would all prefer to spend time with the version of me who doesn’t care if her body isn’t the same as her pre-baby body.  I’m strong, healthy, and capable. I also know that I prefer spending time with people who enjoy life regardless of their weight. I have had friends who are in killer shape who obsess over food and their bodies, and they are not enjoyable to be around despite how fantastic they look. 

I discovered something as I was thinking about my body issues: I feel more like me than I have since having babies. My strength and rhythm are back. I have more confidence while playing sports. So why am I waging war against myself? Why aren’t I celebrating those wins? I may not look like pre-baby me, but who cares? I’m not the same person. I cranked out two babies super fast, and my body handled all of it like a champ. I should be grateful for this broken-in body that carries me through my life. 

For me, the number on the scale cannot be my goal. It simply can’t. It may be for others, and that’s totally fine. Some people can strive for a scale goal and be happy and healthy during the process. I don’t intend to discourage those whose goals are different than mine. I have discovered that’s simply not me. But I am proud of the diet changes I have made, and I plan to continue eating healthier and better for various reasons. I now realize that my success and happiness cannot be dependent on what the scale reveals. I cannot allow my weight to determine my worth. I refuse.

My new goal is simple and contains these stipulations. (1) My physical little monster toddlers are balls of energy, and I want to be healthy and fit enough to engage with them. (2) I have two pairs of jeans that I love right now. As long as they fit, I don’t need to step on the scale. (3) I strive to regularly make gains during my workouts (ie: I can do more burpees than the last time or I don’t feel as winded the last mile during a run). I want to keep pushing myself within reason. (4) I practice mindful eating. My goal is to relax the diet in some ways, but I still plan to eat healthy food much of the time. And I’m going to make some exceptions without allowing the guilt and shame to invade. 

The hardest part is going to be the mean girl that lives in my head. I don’t quite know how to silence her (step 1 was posting that January picture above). She’s sneaky and stealthy and so, so savage. So I’m going to work on minimizing and eventually eliminating her voice. I can’t wait to push that bitch off a cliff. 

I also need to remember that my children don’t care about 10 pounds. They care that I can push them on the swings or that I can carry them in my arms and on my hips. They hear me when I say negative things about my body; they notice when I’m not comfortable in my own skin. They care that I’m happy and present instead of moody and distracted. They can help me be a better version of me. 

I feel like I’ve written a similar post before. You may be thinking, here she goes again. And you’re damn right. Here I am, going again.  I’ll keep saying this until I finally believe it, adhere to it, and respect it. I will keep saying this until I don’t have to anymore. 

The other day I had straightened my hair, which I haven’t done in probably a year. Ember Eve touched my hair and said, “Mommy, you’re Elsa.” And I’ll tell you what guys, my face lit up like a Christmas tree. That’s the thing about kids—they don’t see us the way we see ourselves. My girls look at me, and they see momma. They see their source of comfort and love. They see the book-reader, song-singer, snack-bringer, hug-giver, milk-slinger, bad-ass momma that I am. 

So you know what?  Damn straight. I’m Elsa. I’m going to let it go.