Scars

Scars tell a story. My body is littered with them. They tell the stories of adventure, mostly. There is one on my forehead. 9 stitches. Grand Canyon. I was 17. I weird three prong splatter marking my face meeting a rock.

There is another one on my left foot. A faint crescent shape. Thin, but present. A sea urchin's defense as I swam out to an off-shore island in Hawaii. My kids bobbed along in their life jackets. The cut burned the entire plane ride home.

There are 4 on my knee. A ski accident and subsequent surgery.

There are new ones from this past year. Well, new-ish. When I lift up my shirt I see the collapsed collagen of loose skin and stretch marks.

Harrowing stories of grit and survival, although Outdoor Magazine would hardly agree.

Weight. Slipping on to the doctor's scale and looking the other way. An embarrassment, curated by society. Too much, too little, depending on the century you were born in.

It has been a factor in my life for longer than I care to admit. My story is not unusual. Pre-adolescent weight gain that never quite went away. A self esteem that was in the toilet. Being told "You will one day find a man who will love you, for you!" within the context of my pant size.

My BMI was discussed within and without of earshot.

"You have such a pretty face."

"You were beautiful."

Were.

"You don't want to shorten your life"

Discussions that were once reserved for the quiet rooms of physicians offices were now had at family reunions thanks to a recent 4-week personal training certificate obtained by an obscure relative.

While the comments stung, the respect I had for myself was a healing balm. I knew my body had not rounded out from a slovenly lifelong bender of Cheetos on the couch.

My body was the result of discipline and hard work. Irony or no, it is the truth.

This body had carried me into the depths of the Grand Canyon and across the ramparts of the Great Wall of China. It had served up two beautiful babies. My body had survived not one, but two near death experiences- the beeps and panicked voices from the hospital staff are still clear. The body that jumped into the cool Aegean sea was the same one that slipped into the quiet pews of Westminster Abbey. The very figure that summited mountains had also soothed toddler fevers at 3AM. How could I hate this body? How?

It was full of wonders.

Yet I had abused it. Tortured it with bizarre diets. Hid it with dark lycra. Forced it to exercise. No rest for the wicked, as they say.

I sat in my doctor's office. There had been whispers of a small injection that would change everything. I held my breath as I pushed the medication into my abdomen every week. And waited.

Then the magic happened. What I had expected from sensible habits came to fruition.

I walked a half marathon. Participated in a marathon relay. Started skiing again. Bought a new round of clothes. Then another. Started a business. Started another business. Slipped into a pair of tights and started ballet again.

The scars of 80 lbs gained and lost began to show.

Sometimes I am embarrassed of them. Sometimes I am not.

These scars tell a story of resilience and acceptance. It was never a moral or self discipline issue. It was an issue of the body not quite operating the right way and still living life anyway. Still improving. Still moving forward. Healing and watching the miracle of medical science.

What a marvel we are.

"Do you feel a big difference?"

They ask.

I do and I don't.

Airplane seats are more comfortable.

Living without the emotional armor of "I'm still valuable even when heavy" is easier.

Truthfully, I don't really notice a difference day to day. I don't recognize my reflection when passing a mirrored building.

I'm a bit more cold.

There is peace knowing the body is more healthy.

Do I feel as if my worth has increased? No.

Am I happy that a 1998 Seventeen magazine editor would now view me as beautiful? No.

Is there some kind of imaginary montage of me finding all the haters and saying "How do you like me NOW?!?" A big, resounding NO FREAKING WAY.

I've spent decades healing from the sort of gross diet culture of the 90s and learning that my worth was never in looking a certain way.

So yes, I have lost weight. A lot of it. Over a year. And yes, it is significant and a positive thing.

The truth is, there are MANY, MANY significant and positive things that have happened in my life besides having a "healthy BMI".

So yes, I have lost 80 lbs.

The scars join their comrades to tell of a tale of a life well-lived. This is what I am most proud of.

(A photo of Oliver and I swimming in the Aegean. Never published due to feeling insecure.)