*African proverb

My body has often been the object of critique by people who claimed to love me. Never mind being called “thunder thighs” by the little league football players when I was ELEVEN. Never mind the neighbor boy who said, “You’d be really pretty if you lost weight” when I was 15 and weighed 120 pounds.

Yes, never mind them.

I’m talking about people who said “I love you” on a regular basis but would turn around and tell me my boobs were too big, or my legs were too short. I’m talking about being gifted Fitbits and weights but being too “disgusting” to take a walk with. I’m talking about being frozen out of intimacy because I’d gained weight.

That shit is fucked up.

And you know what? I had a romantic partner – my first husband – who never said anything like that to me, and what did I do? I cheated on and left him for someone whose eventual treatment of me made me want to die. Yes, I can be an asshole too.

Ironically, I lost 90 pounds when husband #2 left. I looked fucking fabulous. And it was by far the absolute lowest point in my life.

So there’s that.

I’m 55 years old, and believe me when I say I understand that we live in a misogynistic society. I understand that men are “visual creatures.” I also understand that some women are assholes and make rude comments to their partners as well.

If you really love and value someone, I don’t believe you do that though. (I also don’t believe you do that in general because the only body you should be worrying about is your own.)

My appearance has changed throughout my life because I’m HUMAN. My imperfect body has served me well. It has made amazing love at all sizes. It has given birth to two beautiful children. It has taken me on runs and hikes and walks. It has swum in oceans and rivers and lakes. It has been a size 2 and a size 20.

And it has been me inside it all along.

Flawed.

Insecure.

Badass.

Hopeful.

And sick of allowing myself to feel bad if someone finds fault with how I look on the outside.

If you don’t like the view, turn your head.