I recently read the blog of a former student who had become a personal trainer a few years back. She wrote that she was still working hard at fitness, still training, but had added not insignificant weight and curves since the pandemic hit; and, she LOVES, LOVES her new, curvier, heavier body.
I have to admit that I immediately stopped reading the very long post and scrolled down to the photo. She is beautiful–glowing and strong, a picture of health and vitality. She is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met; she’s been a model in some pretty legit magazine spreads. BUT, I couldn’t help thinking, “I don’t know. She sure looked pretty amazing 20 pounds ago…” And I felt awful. Horrible. Still do.
Why couldn’t my reaction be happiness fo her? Why wasn’t I proud for her? Why didn’t I believe her words?
Of course, I DO hope she’s happy. I hope she believes her words to her very core. I hope she knows that she is beautiful beyond belief. I just hate my own thinking, hate this disorder so much that it makes me doubt that ANYONE could be happy larger. There’s still a lot of work for me to do.