I see it, you know, when I stand in the middle of my apartment in my skivvies and I look at my reflection. I see the small changes that have occurred in the last six weeks. I feel like a sculpture, curved here, lifted here. Yoga, walks, standing up to work. Moving, lifting furniture.
I feel good again, standing there loving on myself with my eyes. I still see stretch marks, and cellulite, but in a way they are like little splatters of paint. Nothing to be too concerned with.
It’s nearly too warm in my apartment, so I find moments when walking around in the evening light in my underwear, a pleasing testament to myself. I don’t remember falling out of love with my body in the past 8 months but it happened, not neglect, or dislike… just I felt foreign to it, with it.
I’m not perfectly proportioned, I can’t say I look perfect from any angle. But I do know that when I’m alone, in my apartment and I see the way the line of my arms leads to my fingers, near my hips. The way my thighs puzzle together, comfort in their companionship.
I’m down a couple dress sizes, I’m down a couple belt holes. But all I notice is how much I like bending a knee and rising up to my toes, gently admiring myself. Breath in and then out. Easy. It’s simple. It’s mine.
I think this is very important, very important.