My Body is Me

article by Meredith McKinnie

My body and I have been battling for almost four decades. As a kid, I just lived in my body, in harmony. I biked and swam with friends, leaped over puddles, stretched for basketballs goals out of reach, fell down, scraped knees, and kept going. Too busy living, I didn’t think about how I was looking. I didn’t know to care. I don’t recall being ridiculed about my weight as a kid, so I never considered my size relevant. I could move, and that’s all I needed.

As a teenager, my perspective changed, or rather, people changed it for me. I had always been active, coordinated, and though I couldn’t carry a tune, I could follow a beat. I made the dance team in junior high and high school, at two different schools. My 4’10 stature cemented my spot at the end of the kick line, but I kicked as high as any taller girl in the middle. I was good. I could feel it. I often coordinated routines for the team, and was placed in the most challenging routines at dance camp. The week was long and arduous and thrilling. On Fridays, girls from all over the state gathered to perform the perfected dances in front of the entire camp, staff, and parents. I marched to the front row, dead center if not ordered to the end, and danced my little heart out, never nervous or fearful of error. All I had to do was move to the music; I spoke this language.

I learned quickly that making the team and being a good dancer mattered much less than how I looked. On both teams, I was put on a weight plan, involving conferences with my mother about my diet and weekly weigh-ins to log my progress. If I didn’t lose two pounds a week, I was prohibited from performing at pep rallies and games. I sat on the sideline as my teammates danced in front of crowds, answering questions about my absence. Most assumed I was sick every other week. I’m sure it hurt, but I didn’t fight it. I just learned that my body was bad, and being larger than the other girls meant our uniforms were less sexy. I felt my weight was carried by everyone.

Junior year, I didn’t try out for the next season. I took over coaching the junior high team, choreographing routines that again I wouldn’t perform. I took myself out of the limelight, instead highlighting the skills of others. It felt like a promotion, a trade off, but in hindsight, it was more punishment. The guidance counselor called me into her office before the decision was made that I wouldn’t pursue trying out again. She said, “Sometimes we must accept the things we can’t do.” She meant I was too big to be on the team, and that it would be better for everyone if I didn’t try out. Everyone knew I would make it, so I should “take one for the team” and bow out. I wish I had the strength and confidence of now to fight back. At the time, I only felt shame.

Once body image reality sets in, it never really diminishes. I considered every outfit I purchased, compared myself to every friend who devoured snack cakes mid-afternoon, took up smoking to keep my hands busy, avoided the pool conveniently in my parent’s backyard, ordered salads when I wanted a hamburger like the normal girls. Every decision I made involved my body and its limitations. I stayed home and attended college locally after being accepted to a much larger school down south. I couldn’t risk inconveniencing strangers with my size. I married my first real boyfriend because I couldn’t take a chance on someone else daring to love me. I didn’t even love myself.

In my thirties, I found myself single, and alone with my body. I began to tame it, vigorously. I did boot camps and survived on protein bars and one full meal a day. My stomach growled constantly, but I learned to ignore it. I never did get skinny, but I was thinner. I felt people noticed me before noticing my size. Sustaining that workout schedule and restricted diet proved difficult long term, and again my body started to fluctuate. Then came kids, and it became all about them. But pregnancy taught me an invaluable lesson. My body is meant for more than adoration. I don’t owe anyone a perfect appearance, nor can it be sustained without repercussions. My body is for me, and for whom I choose to share it.

After giving birth twice, I now respect the skin I’m in. It may be stretched and often squeezed into denim, but it’s mine and no one else’s business. I walk often, enjoying the way movement makes me feel. I’m not trying to be thin; I’m trying to feel good. It’s not a goal, but rather a consistent effort that requires daily investment in myself. By taking care of my body, I take care of myself. Instead of battling a number or mocking a reflection, I focus on living like the little girl who instinctively knew how.