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I Don’t Want My Final Thought to Be Focused on My Weight
The enormous black pickup truck charged toward me, its front bumper towering at my waist level. As it hurtled in my direction, I found myself frozen in place. Even though I was only a mere ten feet from the safety of the sidewalk, I was stuck—motionless—on the hot asphalt, watching two tons of metal and an oblivious driver accelerate toward me.
In that moment, I became paralyzed. My feet wouldn’t budge; I tried to scream, but my throat felt constricted. I was suspended in time, a terrified observer of my own potential demise. As the truck drew nearer, I didn’t experience the cliché of my life flashing before my eyes. Instead, a chaotic jumble of half-formed thoughts raced through my mind as adrenaline coursed through my veins. Amidst that mental turmoil, one clear idea emerged:
I can’t believe I wasted so many years worrying about my weight.
Fortunately, I didn’t meet my fate that day. Just when the truck was close enough for me to see the driver’s dilated pupils, a last-minute survival instinct kicked in, and I jumped out of harm’s way. Three stunned bystanders rushed over, their fearful indignation erupting as they exclaimed, “What is he on?” and “He almost hit you!” My knees trembled, and I shook as I tried to process what had just happened. Yet mentally, I was grappling with something profound.
What struck me was the realization that if I were to die at that moment, my last thought would be one of regret. After all the joy, adventure, and laughter I had experienced, I would lament the time spent disliking my own body.
It’s perplexing, really. My body is more than capable. Sure, there have been periods when I’ve been overweight, and no one would ever mistake me for thin. Generally, though, my weight has hovered at the higher end of “healthy.” I’m built solidly—definitely not the kind to be blown over by a strong gust of wind. If I lived in prehistoric times, I would have thrived, nurturing the clan’s babies while others faltered.
So why does this body, which carries me through life with energy and agility, make me feel discontent? Why should a body capable of hauling six grocery bags up the stairs be a source of disappointment? What measure could deem a body that runs ten miles on rugged trails as inadequate? If my 47-year-old physique can bounce on a trampoline with my kids, how can it still feel like a burden?
This disconnect between physical fitness and emotional well-being is baffling. The psychology of self-image is so complex that I can appreciate my capable body while simultaneously despising its imperfections. Numerous moments throughout my life have contributed to this dissatisfaction.
At 11 years old, I stepped outside to grab the newspaper and a boy rode by, yelling, “You’re fat!” At 17, as I lost my virginity, the guy above me remarked, “If you lost weight, you could be attractive.” In college, after asking a crush out, he replied, “I don’t drink,” to which I suggested coffee. He awkwardly declined, stating, “I don’t date big girls.” A few years later, my sister expressed, “Neither of us should have kids.” In my late twenties, a friend looked at a picture of my grandmother and said, “You didn’t stand a chance, did you?”
There have been countless moments like these, each one a little pinprick to my confidence. While I understand these hurtful comments often reflect the insecurities of those who utter them, their echoes linger. I struggle against the idea that my body—and every woman’s body—belongs to the public. In my heart, my body is mine alone. Yet, the unsolicited opinions from the world create a barrier to my peace. I am strong and fit, yet external judgments insist I’m too much.
Deep down, I choose to disagree. Despite what others may think, I dare to see myself as lovely. My smile radiates warmth, my hair is vibrant, my eyes shine brightly, my arms could rival Michelle Obama’s, and my strong legs could crack walnuts.
The challenge has been to allow my belief in my beauty to overshadow my worries about weight. This epiphany became possible when I started viewing myself as a stranger.
During a high-intensity workout class filled with plyometrics and toned physiques, I found myself scanning the room, admiring my fellow participants. In the midst of this, I thought, “Where am I?” Despite spatial challenges, I should have easily spotted my chunky self among the crowd.
To my surprise, I couldn’t find my panting figure at all. I looked down at my clothes, then searched for my bright top in the mirror. Ah, there I was! My eyes were looking for an overweight woman among a sea of toned individuals. In that moment of clarity, I realized I am indistinguishable in a crowd of fit people. Ironically, many of the leaner participants appeared fragile compared to my robust self.
Watching myself jump and move in the mirror, I finally embraced the insight I gained during that near-miss with the truck. I refused to let others define my self-worth. The world doesn’t dictate how I perceive myself; I do. With a grin, I decided to embrace the idea of myself as a powerful, glorious beast.
My body isn’t a disappointment. That vibrant, strong being is truly remarkable.
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Summary
This reflective piece explores the author’s realization that the time spent worrying about weight is ultimately wasted. Through personal anecdotes, the author reflects on how societal perceptions of body image have influenced her self-worth. She emphasizes the importance of embracing one’s body for its capabilities rather than its appearance, culminating in a newfound self-acceptance.