“Who was I to rail at you? To beat you down day after day after day? To abuse you in front of others? I never really saw you, did I?”
By Megan Gahan
I called you fat.
I’m cross-legged on my bedroom floor, the cornflower walls hazy through my sobs. Clothes are strewn all over the bed. Taking in the cellulite dimpling my thighs, the soft roll around my belly and my generous hips, I twist my face in disgust. Why are you this way?
You’re all wrong.
I called you weak.
Jogging along the trail, I’m huffing and puffing. Short, uneven, staccato breaths barely make their escape. I feel a stab in my side. I have to slow down. The intense jabs continue, forcing me to double over as a seemingly endless stream of runners pass me by. I have to walk. Walk.
I can’t believe how pathetic you are.
I called you worthless.
I’m lying on a cold table in the doctor’s office. His voice breaks the uncomfortable silence. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Surgery is the only option.” I nod, to stop from trembling. I widen my eyes to quell the tears. What is the matter with you? That you would do this to me. That you would put me through this.
Now I see your strength.
Clutching the gas mask in the hospital, I feel my heart pounding out of my chest. I didn’t know it would be like this. “He needs to come out now.” I barely hear through the pain. I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough. But then I feel you take over— contracting, then relaxing, over and over and over. Then I hear a precious cry. I did it.
And you carried me through.
Now I see your purpose.
Standing in the balcony at church, I allow the familiar notes to stir my soul. I sense my feet naturally begin to shuffle side to side. Eyes closed, my arms drift upward. As I stretch to the sky, I feel His hands reaching down to meet mine. My entire being is drawn into His Presence. Thank you for this. This gift of worship.
Now I see your beauty.
I’m looking in the mirror as I prepare for the day. I take in the womanly curve of my hips. I trace the definition in my shoulders. I stare intently at my strong thighs, which allow me walk. And run. And jump and leap and dance. Who was I to rail at you? To beat you down day after day after day? To abuse you in front of others?
I never really saw you, did I? For what you really are.
So please accept this most humble apology. I promise to show you the respect you deserve.
Dear Body,
I love you.
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Dear SheLoves friends, come join us in our first ever SheLoves synchroblog: A Love Letter to my Body. (A “synchroblog” simply means we are writing simultaneously on the same topic.)
Here’s what we’d love you to do:
- Write and publish your own love letter to your body by Wednesday July 18th.
- Link to this SheLoves post by Megan Gahan.
- Add your name and the link to your post in the comments section of this post. (this is so we can find your post on your blog.)
- We will read all the love letters and compile a list with some of our favourites, to be published on SheLoves next week. With your permission, we are also considering creating an eBook, available for download from this site.
We hope you will join us!
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About Megan:
My name is Megan, but I prefer Meg or Megs. I love thick books, scalding soaks in the tub, and breaking out into song. I don’t share desserts. Ever. After working in fitness for the past ten years, I am currently fumbling through my first year of motherhood with the sweetest little boy ever. Discussing body image, Jesus, and proper push-up technique gets me excited. I blog about whatever tickles my fancy here.
Image credit: Body, by Carl Jones, Flickr.com
After over a decade in the fitness industry, Megan now spends her days chasing two pint-sized tornadoes disguised as little boys. By night, she is a writer and editor for SheLoves. A proper Canadian, Megan can often be found in the woods or at Tim Hortons. She writes at megangahan.com.
