The First Time I Loved My Body
I'm alone on a beach in Mexico. The waves lap greedily against the shore and I feel my anger rise with the tide.
I'm alone on a beach, using my shorts as a blanket on the hot sand. I slip my shirt over my head, glancing around self-consciously. Sitting in my bikini, I feel the wash of anger again.
Why do I feel ashamed of the way my body looks?
This body made a beautiful human. This body fed said tiny beautiful human. This body went through basic training. Through sexual abuse. Through PTSD. Through a divorce and three years of being a single mom.
Who fucking cares if I have tummy rolls? Who cares that my breasts aren't as perky as they once were or that I have stretch marks decorating my belly button? Oh, and the cellulite on the back of my thighs? That's just proof that I've been enjoying my life.
This body receives so much pleasure. This body gives so much pleasure (just ask my boyfriend!). This body has loved, and fucked, and fought, and broken, and healed. This body has held babies and sobbing friends in its arms. This body, on loan from the Earth, has wiped tears, ran races, climbed mountains, and swam in seas.
My body deserves good food and movement, yes. My body deserves to look and feel her best.
But my body also deserves to be admired. Not in spite of the tummy rolls and stretch marks, nor because of them. My body deserves to be admired because it's fucking gorgeous and, quite honestly, the least interesting thing about me.