I want to stop.

I want to stop telling myself not eat because if I do I’ll be fat.

I want to stop figuring out how long I’m going to spend on the eliptical based on the “this many minutes equals being able to eat this much food” equation.

I want to stop looking at every woman I see, comparing my body to hers and always coming out the loser. Forget that; neither one of us should be a “loser”.

I want to stop worrying that the extra weight I carry around will affect what other people think of me and be a deciding factor when they consider  if they want to be my friend.

I want to stop feeling in my heart that my husband must be picturing someone else in his head when we’re together because I can’t possibly be what does it for him. My head is well aware of the fact that he would never.

I want to stop thinking “that means you DO think I’m fat!” every time he tells me he doesn’t care what I look like, he loves me just the way I am.

I want to stop walking around with my ab muscles pulled in tight all the time so that my belly, that has been stretched and slackened by 5 healthy pregnancies, doesn’t look so big. I mean, it’s still too big, right, but at least not SO big.

I want to stop laying in bed at night and fantasizing about how good I’ll look when I just learn to stop eating, or when I start spending more time at the gym, and how much better my life will be when that happens.

I want to stop denying myself the pleasure of eating something delicious because “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”.

I want to stop standing around a table of food with other women who, like myself,  are talking about which diet they’re on now or how “I know I really shouldn’t”. Yes I should. I should make healthy decisions on a whole, sure, but I should indulge every now and again. I absolutely should!

I want to stop judging my self worth based on my ability to fit into a size that uses the word “small”. What does that even mean?

I want to stop looking at pictures in magazines that I am fully, intellectually aware are photoshopped, almost beyond recognition, and thinking to myself, even for a millisecond, that if I want to be happy, successful and loved I should look more like that.

I want to stop obsessively trying to improve on such a shallow aspect of my life when there are much deeper and more meaningful parts of me I should be focusing on. Those kind of improvements matter.

I want to stop setting a horrible example for my 3 young and impressionable daughters; how can I possibly even dream that they’ll learn to have healthy self images if the one I role model for them is so sick.

I want to stop myself, and women everywhere, from feeling like less just because they are a little more.

I want to stop. Really, truly, I do. The problem is, I just don’t know how.


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