Balance

For my fifteenth birthday, I got myself a calorie-tracking app. I had decided that I was going to get skinny that summer and surprise everyone on the first day of school. I knew it wasn’t my best move, but I didn’t care. I longed to fit into my jean shorts from fifth grade. How I got there wouldn’t matter once I was a size zero.

Ever since the age of twelve, I’d been hyperaware of every curve and angle of my body. I filled my Pinterest homepage with “flat stomach workouts” and got ads for intermittent fasting. It felt like social media was telling me I was fat. In seventh grade, I was knee-deep in what was likely a binge-eating disorder, poring through bags of Goldfish and tubs of peanut butter ice cream. I was bored. Food fueled that boredom. I couldn’t cook anything except Kraft Mac n’ Cheese, so digging through the pantry was my easiest option. The only thing that stopped me was my mom finding out.

By eighth grade, I’d lost some of the weight. I started to say “No thank you” when grocery employees offered me fruit tarts. I ate less pizza on Friday nights. I thought a number on a scale meant I was fixed. Even so, my mental health was embarrassingly bad. I felt ugly. For the next two years, I struggled with the Big Question: should I start skipping meals? Social media had meddled in my understanding of how food is supposed to fuel you. I was scared of carbs. I was afraid of sugar, even in fruits. Though I tried to stay physically healthy, the mental toll it took on me is still slightly present now.

The summer before sophomore year, I discovered pilates. I thought it would fix me. I never considered therapy, which would’ve been the healthiest solution. Pilates was my therapy. I created a schedule for what workouts I would do each day. I layered ab workouts on top of them and neglected rest days. I obsessively looked for weight loss in my body, pinching my stomach, my arms, my thighs, my waist, and my collarbone, sucking in to see potential abs. I spiraled into a necessity to be skinny again, and so I downloaded a calorie app. For about ten minutes, that is. After tracking the calories in my Everything bagel and cream cheese, I sobbed. I knew my behavior wasn’t healthy. I realized that healthy wasn’t a number on a scale or the amount of calories in a serving size– it was a balance. I spent every waking hour worrying about my body. I hated how I felt mentally worse than I hated my body. I couldn’t do it anymore.

I do pilates for fun now. I skip moves that hurt. I skip moves to pet my dog. It doesn’t mean I’ll become fat, it means I can enjoy what I’m doing and be present. I’ve learned to cook delicious, colorful meals and bake my favorite desserts. I fuel my body with meals that have both carbs and protein. I enjoy what I call “sweet treat o-clock” at 9:00 p.m. some nights. I’ve built a balance within my life. A balance that means I can eat tasty foods that I know are helping my body rather than restricting meals entirely. A balance that means I don’t have to work out every day; I can be with my family or play with my dog instead.

I know that I’ll struggle with eating for the rest of my life. As women, it’s been ingrained in our minds. Even then, I’m so much happier than I was in middle school. I love my life, and, in turn, I’ve also learned to love myself.

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