I have never hated my own body as much as I do today.

Typing the sentence above took a level of grit that I wasn’t sure I had in me. It can be difficult for people, but especially women, to admit their insecurities. But here we are. Now…where did we come from?

In the fall of 2020 I was in the best physical shape of my life. Having taken up running in the Spring I had reached my lowest body weight since college, ran a 9 minute mile (this was huge for me), and found muscles that I didn’t know existed. I looked great, and felt even better. And after a lifetime of struggling with my weight and what I know now was undiagnosed body dysmorphia, this was a peak time for me. And so was finding out that I was pregnant that September.

Before I had a chance to relax into my new healthy shape, a figure that I had only dreamed of since I was a preteen, I was suddenly thrust into a whole new journey with my body. One that combined existing in a pandemic with the awe I felt watching my body change as I created my perfect little girl, the incomparable joy of having my daughter, and my reckoning with the hormonal and physical changes that would transform my shape into something I didn’t recognize. New motherhood has a funny way of making a woman feel both empowered as we witness our sheer strength, and weak as we confront insecurities new and old. As I recovered from my labor and delivery, adjusted to my new normal, and tried not to startle every time I looked in the mirror, I promised myself over and over that I’d never be critical of my body again. And after 30 years of being my own worst critic, this was a monumental moment. This body had given me the most incredible gift I could have imagined. She grew and changed and created life, and I told myself that for the rest of time I would only speak to her with love and gratitude. And even though I truly did feel grateful for what my body had done, this was still a concept that only lasted approximately 38 minutes.

Just following the birth of my daughter in May of 2021 I had committed to exercising each day despite the crippling exhaustion and immense overwhelm that came with caring for a newborn. And I stuck to it for a time. Unfortunately, I fell victim to the trap that so many women do – feeling like putting myself first meant that I was putting my daughter last, which was simply unacceptable. I maintained a “self care is selfish” mentality throughout most of my daughter’s early years, and it left an indelible mark on my psyche. I have been a high functioning depressed person since 10^th grade. My mental health improved significantly after I took up running and finally achieved weight milestones that I never thought I’d hit, but postpartum my inability to strike a balance between my health and the health of my family impacted me physically and emotionally in ways I had never anticipated. As we rounded out a year since my daughter’s birth my debilitating depression resurfaced and rivaled the all-consuming love and adoration I had for her. She became the only thing I lived for. I no longer found joy in running or exercising, activities that had me thriving just a few short years earlier. Of course, this was never her fault. It came down to math: what I had in the tank minus what my family needed. Unfortunately, my mental health declined to a point that I only had 50% of myself to give, and my family required far more than that. So I gave them everything as I fell deeper and deeper into the red. Every ounce of my energy went toward being an engaged mother and providing my daughter with everything she could ever need, giving her every bit of me until there was nothing left. It was all I had motivation to do.

The house was tidy. My daughter was clean and fed and crushing every developmental milestone. I continued to perform at work the way I always had. I even earned my Master’s Degree in Psychology. I was told that motherhood “suited me.” But as everyone else’s needs were met, mine were forgotten. It happened organically. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly until I faced a near complete inability to get out of bed. And while I will never regret giving my girl a fulfilling, safe, and healthy childhood, I do regret losing me in the process. The shift is obvious looking back at photos now. And despite the support I had from family and friends, being lucky enough to work from home as a new mom, and having a strong understanding of how to get my body and mind back, I simply had no energy left for it. I was wholly unprepared to battle mental demons that turned out to be far more ferocious than any I’d faced before, trying to exist inside a postpartum world that was as brutally unforgiving as it was joyous. I was just so tired, and my body has yet to recover, even now.

Fast forward to today, almost exactly 6 years from when I first started my running journey in the Spring of 2020, and my body is something I don’t recognize or understand. I’m currently weighing in heavier than I was immediately following the birth of my daughter, and while that is incredibly distressing, it is the shape of my figure that is the most shocking to me. I hold weight differently than I ever have, which makes getting it off even more difficult. They say that the hormonal changes women feel during and after pregnancy are transformative, and I have learned the hard way that that is an understatement. My body responds differently to food and exercise now, making weight loss a confusing and frustrating process. Having always been proud of my extensive knowledge of nutrition and movement, everything I knew has been flipped on its head. And as anyone who has ever been on a health journey knows, a lack of immediate (or even relatively fast) results is deflating, making it far easier to give up altogether.

I give into cravings easily, pay significantly less attention, and tell myself that enjoying food is part of enjoying life. It’s a trick I play to convince myself that what I’m doing is fine, only to remember later that my satisfaction in life lessens each day when the number on the scale doesn’t go down. But the worst part of it all is how it impacts my relationships. It’s harder to be in the moment, spending more time inside my head than present in whatever room I’m in. It’s more difficult to take photos, balancing my love of documenting life with my loved ones against the harsh reality that every cell in my body is screaming at me to run from the camera. I delay trips and outings, telling myself that I’ll go once the weight comes off. I’ve avoided countless events because the anxiety of facing the critical eyes of others, strangers or not, outweighs any reward I could get from attending. Getting dressed each day is a complete and utter nightmare. I am suffering, my life worse in every area, and while getting healthy isn’t going to fix everything it’s certainly a start. A big one.

I’ve got an incredibly long road ahead of me, and I can’t honestly say that I’m ready to face it with full force. Truthfully, I’m not even sure why I wrote this blog post. Documenting that I’m sorta kinda starting another health journey? Motivation to focus more and try harder? Trying to dissect what’s happened to me and how to reverse it? All of the above? Your guess is as good as mine. But again…here we are.

I have never hated my own body as much as I do today. I suppose we’ll see what happens tomorrow.