I don't know how to talk about this, but I'm going to try.

Bodies, health, and other challenging topics...

This post is about disordered eating, bodies, changing sizes, fitness, and other things. It will not involve numbers, before/after photos, specific interventions, or other diet-culture things. I will do an “annotated” version of this post for paid subscribers with some of those things if you want to know more. I am also going to do a follow-up post with the things I’ve bought that have helped on my journey.

If this post is NOT for you, I get it. Take care of yourself. I understand.

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Sometimes, I think about the early years of my life before I realized I was fat and how much simpler they felt. I didn’t feel ashamed of riding my scooter up and down the street in a bathing suit, wearing shorts, or doing anything.

I didn’t think about my body much at all.

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That changed significantly at 18 when I intentionally focused on weight loss for the first time. I got attention for my body for the first time. It didn’t last because I had deeply unhealthy habits, but ever since that time, I have ping-ponged up and down the weight spectrum.

I could tell you a million stories about my body, how little I’ve eaten at some points of my life, and how much I’ve eaten in others. I could detail my complex workout routines from some times in my life and tell you how long I went without exercising at other points. I know how much I’ve weighed at every point in my life, and nearly every memory is tinged with how I felt about my body at the time.

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Almost ten years ago, after a particularly challenging time with my body and body image, I hired the first in a line of many coaches to help me shift my thinking around my body. I was introduced to Intuitive Eating, gentle movement, and loving my body.

I followed the advice I got from my coach, from books, and fat-positive spaces on the internet. I took a billion photos of myself to adjust to genuinely seeing my body and what it looks like. I followed fat influencers and found brands with extended sizing.

I read so many books! I did my best to unlearn everything I’d been taught about health, from debunking the BMI to understanding the ways that skinny privilege exists in society and learning about how racist beauty standards are. Intellectually, I understood it completely.

Emotionally, I wasn’t absorbing it. I tried countering my negative thoughts and beliefs with affirmations and challenging my self-loathing. I tried dressing myself in clothes that brought me joy and wearing whatever I wanted without worrying about it being “flattering.” I wore shorts, two-piece bathing suits, and a crop top (once, to a Lizzo show). I tried exercising without tracking anything and listening to my body when I needed or wanted rest.

I followed the advice of intuitive eating to the letter — I LOVE RULES! One of the tenets of the intuitive eating framework is giving yourself unconditional permission to eat anything without fear of weight gain or being “out of control.” The idea is that, eventually, you will learn to honor how your body feels and begin to crave foods that are nourishing. I thought my body would subsequently self-correct and stop craving things like Lucky Charms and oodles of tortellini. I didn’t ever reach that point.

When I asked the next coach I worked with about this, she encouraged me to stay the course. I asked about gentle nutrition and when I would make my way back to eating well. She reminded me that the goal was not to return to dieting or exercising — it was to be fully free of that line of thinking.

I didn’t feel anything like that. I missed my “old” life and body — the one full of green smoothies and yoga classes, a body that felt strong and capable and full of energy. No matter how many affirmations I wrote and said or how many new outfits I got, I was drowning in self-hatred. Seeing photos of myself could send me into a downward spiral.

After years of failing at “health,” I felt like I was failing at body acceptance, too.

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Last year, I made a doctor’s appointment because I was exhausted. When I’d started seeing this particular provider, I’d told her about my anti-diet beliefs and how I didn’t want to discuss my weight. She honored my wishes and didn’t once comment on my body.

Years before, I’d suffered from severe anemia (normal ferritin iron levels are between 30 and 300; MINE WAS FOUR!) and I was concerned that I was experiencing the same thing. Blood work revealed that my iron was okay-ish, but my blood sugar put me into a place where I was more likely to develop type-2 diabetes, which runs in my family. My white blood cell count was significantly elevated despite no evidence of an infection indicating inflammation.

My doctor suggested that I try a few supplements and interventions but asked me to come back a few weeks later to follow up. After trial and error, we settled on a diagnosis of chronic fatigue syndrome, which has no set treatment.

“The best way to reduce inflammation is to shift your diet,” my doctor said. “We don’t have to discuss it, but it’s worth looking into.”

Eventually, she referred me to an anti-diet dietician. She was lovely, but we had the same conversation every meeting: eating regularly, focusing on protein and fruits and vegetables, but not excluding any foods. I made some small shifts, but didn’t feel different.

My A1C continued to get higher, my white blood cell count continued to increase, and I felt worse and worse. I asked my doctor what she would recommend.

She asked if I was comfortable hearing her honest take. I said yes.

“I would consider trying some medication and lifestyle changes,” she said. “I know you’ve previously been reluctant to discuss those, so I will let you decide when you’re ready.”

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I brought it up in therapy later that week.

“I don’t love how I feel right now, but I don’t want to be obsessed with food and exercise again,” I said. “And I’ve worked so hard to undo all of my beliefs about diet culture. I feel like if I intentionally try to change my body, I will be betraying that work.”

She asked me what I thought I’d be betraying, exactly. I told her about all the times I had posted things on Instagram railing against diets and exercise, my healthy stock of “IDGAF ABOUT YOUR DIET SUSAN” stickers, and my bookshelf full of information about how weight didn’t equal health. I worried about what the people who I’d met in the supportive spaces online would think of me.

“But aren’t you betraying yourself by staying in a place that doesn’t feel good?”

I explained that I was afraid that I couldn’t tend to my body’s health without devolving into a full-blown eating disorder or learn how to incorporate movement into my life without it becoming obsessive.

“You’re not that person anymore,” she said. “Your toolbox is so much bigger now.”

We talked about black-and-white thinking and how nothing has to be that rigid. I could make my own way. I could learn to trust myself.

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Ultimately, I made choices for what I call my “old lady body.” I don’t want to have diabetes and have my world get smaller because I have to take care of myself aggressively. I don’t want to be uncomfortable when I am traveling. I want to walk the streets of unfamiliar cities and fly without discomfort. I like exercising and want it to feel more manageable and pleasant. I don’t want to be tired every day.

There are more reasons — superficial ones — ones I won’t list here. We live in a society that promotes certain ideals for bodies. I’m not unaffected. I like to shop and I want to feel good when I see photos of myself.

I knew what it felt like to feel stronger and more capable in my body. I wanted it back.

I still believe that health is possible at every size. But health was impossible for me at the size I was at and living my life the way I was.

The next time I went to the doctor, we decided on some interventions together.

I won’t be sharing details of my choices (at least not in this post — I’ll be posting a paid subscriber version of this with more information), but my body has changed this year. Yes, I am a smaller size. I have a normal A1C. I’m no longer exhausted all the time. It’s annoying as hell, but my mental health is markedly improved when I exercise regularly. I don’t feel obsessive. I feel strong. I have a solid support system that I can discuss these things with, including my doctor, my therapist, and a handful of friends.

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Deciding to change how I approach my health was complex. Despite fearing that I would regret my choice, I don’t feel guilty, or like I’m betraying anyone. I feel sad that I know there will be people who will hate this post and, as a result, will change their feelings about me. But what’s most important to me at this stage is feeling good about my choices when I look myself in the eye. I like feeling strong when I work out. I like seeing how much I’ve grown in knowing how to take care of myself without being obsessive or unkind to myself.

Ultimately, that’s the self-love I want: to worry less about what others think or certain paradigms demand and more about how it feels to exist in my body and life.

From my spin studio. I love it.