When I was growing up, I was ridiculed for being too thin – too imperfect by the world’s standards. But, in college, I came into my own (even if my tank top choices were questionable). And, for the first time, I loved the skin I was in.
When I was growing up, I was ridiculed for being too thin – too imperfect by the world’s standards. But, in college, I came into my own (even if my tank top choices were questionable). And, for the first time, I loved the skin I was in.
I am a mother. I have two young children. And every birthday party I attend feels like one giant lie.
To be honest, I am one who has always prided herself on control.
I maintained two very healthy pregnancies.
I lost the baby weight.
I prioritize exercise.
But, deep within, there is a secret: I have a toxic relationship with sugar. And – when no one is watching – I binge.
When I stare into the mirror, I see an inflated version of myself. Eleven pounds – to be exact – have been added. At times, I struggle to recognize this latest reflection of myself. She looks tired.
As I write this, it is approximately 10:42 p.m., and my body wants to run. I have eaten calories that need to be burned. And yet, I am readying myself for bed. Sleep trumps fitness and any neurotic weight concerns that I may have.
The children will need my energy and, more importantly, an agreeable mood tomorrow.