I experienced a true miracle today: I discovered that I love my body.
Really? you ask. A miracle? Let me explain.
I am a firm believer that the greatest miracle I can experience is a change of heart, because it involves the wills of two individuals--God's and my own. God can command the elements and they will obey, but He will not allow His will to supersede our own. Therefore, in order for our hearts to change, we have to be willing to be changed. Not only that, but when our hearts are truly changed, then we become open to the multitude of miracles awaiting us on the other side of that change.
But I was not willing. For a very long time.
AND...I didn't even know it.
But last week as I was driving around town, I had this overwhelming realization hit me--I hated my body. Hated. And I had hated it since I was 10 years old.
Body-image memories flooded me. I specifically remembered listening to other girls talk in jr. high and high school about their body flaws, and how they needed to lose weight or inches. I hated hearing that kind of talk. I resolved never to talk about my body that way. And I think I've done pretty well at keeping that resolve. But the emotions that drive that kind of talk still lurked in my psyche.
I was pretty, but I was not skinny. (My later high school and college years were my best in terms of body-image. That was when I was at my slimmest. It's amazing what I thought of as "not skinny" at the time, and then to look back and see exactly how slim I was!) Maybe the worst part of it all was that I never acknowledged those negative feelings. They got stuffed and buried, but still affected my every day experience.
But once I realized what was going on, I knew I could do something about it. I cried. I spoke the words that I had been too afraid to speak for more than 30 years. And I prayed. I poured my heart out to God, sobbing that I knew my feelings were not what I wanted, but they were my experience. I wanted a different experience. Where there had been hate, I wanted to feel love. I wanted my heart to be healed, and to be capable of loving, even loving myself. (Side note...is that why moms are so notoriously slow to self-care? Because we don't love ourselves? Something to ponder, I guess.)
I did some hard work that day, identifying specific toxic emotions that I needed to let go, and rewriting the self-talk that runs through my head. I felt a great deal of relief the next morning. But today when I woke up, I recognized a new feeling. I felt actual love for my body. More than gratitude, more than appreciation for the experiences it has given me. I love it. And that love has nothing to do with how it looks. My body doesn't look any different today than it did last week. But loving something for it's outward appearance isn't really love, anyway. I don't love my kids or my husband because they are good-looking. I love them because they are mine. They bring joy and happiness to my soul and to my life. They are my greatest treasures, imperfections and all. They are beautiful to me because I love them. And the more I serve them, the more my love for them grows.
Recognizing that love for my body works in the same way opens up a world of miraculous possibilities that I am so excited for.
Last year, on December 31, I wrote out a lengthy vision statement about what I wanted my experience in my physical body to be like (and there wasn't a single number associated with that positive experience). I also decided on a mantra to say to myself, to remind me of what I am desiring, what I am asking for: I am experiencing miracles of health and healing.
And I am.
Really? you ask. A miracle? Let me explain.
I am a firm believer that the greatest miracle I can experience is a change of heart, because it involves the wills of two individuals--God's and my own. God can command the elements and they will obey, but He will not allow His will to supersede our own. Therefore, in order for our hearts to change, we have to be willing to be changed. Not only that, but when our hearts are truly changed, then we become open to the multitude of miracles awaiting us on the other side of that change.
But I was not willing. For a very long time.
AND...I didn't even know it.
But last week as I was driving around town, I had this overwhelming realization hit me--I hated my body. Hated. And I had hated it since I was 10 years old.
Body-image memories flooded me. I specifically remembered listening to other girls talk in jr. high and high school about their body flaws, and how they needed to lose weight or inches. I hated hearing that kind of talk. I resolved never to talk about my body that way. And I think I've done pretty well at keeping that resolve. But the emotions that drive that kind of talk still lurked in my psyche.
I was pretty, but I was not skinny. (My later high school and college years were my best in terms of body-image. That was when I was at my slimmest. It's amazing what I thought of as "not skinny" at the time, and then to look back and see exactly how slim I was!) Maybe the worst part of it all was that I never acknowledged those negative feelings. They got stuffed and buried, but still affected my every day experience.
But once I realized what was going on, I knew I could do something about it. I cried. I spoke the words that I had been too afraid to speak for more than 30 years. And I prayed. I poured my heart out to God, sobbing that I knew my feelings were not what I wanted, but they were my experience. I wanted a different experience. Where there had been hate, I wanted to feel love. I wanted my heart to be healed, and to be capable of loving, even loving myself. (Side note...is that why moms are so notoriously slow to self-care? Because we don't love ourselves? Something to ponder, I guess.)
I did some hard work that day, identifying specific toxic emotions that I needed to let go, and rewriting the self-talk that runs through my head. I felt a great deal of relief the next morning. But today when I woke up, I recognized a new feeling. I felt actual love for my body. More than gratitude, more than appreciation for the experiences it has given me. I love it. And that love has nothing to do with how it looks. My body doesn't look any different today than it did last week. But loving something for it's outward appearance isn't really love, anyway. I don't love my kids or my husband because they are good-looking. I love them because they are mine. They bring joy and happiness to my soul and to my life. They are my greatest treasures, imperfections and all. They are beautiful to me because I love them. And the more I serve them, the more my love for them grows.
Recognizing that love for my body works in the same way opens up a world of miraculous possibilities that I am so excited for.
Last year, on December 31, I wrote out a lengthy vision statement about what I wanted my experience in my physical body to be like (and there wasn't a single number associated with that positive experience). I also decided on a mantra to say to myself, to remind me of what I am desiring, what I am asking for: I am experiencing miracles of health and healing.
And I am.
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