Asking My Body For Forgiveness After Years of Bullying Her

I’ve been bullying my body for as long as I can remember. But it wasn’t until the pandemic that I asked it for forgiveness.

The four-month quarantine brought with it endless days and a need for routine. Each morning, my partner’s roommate dragged me away from my books and Digestive biscuits to exercise. We didn’t speak the same language—our conversations were a mishmash of hand gestures and 'como se dice'—but those workouts became a small window of light.

My workout buddy was tiny and tight, all muscles and determination. She’d shout encouragements, her voice ringing out like a coach at a bootcamp: “¡Vamos Amy, Métale!” Her energy pulled me forward, even when my limbs ached. But after each session, she’d grab at the soft flesh of her stomach, wrap herself in cellophane, and complain about being fat.

I recognized the self-loathing in her words because it echoed the ones I’d spoken to myself for years. I didn’t tell her that. I didn’t need to. It takes a body bully to know a bully.

In my broken Spanish, I’d try to reason with her. You take such good care of your body. I would kill for your abs. Why do you say such mean things to yourself? But I knew deep down it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how attractive others see you if you can’t see it yourself.

What I didn’t mention… was the obvious. At least five sizes bigger than her, I was the literal elephant in the room when she struggled to grab fistfuls of her inner thighs after yoga meditation. As we jumped up and down in spandex under the blooming Spanish summer heat, I silently told myself every terrible thing I imagined she thought about my body.

…

One morning, we queued up Yoga with Adriene’s ab-centered workout. We crunched, hovered, and stretched. I felt proud. After only three weeks of routine, my arms were strong enough to pull me through a chaturanga. Midway through the workout, Adriene asked us to put our hands on our tummies.

“So often we send messages of hate to our stomachs, but we don’t thank them for all the work they do,” she said.

She asked us to give gratitude to our stomachs. To rub our hands over them with nothing but thoughts of love. I’m not one for blanket statements, but this one stuck with me.

I realized, at that moment, I had never said a kind word to my belly. Not once in 30 years.

…

Our bodies follow us everywhere we go. They carry our minds and our histories, cradling us when no one else will. Yet, our families feel entitled to comment on them. Modern trends declare whether we should embrace our curves this year or smother them.

We were taught how to cover ourselves in middle school, when our bodies morphed into something more powerful. When adults looked at us as if we were dangerous. As if what was happening was disgusting.

We learned that to protect our bodies was to restrain them.

We learned what to hide with makeup and what to display for viewing pleasure. We stood naked in front of mirrors, crossing out the unacceptable bits with a permanent marker. We weren’t taught to love our bodies. We were taught to fight them.

…

I’ve been picking fights with my body since I saw Britney Spears dance on stage with a snake wrapped around her neck. At 11, I was all sticks and bones. By 13, my body had proven itself untrustworthy. I stuffed it with cotton like they told me to, but still left bloodstains behind, like a trail leading back to a place I wasn’t supposed to go.

In high school, I quit gymnastics before I even started. From the bleachers, I watched the strength and power emitting from the girls’ bodies as they flipped through the air. I admired their confidence, but I couldn’t shake the thought of how their legs quaked when they ran full speed. It was just science, I told myself—their bodies were strong, full of muscle. But I didn’t want to be seen in a leotard, didn’t want the crushed red velvet to cling to me during a time when my body changed on me each night.

I needed to hide the new hairs, the blood, the curves that weren’t supposed to be there according to the magazines and older girls. But still, they arrived.

…

The truth is, I’m tired of thinking about my body. I’ve been the bulimic girl, and I’ve been the recovered girl. I’ve offered advice, and I’ve shared my stories. I’m no longer trying to disappear into a ceramic vase of plastic flowers. I just want to be.

My body carried me through childhood scrapes and bruises. She read the awful words I carved into her burn book. She pulled me close when I was alone, and she picked herself up off the floor when I slipped up. She forgave me after years of abusing her.

Now, as she’s crossed the bridge into her 30s, I feel her changing again. I’ve accepted some of these rites of passage—drinking a glass of water with every cup of wine, adding another jar of slick cream to my medicine cabinet. But it’s the vessel I’m stuck on. My first instinct is still to grab onto these changes in the shower and make plans to run, to ban carbs, to add sit-ups every morning.

But as this new year blooms, I’m trying to listen to what she’s telling me.

Instead of jumping to conclusions and bullying her into a shape that doesn’t fit, I’m feeding her yoga. I’m serving her hot tea on weeknights, plump red bell peppers, and morning smoothies on the balcony. I’m making my goals one day at a time.

I think of Adriene and put my hands on the soft folds of my stomach.

I take a deep breath and whisper, thank you.