Growing up.

When I was a kid, my self esteem was laughably low. I can say "laughably" now, because I've been through therapy. Before, though, it was depressing. Depressing to the point where I convinced a therapist to write me a note telling my apartment complex to allow me to have a cat (they still said no). Regardless of my long list of accomplishments, I never felt like I was enough.

Some of this stemmed from external (lack of) validation, but over time, I had rehearsed little tidbits confirming my inadequacy in my head often enough that the voice behind them was my own. So it didn't matter that I was a national qualifier for forensics, or that I was treasurer of thespians, or that I played junior varsity soccer. It didn't matter that I had a lead in the musical, or that I was taking oodles of AP classes, or that I was in the gifted program. Because even if those things were on my resume, so was the glaring mark against me--

My weight.

Really, my stomach. Even at the peak of my eating disorder, I never acquired the chiseled abdominal muscles, the inability to pinch an inch.

So, I look back. And through therapy, I "reparented" the child Me and told her why all of the things she did were good. That her accomplishments were meaningful, and she was meaningful. I AM meaningful.

Fast forward. Now I'm a super awesome mom who can sometimes manage to get the kids through the day AND unload the dishwasher (behold my amazingness). I manage to keep three dogs and four chickens alive on top of my tiny humans, and most days, I can even squeeze in a run.

I've got some good things going for me.

But then, the old voices can linger. After two children, the problemal abdominal on some days looks as if it is beyond the point of return. The reflection in the mirror can often resort to the same pose-- straight on, eyes focused intensely on my middle, a mouth turned to scorn.

But where are the AP classes? The JV Soccer team? The lead in the musical?

If I dare let my eyes travel, I see my strong arms. My collar bone stands triumphant, shouting my beauty for all to behold. My legs seem almost unfair to the rest of the world, with their strength and tone that comes almost effortlessly after a few training runs.

So the stomach remains. But it does not define me. It does not disqualify me. And on some days, it too can scream of its own accomplishment, having housed two amazing tiny humans, and will not cower in the retorts of what the world has determined as acceptable. Those days are not the norm-- but they are there.

And on those days, it's okay if the dishwasher doesn't get unloaded.