The first time I hated my body I was 12. I was in my friend Sarah’s bedroom and 5 girls including me were hanging out in our swim suits. It was summer and we just walked up from the lake. At that age, we rarely wore more than a swimsuit in the summer, only flip flops or jelly shoes, no T-shirt or shorts. We roamed around in packs, bare legged up to our hips, and innocently unaware that anyone would notice or care. We certainly didn’t.

A sense of our bodies and how they should look came crashing into us one day. I don’t know how or why. But I, for one, have never been the same. 

One friend pinched the skin above her bikini bottoms and commented, “Ugh, I’m sooooo fat!” She flopped her body across the bed and opened a Cosmopolitan magazine. The girl’s comment was more like repeating a slogan than an actual observation that had come from her, a way to fit in and feel older than 12. This is how older girls stand, with their hands on their hips. And this is how older girls talk, as they eye and pinch flesh from their bodies. And I want to be an older girl. 

Still, the words struck me. I looked down at my own stomach, and for the first time noticed how the skin rolled over itself where the edge of my suit met my body. Heat spread across the back of my neck as I realized this was not attractive - I should have curves going inward towards my hips, and the skin on my belly should be taught and defined, not wrinkled or slouched when I sit down. In a matter of seconds, my body, that I had never really given much attention, seemed impossibly full of flaws and ugliness. How could it be so obvious? Yet all this time I didn’t know?

Then we started comparing our butts - big was ok, but not too big, and the shape mattered. It was good for your butt to stick out a little. I turned my hips so my back faced the mirror and I twisted my head sideways to look over my shoulder. I had no idea how to examine my body, now so obviously in need of improvement. We continued like monkeys combing through one another’s fur for fleas. We raked through each and every body part in order to give it an assessment, from thick ankles to uneven breasts to boney collar bones. Nothing was off limits and everything could be better. 

From that day, my body has never been my friend. I could lie and say I loved it and loved myself. But truthfully, once under the microscope, I never recovered. Even parts of my body that I liked became comparisons to the body parts on someone else, so there was always something to change, always something to mold and manipulate. The real detriment was when I realized my body could be something to control. By comparing and cutting myself down, I had just given myself the continual opportunity to never be enough, and always strive for more, in appearance, and in life. 

So it makes sense that when I got divorced, I punished my body first. To cope, I looked to the first thing I knew how to control - my body. Maybe I could make myself healthier, thinner, more in shape, more attractive. I used my body as the excuse, and a way to feed myself the story of not being enough. If my body were different, my husband wouldn’t have left.

This works to a point - there is nothing wrong with healthy eating and regular exercise. There is nothing wrong with getting in shape, and changing your lifestyle. There is nothing wrong with creating strength in the body, and therefore strength in the mind. But, the old wounds need to be healed. The story from childhood of not being good enough, not being pretty enough, not being enough, has to be unraveled. 

My friend Katie invited me to an outdoor bootcamp shortly after I was separated. I joined her begrudgingly, just for something to take my mind off. It turns out, the bootcamp was the best decision I made. First, the women were incredible - and not because they had perfect bodies, but because they didn’t. Because they were there for themselves and not to prove something to someone else. They were there to heal from the bullshit that we tell ourselves as women. I looked at each of them in awe and thought, How can I get there? How can I be more like them?

The first week I leaped through tires and bear-crawled my body up hills. I sprinted down the road at the first shout from our instructor’s whistle and ran past everyone off the starting line. I was mad. And bootcamp is where I left nothing behind. Those women saw me. They saw my emotions all bleeding out. I ran, jumped, and worked as if my life depended on it. When we finished I was exhausted, but I wasn’t sad. The most amazing part was, I didn’t feel sorry for myself. 

I kept going, and my body got a lot stronger. I developed arm muscles and realized they had been there all along - just waiting to be woken up. I saw abdominal muscles and obliques pop out from under my skin. The deep valley underneath my belly button that had been there since childbirth slowly cinched itself back together. Bootcamp made my body strong. And in turn, bootcamp made my soul strong. 

The same way bootcamp taught me I was strong, yoga taught me how to love myself. Slowly, and without intention, through poses, I saw myself with compassion. I didn’t hit my mat with a goal to sweat or strain. I came to class open and ready to receive. I paused and breathed. I bent over and cried. I fell out of balance poses and then returned to them. I learned about my resilience. I learned about my capacity to trust. Even though the words had been said a million times before, for the first time, I actually heard them -

“Be kind to yourself. Listen to your body. Allow yourself rest. Allow yourself forgiveness. “

The compassionate words of yoga philosophy washed over me and touched my cells. I realized how badly I had been treating myself. The change didn’t happen overnight, but through continued practice, each time I showed up to class, the loving wisdom penetrated a little more - trusting my body. Listening instead of persisting. 

I do believe the body can be a catalyst for healing, especially if your body has been a source of pain or abuse. When we punish the body, we punish our Self. And this can only be determined through our intention. The act of eating ice cream is not unhealthy, but the story behind it is. Running is not unhealthy, but the story behind it is. Our bodies will oblige us. What are we telling them?

The same way my body brought me self-judgment and comparison as a teenager, my body has brought me insight and healing after my divorce. A lot of it is probably age and experience. As we get older and wiser, we become better at seeing beauty in our bodies as they are. We become better at seeing beauty in ourselves - as we are. My body as an entry point to self-compassion has also become an entry point to a deepened spirituality. In trusting my body, I also trust in the Universe, and in a higher power. In trusting my body, I also trust in myself. Muscles, sprints, and poses aside, my body has given me the gift of self-acceptance. As I am, in both physical appearance and in life circumstance, I am forever grateful for my body.