Relationship |riˈlāSHənˌSHip| (noun)
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the way in which two or more concepts, objects, or people are connected
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the state of being connected by blood
My soul and my body are connected. What’s more, they’re connected by blood — my blood. My consciousness, of course, is in my brain, and the blood that sings through my veins nurtures it.
It took me nearly a decade to realize that this thing my body and I have is called a relationship, and that we’ve been on quite a journey together.
Soon after my tenth birthday, my mother and I visited my pediatrician for the annual physical. At the end of the check-up, the doctor frowned, and pointed at some charts to show my mother what she was concerned about. At the time, I didn’t really understand the figures on the charts, or what BMI was, or what being at the 98th percentile meant. But three of the doctor’s words rang loud and clear: “She is overweight.” She pressed a pedometer into my hand — it was cold, blue, and sterile like everything in a hospital seems to be. She told me to count my steps everyday.
Now, I couldn’t (and can’t) blame my doctor for telling my parents and me that I was overweight. It’s her job to keep me informed about my health, and I’m still thankful that she did it. But from that moment on, I began to see my body as something that needed to be fixed. Edited. My body couldn’t be right just the way I was. I was a statistical anomaly.
I had always been a playful, imaginative, and active child. But I could no longer “play.” Everything I did, whether it was running around with my friends to taking a neighborhood walk with my family, was now exercise, and that made it seem like a cure. I couldn’t love it anymore. My body changed as I exercised more, too. My weight fluctuated, and stretch marks spread across my hips and slowly-forming breasts. I couldn’t love those either.
As I moved into middle school and high school, the social media phenomenon exploded. People were always taking photos to post on their Facebook pages. I wince when I think about them now, and how hyper-conscious I was of my appearance. Stomach sucked in, shoulders back, chin up. I was meticulously crafting an image of what I thought it was. Partners in a healthy relationship should never feel ashamed about their partner, as if they have to lie or omit details about each other in order to make their relationship more socially acceptable. I was a mess. I was deeply ashamed of my body; I was lying about what it was, and all because I wanted to project a version of it that didn’t really exist.
I’ve been doing that for years, and if I’m being honest, I still do sometimes, albeit subconsciously. It wasn’t until just last June, in the spring quarter of my freshman year of college, that I got a reality check and ended up in the hospital. I had neglected my body over the past few months, skipping meals and eventually refusing to feed it full ones, and I exercised multiple times a week for several hours, pushing my body until I was absolutely exhausted. I am so endlessly grateful that my malnutrition and habits didn’t lead to a serious eating disorder — but there was no doubt that my relationship with my body was unhealthy.
It’s taken much of my sophomore year to do so, but I’m slowly learning how my body works and strengthening my relationship with it. I posted a picture I was proud of on social media, and not only was my stomach sticking out, but it was plainly visible through the cutout holes on a beautiful white dress. I cook my own meals and eat all three. I exercise — dance, play sports, and walk with my friends — only when I am able and enthusiastic.
Though I’m no longer overweight, I’m still pudgy, still round-faced, still stretch-marked and still a size XL at Forever21 — still extra, still more. But I’m loving it for what it is. Every night before I go to sleep, I run my hands along the skin of my stomach and let them grace the curves of my hips and waist, thanking my body for helping me. Like in any good relationship, the more I nurture my partner — my body — the more it loves me back.