I feel a fire in my belly and in my heart. This post is something deeply personal … perhaps almost as personal as I could get with you. And it’s something I have not ever shared publicly. At least, not in this way…

 

Nearly 12 years ago, I was convinced that when I decided to have life-altering surgery, I was choosing my body and health—even though it meant drastically distorting it.

 

…Even though it meant malabsorption of nutrients.

 

The weight loss surgery helped with some of what it promised … but the results weren’t something I couldn’t have (and had) done on my own.

 

…It certainly didn’t provide what I grasped onto, with slipping hope, that it would save my then-marriage … that somehow, I would finally be able to prove that I was enough—good enough, important enough, attractive enough, fit enough—to be made a priority, to stay married to, to be loved.

 

I was willing to literally squeeze/dismember part of myself to fit into others’ ideas of what wellness, worth, and beauty look like.

 

The truth is, for me, the decision to have weight loss surgery was entirely based on deep-rooted shame and fear.

Shame that I was fat.

Fear that I could never be valued because of that.

The very real, looming threats that vows would be broken if I didn’t lose the weight.

 

I wanted my body to morph into something that cried worthiness. As if my shape and size of my belly alone determined whether I was lovable or not.

 

There have been many medical and health consequences as a result of this decision—for the past decade or so, this has included vomiting about 70% of the time I eat, discomfort, pain, and continued shame.

 

Shame because the surgery wasn’t successful (it has an 80% failure rate) and shame that I was still fat.

 

Shame of potentially disappointing others when I had lost weight: after all, I experienced an onslaught of people suddenly telling me they were proud of me, that I was beautiful, that I was inspiring and strong. (This is something that really needs to be looked at in our society: how we put so much value and good cheer in others when they lose weight, but not when they’re just the way they are.) 

 

Shame that I even had the surgery to begin with. 

 

And, eventually, shame that I harmed my body even more by having the surgery and being physically restricted to be truly healthy as a result.

 

As I write this, I feel surging anger, sadness, grief: Sadness that I didn’t believe in my value; compassion that I was trying to hold onto something that was never nourishing to my spirit; grief that the little kid in me still felt she just wasn’t important enough. (She is.); anger around societal ideas of what health, strength, vibrance, and beauty look like. Because … they’re ridiculous.

 

We don’t need to augment our bodies and cut ourselves off from ourselves to prove our worth.

 

In a few days, I’m choosing my body. ME. Not society. Not any other person.

 

I’ll have surgery again, but this time to remove the device that has long perpetuated and represented sticky shame.

 

The literal piece of equipment installed in my body, based on coercion, that immersed me further into the depths of believing I simply wasn’t enough, will be gone.

 

This body is mine. I choose her.

 

She belongs to me and to the land.

 

This body matters.

I matter.

My life and my health matter—at any size.

I can be radiant AND fat.

Healthy AND big.

Beautiful—just as I am.

 

This body is not to be denigrated.

She is not to be shamed.

She is not to be harmed in any way.

She has created and given life.

She has survived abuse.

She carries me.
She loves me.

And I love her.

 

As I evict the last vestibules of shame from my body, as I consciously choose my body, I share this with you so that YOU can feel your worth, too—no matter your size, shape, color, whatever.

 

Nothing and no one has permission to occupy you.

 

Shame does not belong in the house of your body.

 

You are beautiful. You are worthy. You are radiant.