It wasn’t that long ago that someone made fun of my breasts.

They’d stolen a photo of me, and posted it online with the caption of not settling for low-hanging fruit.

Let’s be clear. I’m more wigged out by someone stealing one of my photos and re-posting it than I am about whether or not they, in particular, are interested in seeing my boobs.

Earlier in the week, I asked “Why weight“, and that speaks to my health and fitness goals; getting my BMI under control for the sake of my Sleep Apnea. Gearing up to trek a 65k next month.

But how do you just love the skin your in (for lack of a better kitchy marketing slogan)?

I’ve reiterated on more than one account that while I’ve worked my ass off (literally) at the gym, no one is commenting on my butt, my thighs, my calves. No one is noticing that which I’ve worked so hard on while they’re busy distracted by my flabby belly, and saggy breasts. No one is thinking, my gracious, look at how defined her forearms are when I’m wearing a bikini and my midsection is covering my panty line.

Hark, I said “panty line”. Feel awkward yet?

Beyonce reportedly said that she loves her “pooch”; the area that will remain loose here forward since the birth of her children. Women cheered.

I understand it. We feel validated when women on pedestals, the ones who are idolized for looks and grace, come down to our impoverished level of self-worth and image. We feel justified when supermodels wash off the make up; when celebrities step out in sweat pants. We revel when someone else is raw, and real, and authentic, and admit to using spanx under their dresses. Suddenly, we are so less alone.

The art of feeling good naked is just to feel good naked. Ever try it? Ever try just waltzing around the house without a bra? How about without a bra, or a shirt? Ooo, dangerous! Maybe try skinny dipping. Even in your own back yard. Let the water roll off your wriggles, and as you giggle, you’ll start to see that laugh lines eclipse stretch marks, and the only person really, and truly worrying about what your skin looks like on you, is you. The rest of the world, the ones who knows you best, the ones who pass you on the street, are not staring at your  midsection. They’re looking at your smile. And if that’s what you’re wearing, you’re already ten steps ahead of the game than to admitting you’re okay with your “pooch”.

I’ve remarked on several occasions how body love is an ever-long lesson, and I’m a perpetual student in the scholastic of learning to love yourself. I work in an industry where I’ve been scrutinized, chewed up, bullied. The story of a person mocking my breasts is just one in an ocean of insults. Some days I feel amazing in my skin. Other days, I look in the mirror, and for a second I cringe. But only for a moment.

I won’t tell you that “they’re just jealous of you”. I won’t tell you that it won’t hurt. But I will tell you that if you sprinkle confidence in with the Downy, perhaps you’ll start wearing more than just their expectations of you. You’ll start to wear what you expect of yourself – a chance to just be happy with all of your 2000 parts.

Eat the damn carbs, hunny. The best piece of health and fitness and self-love advice I can give you is to actually treat your temple like it really does have a goddess living in it. And that woman, that Queen, that human is you. You’re allowed to have a second cookie, a slice of pizza, a glass of wine. Literally, literally every doctor, every health guru, every lifestyle coach will reiterate the same message – everything in moderation. Love you, love your body, love the person living in it. It’ll act as emotional armour when you set out the door. It’ll give you something to lean on when your insecurities threaten to boil over the top. Loving you, trusting your instincts, treating yourself with the respect you so richly deserve will ensure your conquer. Should a barb strike, you’ll be ready.

And trust me on the walking around naked thing. Let freedom reign.

— c ☆