Where to Begin
Butterball.. There I said it! It only took me 38 years to say that out loud and not care. I mean I still care, but I care more about who I am and what I am, not a nickname that scarred me since childhood. I haven’t always been the confident beaming ray of sunshine you see. I struggled to have confidence and believe I was worthy of love, success, and joy… because I wasn’t perfect.
As a young kid, I just loved. I was happy, carefree and didn’t really care or know what the world had in store for me. I loved unconditionally and didn’t necessarily have fears or concerns about my cankles, wrist wrinkles, and cellulite. I rocked little sundresses (as long as they were tied super tight) and with my chubbiness, I smiled anyway.
I mean… as a three year old, who cared if mom took a photo of me in a bathtub and printed it at Kmart and put it in my scrapbook. Somewhere between the age of 4 and 14 I changed. I started to hear the voices that told me I wasn’t perfect. They said I wasn’t pretty enough, beautiful enough, skinny enough, tall enough, the list goes on and on.
Around this time, I started to eat my feelings. I mean let’s face it, food is delicious. And nothing feels more temporarily comforting, than shoving sugar and carbs down your mouth and temporarily feeling euphoric! I was also a child of the 90s, where there were starving children in Africa, so we had to finish our plate. And let’s just say, a midwestern household on a limited budget wasn’t exactly Whole Foods quality.
I was always involved in sports, I was an active kid. In the 90s you could still ride your bike around the entire town without parental supervision as long as you looked out for men in white vans. So I wasn’t just sitting around on my bum, I moved. I vividly remember one day showing up to swim team in a two piece swimsuit and being told I was too fat to wear that suit by a lifeguard. I still won but needless to say, I never wore that suit again.
My body began to change in 2nd or 3rd grade. I remember visiting my great step grandma in hospital, and even on her death bed, she called me chunky. She was literally the epitome of a wicked old witch… or at least that’s how I remember her. She could have been a super nice lady, but I will always just remember the wrinkly grey haired ghost calling me fat.
So let’s get to 8th grade. At the height of every girls favorite time in life…. junior high! I use the term favorite extremely loosely…. like as far opposite as favorite as possible. Girls are mean. Boys are dumb, and we are all at that super awkward state of life where you’re not sure the ugly duckling is actually going to blossom into something beautiful or if it’s going to just stay a strange little pimpled hormonal weirdo. It’s also when every girl thinks they know everything, but also knows nothing and when other people’s words and actions can be life changing. And this is when some jerk 5 years older decided it was a great idea to start calling me Butterball. Yep, I was a little chubby, yep I was not skinny, yep I was a little on the chunky side. But even if I was a 5000 pound turkey…. I still didn’t want (or deserve) to be called that.
Throughout high school and my 20s. I struggled with a positive body image. I knew those who were closest to me loved me regardless of my pant size. But society (and that jerkwad in the back of my mind) constantly reminded me that, even though I was good enough, smart enough, and Gosh darnit, people liked me (thank you SNL), that I was still not ENOUGH. Particularly that I wasn’t thin enough. I was a theater major in college, and loved to act. The main parts typically went to size 0 girls and Prince Charming men. Never to the girl in a size 16.
By the time I had graduated college in 2005, I had reached the highest number on the scale I had ever reached.. 220. I graduated in the top of my class and I was a well liked, popular, outgoing person. But I was not confident in my own skin. I worked out here and there, but I didn’t have a reign on my fitness or my nutrition. Externally I was happy, internally I was struggling.
In 2008 I got divorced. And I finally had a wake up call with myself. I had absolutely no excuses why I shouldn’t get in shape. I moved to a new state and didn’t really know anyone so I spend as much time as possible in a gym. I hired a trainer, started eating right, and I dove in 110%. I became a beast! I went from 220 lbs to 155 lbs. I felt phenomenal. I could do things I couldn’t even do in High School or grade school for that matter. (by the way…that president’s test sucks). I got down to 22% body fat and was still considered obese by the infamous charts. But I had muscle! Lots of muscle! So what happens next, Jerkwad #2 comes along and tells me I should start doing more cardio and stop lifting heavy because I’m beginning to look like the Incredible Hulk and manly. (He had his super heroes wrong… I was actually aiming more for Wonder Woman).
I spent 3 glorious years at 160. From 2010-2013 and then injury struck. It actually all started when I ran a half marathon in 2011. My hip dislocated or something happened to it. Running half marathons is hard. I’ve only ever done one and I don’t think my body will ever let me run another one (maybe!). By 2013 the pain in my hip became unbearable and I went to a chiropractor to “fix” it. During that fix, my left foot got broken. I spent the next two years alternating from crying, to trying to workout, to visiting every specialist and physical therapist possible trying to correct it. In the meantime, all my bad habits and poor nutrition, over indulgence in alcohol and fried Southern food made it’s way back to my body. Without my normal workout regimen, I couldn’t keep the weight off. And it all came back. Sad how it takes SO LONG for it to come off, but it seems to come back on overnight.
I went home for Christmas in December 2017 and we took family photos. As a photographer I take photos ALL THE TIME. And I have to constantly remind my clients how beautiful they look in their photos and how perfect their imperfections are and how amazing they look, even when they don’t think they are gorgeous. I could not do the same when I looked at myself in these photos. I had completely lost that badass muscular Hulk of a woman I worked so hard to become. All I could see was my outer self did not match my inner self, at all. So I decided to do something about it.
I decided first that 2018 was going to be the year I said if it’s not a Fuck Yes (sorry Mom) it’s a No. And I started to put myself first. I took before photos and yes… I actually posted those on Instagram and Facebook. All the cellulite, all the rolls, all that Butterball gloriousness. And you know what happened, people started cheering me on. People started telling me how brave I was and how motivating my journal was for them. By being vulnerable and transparent and baring it all, I was accepting who I am and where I am in life and becoming comfortable in my own skin. My weightloss journey became more of a health journey and a lifestyle change, than a focus on the number on the scale. It became more of a group effort too! They say it takes a village to raise a child… well it takes an entire community to help a person get fit!
I am nowhere near where I want to be in terms of the amount of muscle and removal of fat from my body, but I am damn proud of the progress I have made this year! Through this experience I have gained confidence in myself, learned to love myself regardless of what anyone says or thinks about me or my body. I have learned to love other’s imperfections and have more patience and have added to my list of good friends. I have had amazing conversations about health and fitness, mental wellness, and self care. I have taken better care of my body and mind in the last 9 months than I have in most of my 38 years. When thought of the idea of Beautiful Strength, it was to help promote body positivity and self love… and it grew into Human Positivity and love everyone! My journey has only just begun and I cannot wait to see where it takes me and the people I get to meet along the way!
