Yesterday, as I was changing in my gym locker room, I caught out of the corner of my eye the scale that stands watch in the room. I smiled as I realized that it’s been well over a year since I weighed my self. In fact, I can’t remember when the last time was.
Two days after I turned 15, a boy at church made an unkind comment about my weight. I stopped eating for almost a year. Even after I started eating again, I spent a long time unlearning the harmful messages that I had internalized for years, that made it possible for one comment to finally break me.
On my 35th birthday, I threw my scale into a dumpster, and I bought my self and my family a dining room table that was exactly what I wanted, around which we could nurture our selves and laugh and cry and witness each other and accept each other.
In a few weeks, I turn 38. I now weigh two little girls who make me laugh all the time. I weigh 11 years of marriage. I weigh living in another country, where I found my self. I weigh reading books that make my brain light up. I weigh coffee in the white mug that fits perfectly in my hands in the mornings. I weigh walks in my neighborhood, stopping to take pictures of flowers. I weigh girl friends who love me and whom I love back. I weigh quotes from saints that I’ve copied down and pinned to a board that hangs above my desk. I weigh so many things, that I’ve put away in my being to keep for warmth and nourishment and happiness. I am full, and it is enough. Not too much, not too little. It is just right. I am just right.