Starting over is not failing: the battle of the bulge

So, there are times in life when it feels like you fight the same battles over and over. For one reason, or another, you keep finding yourself at square one. You start to question the point of starting over, time after time. 

I could list any number of battles that I have started, lost, and begun again. The most obvious is always my fitness battle. 

From as early as I can remember, my mom was always dieting or trying to find the magic bullet for weight loss. She popped pills, bought devices, joined gyms, and convinced herself that smoking to curb her appetite was the lesser of two evils.

I also remember that from an early age, I worried about my weight, and always hated how thick and heavy my legs and thighs looked. I was already starting to feel uncomfortable in shorts as early as sixth grade. In junior high, I dreaded gym class--especially after our fitness evaluation when I was declared 15 pounds over my ideal body weight. At that point, I weighed in at a hefty 115 pounds.

At age 45, I would still give just about anything to weigh 115 pounds--or even 125! 

I hung steady with my weight for most of my teen years, but depression and problems at home led me way beyond the freshman fifteen during my first year in college. By the time my lackluster grades were in for the spring semester, I was a good forty pounds heavier. 

It was time to take aggressive action. During the year I was forced to sit out of college, I did aerobics with Denise Austin for about two hours a day, and ate just enough to get by. I lost the weight, but I wouldn't say I did it in a healthy way, and I didn't enjoy it. 

This time, I kept the weight monster at bay for about three years. I went back to school, and the busy-ness of college life helped me maintain. But once again, a gym class reared its ugly head and defined me as overweight based on a caliper test. At the time, I was running almost everyday, and taking ballet and dance several times a week. I wasn't anything but inactive. And still, I couldn't defeat the weight monster. 

About two years after college graduation, I found myself staring at the waistline of a white dress, and a scale that told me I had bounced backwards another 20 or so pounds. Time to do battle again. 

I never quite won that time. And there have been plenty of other forays into this battle besides. Looking back, I would say that I have never actually won. 

I know I'm not alone. I know I'm not the only person who has looked in the mirror, and felt less because I weigh more. I know that I am not the only one who has pointed my toes while holding my leg up in the air and imagined that my thighs could truly be the size they appear in "aerial view." I know that I am not the only one who grew up being warned about my weight, while being served soda and fried foods. 

And I know that I am not the only one who starts battling, then somehow backslides every time. I know I'm not the only one who wonders how it's worth it to keep starting over. 

I don't know the answer for everyone. I do, however, believe that as with anything in life, you can never win if you don't keep fighting. There is no goal you can accomplish if you don't fight for it. And that is true of everything in life, not just weight loss and management. 

I'm smarter, wiser and stronger than I used to be. I recognize the harm in defining ourselves by the shape of our bodies. I recognize the harm it does to ourselves, and our children. I recognize the powerful message we send to our kids that this failure somehow makes us universal failures. 

I would never want my daughter to look at herself and think the things I thought as a young girl. There was never any adult who encouraged me to believe that I could be or do anything. There was never any adult who tried to counter the negative messages I had received about body image and health. I pay for those deficits every day. The idea of body image and weight as a defining trait was so deeply instilled in me, that I have to be very conscious about the way I speak about myself in my home. I have tried to outlaw the word fat when discussing anything but trimming meat. I have tried to redirect comments about my daughter's appearance, and reinforce her strength, her health and her exuberance. 

For myself, I keep fighting the fight, because if I don't, I am not just giving up on the battle to lose weight and be healthy, I am giving up on myself, and worse, my family. I know being overweight is unhealthy. I know that it can decrease my lifespan, and also impact my quality of life. 

I keep trying, because if I don't, I worry that I am accepting defeat, and I have fought through and survived too many things to accept defeat--even when I feel my lowest. 

There is no shame in starting over a dozen times. Or a hundred. Or a thousand. There is no shame in recognizing that some battles are harder than others, and we need help to fight them. Starting over just means not giving up. 

It's not about a caliper test or a gym class assessment. It's not about a white dress or a pair of jeans in the closet. It's not about how big or little the effort. It's about valuing your life and who you want to be over winning the first time. 

We can be heroes: Lassoing the truth of our scars

So, not unlike a lot of women, I find myself smitten this summer. I am smitten with a comic book hero. I am quietly crushing on Wonder Woman. I even covet one of the really fancy action figures with the deeply jewel-toned armor just like Gal Gadot sports in the movie. 

How can a comic book hero capture the heart of a middle-aged woman? I think it might be scar-tissue. 

Attention to detail is at least part of what makes the Wonder Woman back story so appealing. She is an Amazon--part of an all female warrior race. And warriors are survivors. In Patty Jenkins' film version of the Wonder Woman origin story, one of the details viewers cannot help but notice is that the Amazon warriors have scars. The scars make them no less beautiful, and they are anything but a sign of weakness. 

These scarred women have fought battles, and they have survived. They have survived deep wounds. They have suffered. They have become even stronger and more determined because of their battles. At the same time, they have become protective and guarded. Through the battles they have fought, they have learned to be wary of letting anyone in from the outside.

We don't all have the advantage of being a demigoddess, with super human powers, or the advantage of being trained by Amazonian warriors to do battle. And not all of us have visible scars. That doesn't mean we aren't survivors, and it doesn't mean we aren't warriors. 

I'm sure it's only natural for those of us who have sustained significant and wounds and scars to be drawn to each other. We probably share many coping skills, and we interact with people in similar ways. Even so, I often wonder if somehow, we are drawn into friendships with each other because we can somehow sense the scars that other people don't see. 

Life can leave some pretty significant "marks." Whether they come from being a child of divorce, abuse, or estrangement, or the victim of sexual assault or other violence, many of us have to find ways to battle demons both head on, and when we don't always expect it. 

Some of the coping mechanisms we develop are healthy. Others are not. Sometimes, we are surprised by triggers that we feel shouldn't so easily catch us off guard, so many years down the road. We form relationships and friendships based on what feels familiar and safe. And sometimes, without looking, we find each other and remind each other that we are not alone with our scars. 

With just a few words or even mannerisms, we unwittingly reveal our shared battles, wounds and scars. We become like old soldiers, reuniting over drinks at a fireside. We trade stories of which wounds still give us trouble. We talk about random events that trigger the memories we can't ever bury deeply enough. 

Many times, I believe we're not even really trying to hide our scars from other people so much as we might be trying to hide them from ourselves. I know that for myself, I don't mind if people discover my scars, I just mind the feeling of burdening them with what I perceive as the weakness of still treating old wounds. 

At the end of the day, I am sure that there are more of us with scars--the symbols of survival and doing battle--than we imagine. I welcome my fellow warriors with open arms, but also with sorrow. The sorrow comes from knowing that in spite of time, distance, and whatever salves we find to treat our wounds, some never truly heal, and  some battles roll on forever, touching everyone and everything we love in some way. 

Ultimately, my fellow warriors, know that my scarred soul somehow sees yours, even before we speak the words, and trade our secrets and stories. And remember, we only become super heroes when people find out what battles we have won, not simply because of our power.