I wish this wasn't so hard

Why can't I be neutral about my body?

A heads up: I discuss weight loss and gain in this post. If you aren’t interested, feel free to skip this one. <3

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Two months ago, I pulled out a bin of swimsuits ahead of a beach vacation. I cautiously picked out a couple to try on, the fluorescent lights in my bathroom almost taunting. This can be dangerous territory for me, looking at myself in the mirror.

The first one-piece I grabbed was gifted a year ago, but I didn't wear it then because I was heavily pregnant. I shimmy into it and check myself out. It highlights my stomach, which I've considered a problem area since I was a preteen wearing training bras. I throw it in the donate pile in my closet, which will likely never make it to Goodwill, if we're being honest, and move on to the next. By the end of the exercise, I'm emotionally exhausted. I settle on a familiar high-waisted two-piece and shove it in my suitcase.

The same tired, tempting thoughts echo inside of me. I could download MyFitnessPal and restrict my food again, measuring out teaspoons of coffee creamer and shaking my head when asked if I want seconds at the dinner table. Or I could try to commit to a cardio routine, refreshing my Apple Watch until it told me how many calories I'd burned. I once heard of a woman who ate in front of a mirror wearing only her underwear so she wouldn't forget her figure. At the time, the idea sounded interesting — smart, even.

Here is the ugly truth: I've disliked my body for as long as I've been able to perceive it. My loathing has evolved over the years. I learned about body positivity in my early 20s and embraced it; years later, I became fascinated with the concept of body neutrality, which involves accepting your body without needing to feel positively about it. I didn't need to pretend to love every perceived flaw — I could remain neutral, focusing on what my body can do rather than how it looks. Whether I found myself good-looking didn't have to be relevant. This was my understanding of the movement, anyway.

My arms were just arms, regardless of whether I found them flabby. My hips served their purpose, even if they had stretch marks. I liked the idea. I began discussing body neutrality in online posts, often adding the caveat that I was still figuring it out myself. Still, there was something unsaid: I craved smallness. It's important to me that you know I don't think intentional weight loss is inherently bad. How you take care of your body is none of my business. For me, though, it never feels entirely satisfactory, no matter how many pounds I shed. My pants size could always be smaller, and my scale reading could always be lower.

Around the time I started to dislike my arms.

I don’t know how I learned my husband’s weight, but I memorized it once I found out. I thought about flinging it at him like an accusation the next time he told me I looked good. “I’m bigger than you,” I’d say smugly. I don’t know what I expected him to do with this information, given that I knew deep down he wouldn’t care. But at some point, his supposed attraction began to feel like charity work. The next time I started a diet — because there’s always a next time — I’d remember what it felt like to borrow his jacket and have to squeeze my arms into it.

Even after all these years, I have to resist coming up with an explanation for how my body has changed over my adult life. I could drone on about pregnancy, stress, and mental health medications, or I could share that I’ve learned to live, and for me, that sometimes involves resisting the urge to weigh myself and overhaul my life based on the number. For years, I’ve been on a journey of viewing it all impartially, not feeling jealous when someone I know drops a clothing size or announces they’re taking a weight loss drug.

Still, even with all my knowledge, I became self-conscious around my husband, preferring to change when he wasn’t in the room and rolling my eyes at compliments. His eyes on me unlocked a level of vulnerability that made me uncomfortable. Kind words felt like put-downs as I searched his eyes for pity. I thought I knew him better than he knew himself, which meant I could sense his feelings weren’t genuine. My desire to shrink was so all-consuming that I couldn’t fathom a world where everyone didn’t feel the same.

I don't have to adore my body. I know this! I find comfort in it. It's been years since I felt pressure to love my imperfections. But there's a pervasive shame when I donate an expensive swimsuit or scrap a picture because my smile makes my face look too wide. I've been doing this for so long, and I envy all the people I know who seem to have a normal view of themselves. I want to be the person who wears the bikini anyway, who doesn't ask to see the photo before it's posted, but it feels unimaginable. And it's humiliating.

Why am I so embarrassed? I'm far from the only person to have a complicated view of self. I think it comes down to my black-and-white, pass/fail personality — I'm either killing it or I'm not. I've shared before that I strive to get an A+ in all aspects of life, silently rejoicing anytime I make my therapist laugh or share a point someone seems to find interesting in conversation. My on-again, off-again relationship with myself challenges that narrative, because I'm often doing just okay. There's an unavoidable gray area. I'm not a star student if getting 100% on the imaginary test means being unbothered by your body. Body neutrality sometimes feels foreign to me, and I have to learn to live with it. 

It's impossible to know how I'll treat myself in six months, a year, or five years. Much like my body fluctuates, my attitude shifts with each season. One day, I might approach the swimsuits without dread. I'll shrug if my least-favorite body parts are accentuated and move on without much thought. Or maybe I'll always feel the pull toward the most "flattering" option (read: slimming) and struggle to leave my comfort zone. I can only try to treat myself gently, even when I feel like I'm failing. That's all any of us can aim for.