Me and my body
The below was written in response to Lisa Olivera’s Human Stuff substack newsletter, “Tending to the shame of stuckness.” It’ll help to read her post before reading mine, so that you have all of the context from her story.
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Your words this week spoke to me in SO many ways. (Many of your newsletters do, but this one hit a very tender spot that I've been intimately working through, myself).
I am on (mostly) the other side of a duo of eating disorders—orthorexia (hyperfixation on restriction and counting), and Anorexia athletica (excessive and compulsive exercise). Both in tandem did a number on me...or I guess, I did a number on myself through them. I never received a "formal" diagnosis of either, since my BMI wasn't technically low enough to be flagged by doctors. But a health coach I was seeing (because I wanted to lose MORE weight) made the very astute suggestion that eating 1100 calories per day, and biking for 45 mins 7 days a week, was likely not healthy. It took her telling me this to own-up to what I'd been doing...trying to take control of the only thing I felt like I COULD control: my body. I got help with the orthorexia through Intuitive Eating and therapy, but for the exercise part...I forced myself to stop cold turkey. I didn't trust that I could just pull-back on the intensity without compulsively still longing to do more, and more, and more.
This was almost two years ago. My body has changed a lot since then. Like you mentioned, it feels different. Like I am constantly having to relearn it, reintroduce myself to its shape, its texture, its appearance. I have a much healthier relationship to food now, but I still struggle with the relationship to my body. I WANT to start moving it again, in more supportive ways. I'll take up yoga for a few weeks, but then fall off. I'll start doing pushups and lifting weights, but then question my intent: am I trying to control my body again, or simply trying to move in a healthy way?
The only movement that I've been able to consistently maintain over these last two-ish years is walking. I walk with my dog around our neighborhood every morning. We stop to look at (and sniff) flowers. I listen to podcasts. Sometimes I have conversations with my dad, who passed away three-and-a-half years ago. Walking is good for me. But I also remember how powerful and energized I felt after biking, how the sweat was like a reminder that I put in the effort, that my body was strong. I want to feel that again, but I don't know how to tiptoe back into the waters instead of diving-in head first.
I want to be able to make my yoga practice stick. When I actually do it, I like the sense of ease, of flow, the focus on breathing. But there's a voice in my head that still says "it's not exercise unless you push it. Unless you sweat. Unless you're out of breath." I don't know if that's the voice that's keeping me from making yoga, or weights, or pushups, a routine, but there's a blocker somewhere.
Reading your story about being compassionate in these tender places feels like meeting another version of myself. Maybe it's not that I haven't been focusing on movement because I'm scared of it (although I am), but because I've been focusing on other things instead. My daughter. My marriage. Reading. Writing. Spirituality.
It's hard to hold space for the parts that wish I could do it all. To treat them with self-compassion instead of guilt, or shame.
Thank you for sharing your story, because it allows more people to share ours. Maybe we can hold space for each other.