I've Decided to Love the Process
I've decided to love the process.
Because about now, I am still disconnected with the possible results. I could care more about not fitting into clothes, or breathing properly or slamming onto door ends because I fail to estimate my broadness. But I don't.
Sure, I grow scared that my previously obese cousin is overtaking me in weight loss, and that my sister keeps touching my bulbous stomach when she was always the "fatter" one before. But I'm too happy for them to even consider aggressively overtaking them.
It somehow feels like motivating myself with results mean I need to be mad at myself a little. And I'm really not about that life. I choose kindness, baby.
So I've decided to love the process instead. Not that I will love waking up in the morning and eat nothing. Or exercising in a hot gym and constantly being forced to see my body's limitation. That. That. That hurts me quite a bit.
But in those mornings, my dad yells at me to wake up and go on and on until I actually go. In those mornings, my mom asks me what I should eat. My siblings take me home after the gym. And then they tell me I look a little slimmer when it doesn’t even feel like it. I think that’s kind. And something to love. The subtle support that doesn’t overwhelm you to paralysis analysis. That mild insult that makes you go at it one more time.
It’s about finding pockets to love in this long journey of maybe 100 pounds or more for me.
Maybe it’ll be about that dress later, tomorrow. Not now.
Because about now, I am still disconnected with the possible results. I could care more about not fitting into clothes, or breathing properly or slamming onto door ends because I fail to estimate my broadness. But I don't.
Sure, I grow scared that my previously obese cousin is overtaking me in weight loss, and that my sister keeps touching my bulbous stomach when she was always the "fatter" one before. But I'm too happy for them to even consider aggressively overtaking them.
It somehow feels like motivating myself with results mean I need to be mad at myself a little. And I'm really not about that life. I choose kindness, baby.
So I've decided to love the process instead. Not that I will love waking up in the morning and eat nothing. Or exercising in a hot gym and constantly being forced to see my body's limitation. That. That. That hurts me quite a bit.
But in those mornings, my dad yells at me to wake up and go on and on until I actually go. In those mornings, my mom asks me what I should eat. My siblings take me home after the gym. And then they tell me I look a little slimmer when it doesn’t even feel like it. I think that’s kind. And something to love. The subtle support that doesn’t overwhelm you to paralysis analysis. That mild insult that makes you go at it one more time.
It’s about finding pockets to love in this long journey of maybe 100 pounds or more for me.
Maybe it’ll be about that dress later, tomorrow. Not now.
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