scribblechic

I am not athletic.  In my mind athletic women are fearless, confident, unabashed and in control.  I am none of these.

My first true commitment to fitness was written on my heart.  When my daughter was an infant I realized old ghosts of insecurity haunted my body.  I wanted to create a stronger, more capable example for my daughter to learn from.  Diets, medicating myself with food, and body shame were concepts I endeavored to face honestly and overcome.  Old tapes of “not good enough” needed to be unwound and burned.

I began by learning how to eat.  I remember the embarrassment that followed me to my first Weight Watchers meeting.  The chairs felt like blinking banners highlighting my failure publicly.  I decided to own my failure and create an opportunity for success.  I kept my meetings faithfully and embraced a simple truth: I was an adult without any true understanding of what I was eating.  With each success I felt stronger.  Still each set back brought the taunting voices of criticism.  When my body plateaued over balanced meals I turned to a new challenge.

My first trip to the gym I thought I would hyperventilate at the threshold of the fitness room; my athletic shoes heavy with the truth of my fear of public failure.  Determined to meet my new challenge empowered by the concept of ownership I silently invited strangers to become my witnesses on this new journey.  Individual efforts on isolated pieces of equipment crescendoed into a place in a classroom community, sweating and struggling together among my witnesses.  I became proud of my body and I respected my newfound strength with every new challenge.

I have slipped out of practice these past two years.  Excuses replaced effort and my spirit has been heavy for the loss.  I am slowly working to substitute public commitment with private endeavors; creating space and time within the walls of my home for fitness.  My new challenge is to honor my truth and commit to my fitness needs as my own witness.