I have massive insecurities about my body. Like many people, these insecurities stem from lots of teasing/taunting from childhood into adulthood. I wish compliments permeated as well as insults. It doesn’t matter how exhaustive the time spent on my body/nutrition is; it all comes down to one thing: it’s never enough. I rarely view my reflection with affection.
I have gratitude though; yoga gave me a different angle. My mat became an extension of me. I’d gaze down at my body in movement, or holding a pose (asanas, yes?) and feel pride. But the self-doubt consumed me – the obsession with image disturbs me. And the search for perfection continues (or whatever my brain has deemed perfection).
Really, I love all bodies; all sizes from the super skinny to the larger scaled. I have a different point of what I like for myself. My most wanted figure is athletic, tiny chested, with an ass that says, “I did 100 squats for breakfast.” And the journey toward that has been long, man. Mostly KO’d by disastrous affairs with prosecco, and a self-medicated relationship with chocolate.
We’re all beautiful. I love every single person for what defines them, physically and intellectually. I just wish I gave myself the same love.