Let’s Talk About Elephant in the Room.

Me.

Hi.  I am the elephant.

This summer, I felt all of my “healths” out of wack.

I was working too much and trying to juggle it all, hurting the health of my relationships, my home and especially myself.

Yes, there was definitely a bit of mental health that was thrown off, but my physical health? Let’s just say… I knew it wasn’t great.

I wasn’t even a year postpartum so, I compensated with things like, “During this phase of life, working out just isn’t going to happen.” “I can’t do it all and this is one thing I just wont do.”  “I am breast feeding and wrangling toddlers… I deserve this Starbucks/cookie(s)/wine.”

But then, all I wanted to wear for work was a dress because “pants just weren’t as comfortable.” Then, I found myself only buying “large” sized clothing- something I previously reserved for sweaters that I wanted to be oversized for style reasons. I told myself I was still a medium, but like in those sweaters, I would be more “comfortable” this way.  (Fun fact: I was no longer a medium.)

Then, in late September when getting ready for an event, I cried.

I was prepared with a few options from my closet— all black, knowing that was safe and they would be good for me and my “not great” body.

Not one of the outfits worked. Nothing fit. I looked like a giant in dolls clothing.

My weight has been a constant thought since as long as I can remember. I have written about it. I have quit things I loved because of it. I have listened to my mothers concerns about it. But, never once can I remember crying about it.

But, there I was. Crying.

Crushed by the perveribale weight of it all. A smart, capable career woman with an amazing husband and two sweet children. A caretaker and a creative. A woman with the confidence to speak in front of crowds and ask for quarter million dollar business. A woman with goals for more.  She was crying in a once loose, drop waist dress from Black House White Market… that was looking more like a cheerleaders uniform with four other rejects lay at her feet.

Without options and already running late, I made due… but, not without the help of a sweet friend and her collection of pashminas.  (Again, selecting black.)  I did my best to put on a happy face, but there were a few more tears that night. I had great friends tell me I was beautiful. Something that was so kind, but kind of made me even more upset.

These tears were not about vanity.

Okay. Okay. Yes. Maybe a few of them were. Because… it really sucks not to like how you look.

But, more came from a place of “How did it get this far? How did I lose control of this? When I clung so tightly to everything.  Trying my hardest to take care of everything.  I didn’t take care of myself.”

One friend saw my sadness and knew me well enough to know this wasn’t just about looking good.  “We are going for a walk” she demanded.

Outside the ballroom, she let me cry.  She let me be a little vain.  She let me voice my now growing fears about my health and major disappointment in myself.

I bit my upper lip, fighting more tears.  “This isn’t who I want to be,” I said shaking my head.

“This isn’t you,” she confirmed.

She knew it wasn’t about fitting into clothes or numbers on a scale.  It’s not even about loving myself at any size.

It was about not having the ability to walk into a celebration with a big smile on my face.  With confidence in the way I carry myself.  Caring for the vessel that carries my soul, my heart, and my dreams.   That is person that I am.  The person that I am to her and that she knows me to be to others.

She continued, “But, you have the awareness.  You have recognized it.  You know what you have to do.  Go do it.”

So, maybe the next time you see me or see a photo from this season, you will wonder.  It may even be a topic of conversation behind my back.  That’s okay.  In front of me you may dance around “the elephant in the room” telling me I “look great!” in hopes of trying to make me feel better or to be polite… or to avoid it all together.

Don’t.  We can talk about it.  In fact, let’s.

I have recognized it.

I know what I have to do.

And, I am doing it.

I will not go back to being the girl in tears.  I am not that girl.