I love my body.

I love its lithe gracefulness. I love its sturdy strength. I love its every jot and tittle, every scar and blemish.

I love the scar on my left index finger, where I sliced it with a brand-new knife. I can still see the faint stitch marks running perpendicular to the white scar. I called my finger Stitchy McFrankenfinger while it was healing.

I love the constellation of moles scattered on my arms. My right arm houses Orion, while Cassiopeia lives on my left. I’ve tried counting them, but it’s difficult to see the back part of my arms, despite my hypermobility. My best guess is somewhere around 50.

I love my hair, with its soft waves, and rich dark chocolate hues. I even love the silver that crowns my face, though it’s been purple for the last year. I love that my body knew that if it HAD to go prematurely gray, that it better do so in the most fashionable way possible. I have the responsibility of Hair of the Millenium Girl (awarded by a dear friend in high school) to maintain, after all!

I haven’t always loved my body.

In my youth, I lamented the sturdiness of my thighs and the mosaic of stretch marks etched upon them, erroneously believing the marks on my skin as proof that I was “fat”, cemented by the boys in my sophomore English class, who ridiculed me for wearing a skort. Of the multitude reasons they could have poked fun at my skort wearing choices, fashion being the obvious choice, it was my legs that captured their morbid fascination.

I wish I had the skort wearing confidence then to tell them to worry about their own damn legs.

My legs are beautiful.

In them is the strength to climb mountains. The endurance to walk miles. The agility to hop, skip, and jump, and the rhythm to dance. They are warrior queens, fiercely elegant.

Like tree trunks, my legs are solid and strong. The marks they bear are no different than bark, with their splits and grooves that allow trees to grow and mature.

I have grown. I have matured. I have the marks to prove it. I wear them proudly.

I pour this love into my legs every day, thanking them as I wash them in the shower.

I didn’t love my body when I was suffering with chronic illness. I was mad that it couldn’t hike, couldn’t roller skate, couldn’t dance. I still took care of it the best I knew how, with healthy foods, physical therapy, and medicine, but I withheld the one thing it needed most, my unconditional love.

I gave it compassion, but not love.

I let the critical voice in my head continue to berate my ugly legs, while trying to take care of those legs with compression and supportive braces. I railed at my faulty connective tissue as I tried to support it with collagen supplements. I was frustrated at the slowness of my digestion but took care to remove the foods that caused it grief.

I don’t remember exactly when I decided to speak love over myself. There wasn’t one “AHA!” moment, but rather a million small choices to treat myself with kindness.

I have always believed that there is power in words. Not in the words themselves, but in the intentions behind them.  You can curse like a sailor, and I won’t care unless you call someone stupid. That’s just mean.

I was intentionally nice to everyone else, but still calling myself stupid.

How stupid is that!

I am now very intentional in how I speak about myself and my body. I choose to be kind to myself.

Instead of berating my “ugly legs”, I thank them for their amazing strength.

Instead of railing at my faulty connective tissue, I am thankful that it allows me to do stupid human tricks, like trying to count all the moles on my arms. It is MY connective tissue, and I love it, whether it is perfect or not.

I am perfectly imperfect.

I no longer hold my gut in, trying to maintain the ideal of being “thin”. I take deep belly breaths and let it relax, allowing it to rest and digest. You can bet that later I’ll be rubbing my belly whilst fondly remembering the spicy pumpkin samosas I had for lunch. I love that I can eat a variety of flavorful foods.

I shower myself with love.

Everyday.

I tell my arms I love them because they give wonderful hugs.

I thank my feet for holding up so much weight, even though they are so small.

I lovingly massage my scalp, in awe that my brain can remember so many random song lyrics.

I love this amazing body that I inhabit.

It is mine.

It is me.

It is loveable.