So many of the posts I’ve written over this past year have dealt, in one way or another, with learning to love and accept myself as I am. I’ve written about my struggles with infertility, body acceptance, depression, perfectionism, more body acceptance . . .
Over and over, I’ve talked about learning to reject the internally and externally imposed judgments and criticisms for my perceived failures as a woman in our world. And over and over, I’ve moved through those pieces from a place of struggle and self-loathing to a place of strength, love, resolve, triumph. Sometimes, writing the post itself was the catalyst that brought clarity to my thoughts and took me from incredible pain to something approaching peace. The catharsis of communication is real, and powerful.
And yet. Two days after writing my most recent body-acceptance post, I was sobbing on the floor of my shower because I was so terrified of the weight I’d gained. Over a year after publicly repudiating the idea that infertility made me less of a woman, I considered breaking up with my partners because if I couldn’t “give” them a child, what could I possibly bring to a relationship?
I’ve been feeling like a fake for trying to write inspirational anti-perfection manifestos when my therapist just called me out on the exact same self-judging thought habits that have been making me miserable since I was 13. I’ve been feeling like I’m misrepresenting the catharsis and triumph of my writing as somehow permanent, a lasting shift in my mental landscape, when really it’s all just sandcastles at the water’s edge.