A Word About Shame
I’ve gained some weight. I’d like to blame it on the pandemic but I added about 20 lbs to my middle-aged physique approximately two years before the pandemic started, so I guess I can’t use that one. While intellectually I’d like to do something about that, I have done exactly zero about that. Well, maybe not zero; I signed up for the Noom app and I do like it and have found it helpful. I have faithfully been logging my weight each morning as well as my water intake. Approximately 5 out of 7 days, I read through the informative and entertaining daily bits (it takes about 9 mins/day). And my favorite feature, the one that has kept me largely on track, is logging my food. They make it stupid easy. Nearly every food (from restaurants to grocery store items to individual foods like celery, chicken breast, etc.) is in the system. I was off to a roaring start, making better food choices, aware of what I was eating, and aware of when I was actually hungry.
Then, life ramped up. I started working full-time again on a large project. There was stuff with the kids, stuff with my mother, stuff with this really long-lived pandemic, stuff with the weather . . . you know how it goes.
So I started doing the dumbest thing: I started cheating the app. In the midst of all of the things going on in the above paragraph, my eating became more and more crap. Less attention, less prep time, fewer good food choices on hand.
My favorite thing about the food logging is that, in the beginning, it kept me from eating too much junk because I didn’t want to have to log that I’d eaten junk. Now, I eat the junk and just don’t log it. WTH? I’m gaming an app whose data only I see (well, aside from whoever the app makers are who are tracking my data). I know what I ate. I don’t have to tell another person what I ate. So why won’t I log it???
If this pandemic’s been good for anything, it’s been good for introspection. I’ve learned a lot about myself this last year. Not all of it as charming as I’d like. But one of the questions I’ve been asking is “Why am I doing this?” about any number of things. (Try it; you might be surprised by the answers.)
Since I’ve become a bit nuts about lying to an app, I’ve discovered the answer to that question is undeniably SHAME.
I feel shame every time I look at my body or see the number on the scale.
I feel shame when I struggle to get up off the floor because I’m so out of shape or when my knees and back hurt at the slightest physical effort.
I feel shame, most of all, that at my age I still can’t manage to eat like an adult.
I know WHAT to do; we all do: eat mostly vegetables, eat some fruit, get enough protein, quit with the processed foods (including/especially “low fat” stuff — the “fat” is simply replaced with other crap that’s not good for us). Eat regular meals, cook actual food, keep plenty of healthy choices around the house. Get some exercise. Get some sleep. Spend some time in chill mode (prayer, meditation, breathwork, whatever works for you).
So WHY don’t I do it? I know for certain (there’s loads of research and, as someone who loves research, I’ve read a ton of it) that I will feel much, much better physically, mentally, and emotionally if I do these things. I WANT to feel better physically, mentally, and emotionally. I am a person of privilege. There are no barriers to my access to healthy food, a whole array of exercise options, time, and space to pray or meditate. It makes no sense.
And yet.
I think it’s time to revisit Brene Brown’s work on shame. And I think it’s time to change my story about my body.
Jen Hatmaker recently offered this small gift encouraging us to rethink how we perceive our bodies (check it out) based on her book, Fierce, Free, and Full of Fire where she writes:
I’ve been so mean to my body, outright hateful. I disparage her and call her names, I loathe parts of her and withhold care. I insist on physical standards she can never reach, for that is not how she is even made, but I detest her weakness. I push her too hard and refuse her enough rest. No matter what she accomplishes, I’m never happy with her.
I’ve barely acknowledged her role in every precious experience of my life. I look at her with contempt. And yet every morning, no matter how terrible I've been to her, she gets us out of bed, nurtures the family, meets the needs of the day. She tells me when I'm hungry or tired and sends special red-alert signals when I'm overwhelmed or scared.
She has safely gotten me to and from a thousand cities with fresh energy. She senses danger, trouble, landmines. Sometimes I realize she is whispering to God for us. She walks and cooks and lifts and hugs and types and drives and cleans and holds babies and rests and laughs and does everything in her power to live another meaningful, connected day.
She sure does love me and my life and family. Maybe it's time to stop hating her and just love her back.
I texted a group of friends one morning recently and asked them to come up with one thing they like about themselves and then to carry that with them throughout the day. Maybe give it a try.
xo,
Beth
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