What My Body Can (& Can’t) Do
Last week I took my son to the playground. I watched him run to the swings, immediately pumping his legs to get as high in the sky as he could. “Mom! I feel like I’m flying!” he shrieked. I was taken back to elementary school recess when I would close my eyes in pure ecstasy as I soared over my classmates. I lived for the jump in my stomach as the momentum of the swing pulled me back to earth. I felt untouchable. The swings were my escape. It was this sweet flashback that compelled me to join my son. I sat on the swing next to his and said, “That looks like so much fun! I’m going to swing with you!” Within thirty seconds I regretted my decision. My mind had taken me back to the third grade. My body had not. My equilibrium was completely thrown off and waves of nausea rolled through my stomach. I pointed my feet toward the ground and let them drag in the dirt to slow me down. Once my swing came to a stop I had to sit and collect my bearings before standing upright. The reality hit me like a slap in the face; I was too old for swinging.
A few days later I was still commiserating as I dabbed root touch-up over my persistent grey hairs. I was remembering a time when I was first in line for the Tilt-A-Whirl at every county fair. A time when I could ride Drop Zone with my friends at Great America four times in a row. A time I didn’t question the integrity of a wooden roller coaster because of the loud “clackity” sound it made (I swear those things are built from sticks), or the security of a shoulder harness when heading into an inverted loop. Now I find myself wishing they made seating in roller coasters to accommodate laying in the fetal position. I’ve also been known to consume half a bottle of Pepto Bismol tablets while standing in line for the Tower of Terror at Disneyland. (They should have bathrooms throughout the line for those of us with weak constitutions.) What’s happened to me?!?
It’s hard not to resent the aging process. No one likes to admit their bodies just can’t do what they used to anymore. I still have over a year left in my thirties and already I’m fighting lower back pain, intolerance to fried foods, heightened allergies, muscle stiffness, not to mention fine lines and grey hairs. My eyeglass prescription has needed altering twice in a year and try as I might, I can’t seem to run the 10-minute mile I ran five years ago, no matter how much training I put in. Why is it so hard to accept? Why do I fight it? Maybe because I’ve watched a parent or grandparent age and felt that tinge of sadness as they gradually deteriorate before my eyes. I dread the day when I too, will be looked at with pity because my body is failing me. Is this you, too? We begin to pity ourselves before we even hit our forties. We criticize ourselves in the mirror, going over every wrinkle, every curve, every blemish, and we groan with dissatisfaction. We will our body into submission by pushing it further in workouts, denying it carbs, and depriving it of sleep so we can put in that extra hour of work. We refuse to give in to our body’s cries for rest and chocolate. Instead, we listen to the world. We listen to magazines, commercials, Pinterest, Instagram, Facebook, and every ad under the sun that tells us we need to chase our youth, pin it down and refuse to let it leave. We listen to the world that tells us no matter our actual age, how many children we have, how demanding our job is, how much time we have at our disposal, or what our genetic predisposition, our bodies should look and feel like the people in the Peloton commercials, and our skin should age as well as the celebrities in every moisturizer ad. It’s time we stop falling for it. It’s time we stop punishing our bodies for what they can’t do and embrace all the amazing things they can do.
Our bodies show up for us when we need them most. When I worked in retail and started my holiday shifts at 5 am, my body did the work. When I traveled to Australia for a summer at the age of sixteen, my body endured the jet lag like a champ. When I walked the distance of a marathon over the hills of San Francisco, my body didn’t fail me. I climbed to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral at age thirteen and hiked the ruins of Ephesus at age 27. My body was courageous enough to go white water rafting, parasailing, and jump out of an airplane all before I turned thirty. There’s a reason God gives us more energy when we’re young. I look back at my youth and I can’t believe what my body has done.
In marriage, my body has learned to be a student of my husband’s face, his body, and his mannerisms. It’s held his tears and his hand for over fourteen years. I’ve pulled him into my arms, stroked his back, massaged his muscles, and chosen his needs over mine time and time again. I’ve listened intently, prayed quietly, and offered wisdom when needed. I’ve swallowed my insecurities and learned to believe it when he calls me beautiful. I may resent my body, but he doesn’t. My body isn’t mine alone; it belongs to my husband and I am so humbled he calls me his.
Since becoming a mother, my body has found new uses; snuggles, piggyback rides, pushing strollers, and hauling sleeping toddlers up the stairs countless times. I’ve wedged myself onto the top bunk, stuffed my hips into cardboard boxes and under blanket forts for the sake of my children. I’ve prepped a thousand school lunches, bandaged up cuts and scrapes, and ran alongside bicycles as they wobble for the first time without training wheels. I’ve hauled chairs out to the soccer field every Saturday and swept under the kitchen table twice a day for over nine years. I’ve stayed up late answering their incessant questions, singing every song I know, and praying some of my most fervent prayers over their little hearts. My kids don’t care that my hair is greying or that I need a chair with back support. It changes nothing about how they see me. It shouldn’t change how I see myself either.
I wrap gifts, write notes of encouragement, and recommend books I love. I cry with friends who are grieving. I show up with coffee for those who are struggling. I make homemade meals for families in need of a break. Every single night I make dinner for my family, and I love it. Cooking for them is my sincerest expression of love. When they come into the kitchen and say, “Dinner smells SO good!” my heart leaps with happiness. Fatigue hits me like a mack truck every day around 2 pm; right when I’m picking my kids up from school. I push past it and listen to their chatter in the backseat, assist with their homework and then drive them to their respective activities. My body helps me do these things. By the time I’m reading bedtime stories, I’m fully engaged again. Bedtime conversations are my favorite time of the day. When I close the doors of the children's bedrooms, I slip into my favorite pajamas; I can feel my muscles relax. I head downstairs to unwind with my husband. My body carries me through every moment of the day.
My body is what wakes me up to the sound of my children’s laughter each morning and what sinks me into the couch at the end of the day. My body grows fatigued and my headaches when I’ve gone too long without coffee. I could sit and read a novel from sun up to sun down if my days allowed it. My body allows me to experience the sound of a fire crackling in the fireplace, the scent of my favorite candle burning, and the feel of a new library book; some of the greatest pleasures in my otherwise very mundane life. My body is what celebrates others and overcomes challenges, big and small. I’m so grateful for all it can do, for all it’s capable of. When my body shows up, my heart and mind do too, and those are far more valuable than what I can offer physically. I don’t need perfect eyesight, an iron stomach, taut skin, or limber muscles to do any of the things I need most. My life isn’t in how I look or even how I feel. My life is lived in what I do, how I spend my time, and how I love.
My body: “She sure does love me and my life and family. Maybe it is time to stop hating her and just love her back.”
-Jen Hatmaker, Fierce, Free and Full of Fire