Like many people, I have an interesting relationship with my bathroom scale. We’ve been through a lot together over the years. Sometimes we don’t talk for weeks or even months, but then I find that we are spending time together every day. Lately, my scale and I have been spending too much time together, and so I will try to take a break, with the inevitable knowledge that we will be together again before I know it.
Weight is a weird thing.
As a young adult, I struggled with my weight in a similar manner to many women – losing and gaining the same 20 pounds over and over again. In my mid-20s, I realized that working out wasn’t enough to lose weight for me (it helped, but you can’t out-exercise a bad diet). So I started following a calorie-restricted diet recommended to me by a friend. The weight practically fell off, and I lost 30 pounds in about six months.
During this time, I would weigh myself weekly at the very least, but usually a few times a week. If I saw a number that was less than the week prior I would be thrilled. But if that number stayed the same or even got bigger, I would be so upset and disappointed with myself. I’d make sure to stick to my diet really well that week with no room for “treats.” I got to my lowest weight ever (still technically within the healthy range for my height, but much less than I had ever weighed before).
When I started training for my first marathon, I gained weight. I was okay with it because I was honestly hungry all the time and I wasn’t able to run well if I hadn’t eaten enough calories. From there, I found my healthy weight at about 15 pounds above my lowest weight. I stayed there for a while, eating well most of the time and also eating pizza and ice cream when I wanted it. Then pregnancy happened and my body changed again.
Since becoming a mother, my body is different.
After my first baby, I bounced back fairly quickly and found my pre-pregnancy weight at about nine months postpartum. After baby two, though, it has been harder. I have had less energy and less time, and my belly is pretty stretched out after carrying two large babies (9 and 10 pounds, respectively). The difference this time is that I don’t really care. Maybe it’s because I’m older or maybe it’s because I’ve realized that the size of my belly doesn’t define me (and also that my belly grew two amazing children who I love more than anything).
I still have a weird relationship with the scale, but now I don’t let it affect my mood. I’ve learned that whether I eat well or whether I eat junk, my weight generally stays within a healthy range and allows me to do things I love, like running and chasing after my wild kids. I’ll probably never see my pre-motherhood weight, and honestly, I don’t want to. That’s not who I am now. I might have been 30 pounds lighter pre-motherhood, but now my heart carries an extra 70-ish pounds of kid (and growing) everywhere it goes, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world.
So when I weigh myself and see a number higher than I used to, I try to think about all that other stuff rather than focusing on that number. I focus on my strength, my kids, my job, and all the other things that define me so much better than my weight.
I’m sure my complicated relationship will continue in the future, but for now, I’m putting it on hold to focus on enjoying my kids, my health, and plenty of pizza.
