In the spring of 2016, I had the fabulous privilege of studying abroad for an entire semester in my favorite city: London, England. I traveled to almost a dozen countries, "spoke" four different languages, and had an all around amazing experience. For many, studying abroad is a semester in which one gains knowledge, freedom, and self-empowerment. I gained all of this, and almost one-third of my body weight. However, despite living inside a body that would never have lived up to my old standards, my body image wasn't a hurdle I had to jump every morning. I realized that I could just live my life and love myself more than I ever had in the past, no matter what the tag on my clothes said.
I have always struggled with my weight. I remember vividly being the first girl to hit 100 pounds in the fifth grade and being mocked by the boys who sat at my table when I revealed my triple-digit number. My father always told me, "We Farmers grow out first, and then up. That's just the way we are." This comforted me for a while, but in the fifth grade, I became tired of "just being the way I am." I started going to the gym with my dad very regularly, and I soon started to shed my excess baby weight which had plagued me ever since puberty.
This did not go unnoticed by my peers -- or, for the first time in my life, boys -- when I entered high school after spending my summer on the elliptical. I began to thrive on semi-backhanded comments like "Wow, you've slimmed down so much!" and "You look so much prettier now!" I soon began to equate these comments with my self-worth, and one emotionally abusive relationship later, I spiraled into disordered eating.
If I had continued along this path, I would have been diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, but I never became underweight enough to warrant that diagnosis (which I think is an issue in itself, but I digress). I would go days without eating. I threw all the food in my lunchbox away, or gave it to the ever-lurking pack of hormonal, mid-growth-spurt high school boys just waiting for someone to say "Do you want my food?" All the while, I was getting even more comments about how amazing I looked. I thought I was thriving. I thought if I could just lose five more pounds, I would finally feel good about myself. Never mind that I was a stellar student, the lead in the school play, and had a great family: Being thin is what would finally give the the happiness I craved.
Soon, I broke free of a toxic relationship and began gaining weight back. I may have resumed eating, but that didn't mean the guilt or the mindset had changed. I was suffering from severe body dysmorphia, and hated myself for every necessary pound I gained back. Half of me knew that I was making progress, but the other half still screamed to be skinny. In college, my weight started to yo-yo. I would work out like crazy in the summer, and then slowly gain weight all throughout the school year, and repeat.
By my sophomore year, I had met some amazing, inspiring women at Wake Forest. From them, I learned how society manipulates women and how none of the images portrayed in media is accurate. I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I am more than my weight, and my body shape does not affect my value as a human being. This was all well and good to say, but I was about to have to put my money where my hips and thighs were.
When I left to study abroad in London, I was determined to have a wonderful time, and not refuse any opportunity that came my way. When was I going to be able to do something like this ever again? So I said yes to hanging out in pubs every night, and eating pounds of pasta and miles of flatbread. Because my culinary skills are lacking, I had a bagel for breakfast and noodles for lunch every single day. Needless to say, I packed on the pounds like it was my job. Soon, my clothes stopped fitting, which had never really happened before. I had never grown out of an entire wardrobe. I had stretch marks literally all over my body, I didn't recognize my face in photos, and I couldn't look in the mirror without crying.
When I came home, I was determined to drop the weight as fast as possible. I had never hated my body more. I avoided looking at myself whenever possible, skipped posties, and socially isolated myself knowing my weight gain would spread through the small town grapevine faster than Kylie Jenner's lipkits sell out. I began hitting the gym, bought a few cheap wardrobe basics, and cut out gluten, dairy, caffeine, and sugar.
As the weight slowly started to slip away, and my body became stronger and more fit, I praised myself for every pound of progress. I loved that my body is able to squat, run, and lift, even if I am still 40 pounds above my goal weight. If I had had my current body one year ago, I would have never rocked the bikini I wore on the beach today, I never would have been able to look at myself in the mirror in this body and love what I see. I love this body because it is mine: stretch marks, cellulite, and all. And that's when it hit me; everything I loved about myself, my sense of humor, my empathetic nature, my ability to love without bounds, had stayed consistent no matter if I was 120 pounds or 190 pounds. I love this body because it is me, and what's not to love?
