Growing up, I was never a fan of my body. I was never skinny enough. I was never pretty enough. I was never athletic enough. I was just never good enough in my opinion.

It wasn't until my senior year of high school that I tried to make a difference. I hated running with a passion, but I pushed myself to do it. At first, I could barely make it without huffing and puffing, my face bright red and my legs the equivalent of noodles. But I did it. I forced myself, and soon it became my escape. It was my time away from the world, and I looked forward to the endorphin rush afterwards. Once I saw results, I felt unstoppable. My endurance was increasing, and I began to take longer and longer runs. I wasn't fast, but I was proud of myself for how far I'd come.

As I started college, I became even more engrossed in working out. I would go to the gym five days a week and try my best to eat healthier. Instead of gaining the dreaded "freshmen fifteen," I lost weight.

As my college career continued, I struggled with being healthy. From bringing my notes to the gym, going through periods of time where I dreaded workouts, and stress eating, I never could maintain a healthy body that I was happy with.

Until, finally, I gave up. I stopped trying to be "perfect." I no longer weigh myself. I don't always record my runs, and I sometimes run for the pure joy of running. I don't feel guilty grabbing a cookie, and I refuse to count my calories. I still try to make healthy decisions, but I also do what makes me happy. I have fun with my workouts, and I enjoy what I eat. I don't stress myself out if I can't fit a workout in, but I also try to refrain from grabbing a chocolate bar during those long nights of homework.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my body. Is it perfect? No. But I've realized that health is a work in progress, and I have learned to love my body as it is. And to me, that's all that matters.