I take a good hard look in the mirror and suck in a huge gulp of air. I am getting ready to step into the shower and have just stepped off the scale. The chaos of bed hair and a NyQuil-induced sleep blink back at me underneath the glow of the unforgiving bathroom lights.
My toothbrush casually hangs from the side of my mouth, and I can’t help a tiny grin. Last year I worked my butt off—literally and figuratively—finally shedding the career and adulting weight that had crept up over the last 25 years. Late night Oreos to celebrate college papers completed. The endless “last bites” as I grabbed the kids’ almost-finished plates to put in the dishwasher, my past reminding me that “we don’t waste food.” The bad decisions I made after good news. And the really bad decisions I made after really bad news.
With it, I experienced a whole new series of adult firsts. I had no idea how liberating a bikini could be. No more pulling and tugging on the death-like grip of wet swimsuit fabric that simply Will. Not. Let. Go. Folding and filling boxes from last year’s end-of-season clearance of brand-new blue jeans I won’t get to wear.
There were other firsts too. Clutching a piece of clothing because there was no way I was going to be able to sustain this weight loss. What happened if it all came back? The shame AND the expense? I also braved the curious stares of people who wondered if I was small enough for the electric blue bikini I bravely stepped out in.
Adjusting my toothbrush, I rinse and spit. I bunch my loose, tan skin with my hands.
This summer, I had walked by my preteen son who shuddered and looked away. I asked what was wrong, and he said, “Mom, I’m not trying to be rude, but what happened to your skin? Are you okay?”
I think about this moment as I watch myself in the mirror. I move my hands to swirl around my stomach. Stretch marks and C-section scars twist and curve in the mirror as I hug and squeeze and move my body. I remember the vows I made that once this much of me was gone, I was going to cut the rest. To perfect what me and time and stress and worry and pain and joy had destroyed. This final act of redemption would signify my ultimate commitment to never go back. That was the story I had been telling myself.
My Latin skin, still tan from the summer sun, crinkles as I pinch it. I giggle as I think about it looking like a wrinkled lunch bag.
I stay with that moment in the summer. I remember the immense love I felt for my eldest son and the fear in his eyes. When he saw the scars and marks of my bare tummy by the pool side, all he saw was harm and pain. I walked toward him and held his face in my hand.
“Oh son,” I said. “The truth is, some of these are yours.” His eyes got big.
“No, no, no. Don’t be upset,” I smiled. “Carrying you changed my body, and it never was the same again. When you moved and wrestled and snuggled in, my body and skin had to adjust and make room. These scars are an honor.” He grabbed my waist quickly, the official preteen hug, and moved on.
The steam from the shower is beginning to gather as I remember that moment. I am also thinking of the little file of research I’ve done. The pics of recovery for cosmetic surgery. The cost of erasing my past.
The cost of erasing the past means I lose the good parts too.
When I erase crow’s feet, I erase the effect of years of laughter. Times when I laughed so hard, my eyes squeezed shut in delight. I lose the evidence of hours spent watching in the sun—friends, kids, the ocean’s waves, my dreams.
The truth is, when I delete and scrub out, I create a blank verdict on all my experiences. I white out the good and the bad. I don’t get to always keep the nuggets of gold found in the scrappiest dirt. I have to find a way to sift those things out; to treasure them in a way where they can retain their goodness and be prized for the victory they were.
This year was bad. People have behaved poorly. My body is a hot mess. The world is a mess. Those things can be true. AND.
I met amazing people this year. My body carried me on a treadmill this year, and my arms held sick kids and crying people. I saw kindness this year spring up in unexpected places. I kept plants alive for a whole year, people. I shared my hammock with family.
I close my eyes. Gratitude. I wrap my arms around my tummy. That is what I am experiencing this morning. I feel the weight lifting of making a decision about this loose sea of skin. I feel gratitude setting me free.
Eliza Cortes Bast is a fierce and honest follower of Jesus. She is a pastor and denominational executive, dedicated to helping churches think missionally. She lives into her passion by connecting people, advocating for the community, and helping organizations think strategically so they can be healthy, vibrant, and sustainable. Eliza lives in Michigan with her patient and handsome husband EJ, and their two boys. Her loves include her home country Puerto Rico, her interracial marriage, a good steak, salsa dancing, writing, empowering emerging leaders, making the impossible possible, Diet Coke, and mentoring. She is not a big fan of anger without action, generalizations, basketball, and saying you can’t live without coffee. She believes you can because she believes in you.
Eliza, claiming freedom to love your body just as it is—scars and stretches and extra loose skin and all—is so very brave. I think your choice to give thanks for all the experiences your body holds is the antidote to shame. I’m gonna follow your lead. 🥰
It strikes me as such a loss that I sometimes think that the things you described in your second to last paragraph are not recognized as beautiful because of the size of my belly or the forehead crease between my eyes. Thank you for such a meaningful piece of writing.