This is a breakup letter.
I’m done with you. I have relied on you for years and years to help me navigate my life. I’ve believed the lies you’ve told me about myself. I’ve let your opinion outshine my effort, my hard work, my self-worth. You’ve made me cry. You’ve made me crazy. You’ve made me lose hope. Now it’s over and I’m moving on.
When I was younger, I would torture myself to please you. I would beg and plead with you to validate me, and more often than not, you refused. I was never good enough for you. You always wanted more from me. Despite the abuse, I kept trying.
You never valued me for who I am – the hard-working mother who has carried three babies. You never told me I was beautiful despite my scars and stretch marks. You have never once commented on the muscle I have built and the sweat I have shed at the gym. All I have ever gotten from you is criticism and the ever illusive glimmer of hope that I could someday move you to see me for the person I have become.
You haven’t witnessed my battle. You only comment on the negative. So you and I are history. Done. Finito. I’m measuring myself in other ways now.
I’m seeing myself as the strength builds on my bones and slowly, a trimmer me is emerging. I’m seeing myself in faster laps, higher reps, and dedicated consistency. I’m seeing myself as someone who fights to show up, to put in the work, and to not cheat myself a single second even though every trip to the gym makes me nervous and vulnerable.
I am a damn queen despite what you say.
I’m taking you to the trash. I’m throwing you out. Your electronic numbers and melancholy chimes will no longer echo in my bathroom. You will never tell me what to think of myself again. I am not a number anymore, scale. Be gone! I am finally free.
Give ‘Em Hell