*WARNING: this post contains images deemed ‘confronting’. Please proceed with extreme caution so as not to be traumatised. You have been warned. Good luck.
It began innocently enough. Saturday morning, there I was sitting on the floor after my daily workout, which involves some time on the treadmill and then a short strength session with my Nike training app.
As I sat there, I looked down at my stomach, saw some rolls of skin or fat or, you know, humanity and felt… nothing. Like actually nothing. I didn’t feel insecure or panicked or ashamed or guilty or despairing as I have at many, many other times in my life (as recently as a couple of weeks ago) when comparing my body to the ‘ideal’ female shape I see in the media and on social media.
I didn’t feel fat (note: fat is not a feeling, BTW). I just felt that nice kind of buzzy vibe you get after exercise and I felt pleased about the weekend ahead of me, which was going to involve lots of writing, hanging at home and having some friends over for a BBQ.
I could hear my kids elsewhere in the house, fighting or singing or doing their normal weekend thing. I could smell coffee. My dogs were running in and out of the room. I felt happy.
I took this photo and posted it to Instagram without thinking much more about it because I wanted to capture that feeling and remind myself of the pleasures of exercise and the realistic expectations I have about my body at age 45. I wanted to remind other women what one type of ‘normal’ stomach looks like in the hope that they might look down and feel good or at least normal instead of the ‘abnormal’ way we are made to feel about our bodies so much of the time.