Ithad been some time since I’d been compelled to punish my body simply for existing as it was meant to.
I hadn’t stepped on a scale in over a year. I no longer counted calories or meticulously weighed my food in an effort to consciously restrict. I ate when I was hungry and without judgment. I didn’t spend hours over the toilet bowl or agonize about the best place to hide my stash of laxatives.
In short, I had reached a place of body acceptance — and occasionally admiration — for the way that my body had persevered through a decade of self-inflicted harm.