"Never mind that you are pregnant; you are just fat."
This is the voice that I hear when I first wake up in the mornings, and I struggle to turn it off all day long. I know that the voice which I often hear the loudest speaks lies, and yet I find myself frequently believing that these lies are true, that I'm not good enough, that my worth is based on my appearance, and that beauty is a pant size or a number on a scale. I always knew that if I were to ever get pregnant, these body image issues would be a struggle for me, but I never knew just how much I would struggle or the extent to which I would care about the perception others have of me. I am fully aware that this pregnancy is a miracle, and I know that I should be far more grateful for it than I am, especially considering where we have been over the last few years. I promised myself years ago that if God did choose to bless us with a baby one day, I would never complain about pregnancy. But at times, I already find myself resenting my changing body and the good and precious gift that is growing inside of me. Understanding that I'm not supposed to feel this way about the miraculous unfortunately ushers in a whole new realm of guilt and shame.
If I am being honest with myself, there is no number or size that would ever be "good enough." When I was my skinniest, running marathons at a size two, I hated the way I looked. I wanted to be thinner. Now, I fight every day to quit comparing myself to other pregnant women, scrutinizing my belly, and trying to determine whether or not I am appropriately large or small for the number of gestational weeks that I am. Some days, I feel as though the lack of control that I have over gaining weight and the worry that I have about losing it after baby girl comes will consume me.
My cousin had an eating disorder in high school and college. At her thinnest, she weighed 98 pounds. In family counseling, the therapist told her parents that this disorder couldn't be beat- that my cousin would continue to fight against negative thoughts and feelings about her body every day, nearly every hour, for the rest of her life. She anticipated that my cousin would have to learn how to deal with it. Forever. "We just chose not to believe that," my aunt said. "We chose to believe that God is bigger, and that he could heal our daughter of anything. And He did."
We chose to believe that He is bigger. What if I chose to believe that, too? What if I chose to believe that perhaps I'm the one with cloudy vision, and not the people around me (particularly my husband) who tell me that I'm perfect? What if I chose to believe, as the Dove commercial I've watched half a hundred times says, that perhaps I'm more beautiful than I think? Or, as Eli the woodcarver tells wooden Punchinello in Max Lucado's children's book, You Are Special, that I'm infinitely valuable simply because He knows my name?
Pregnancy is a complicated thing. It's amazing and nauseating (literally), scary, and joyful all at the same time. What if I chose to start over tomorrow, or even tonight, and believe something different? Change takes time, but for now, I'm working on straining to hear that still, small voice that speaks truth to me instead of believing the lies that are forever screaming in my ears. He is bigger, and that is enough.
