Mary F.
Photography by Ally Szabo.
Please note: In this letter, there is discussion of disordered eating. If you think you may find this content triggering, please consider reading one of the other letters of IfYoureReadingThis.org, or prepare to access any support systems or resources you find helpful.
If you’re reading this, you are not worth more if there is less of you.
I have struggled with body image and eating issues for almost as long as I can remember. When I was younger, I was so excited to go to summer camp but little did I know that summer would change the trajectory of my entire life. When I got there, I constantly found myself comparing my body to all the other girls there. I would look in the mirror in tears trying to suck my stomach in as much as I could and pinching the skin on my thighs wishing I could shrink and disappear. I began labeling foods as “good” and “bad” and had so much anxiety surrounding what I would allow myself to eat.
Adults would praise me for this behavior and give me validation for the food choices I made because I ate such a “healthy diet” for someone so young. They couldn’t see all the emotional damage it would cause and continue to cause for the next 12 years. I was 8 years old. This was only the very beginning of a long journey grappling with loving and accepting myself that no child should have to endure, especially at such a young age.
Fast forward to 8th grade, I so badly wanted to fit in with the current trend and look like the girls with stick-thin arms and a gap between their legs. I hated that my short stature and curvy build prevented me from attaining the body I so desperately wanted. My motivation was wanting to look as thin as possible in my 8th grade dance dress, and again looking back, these feelings of self-hatred towards one’s body are something no one should have to suffer through, let alone a 13-year-old girl.
Thus began my toxic relationship with exercise, but mostly my love-hate relationship with running. I began running every day wanting to be the smallest, most petite version of myself. From 13 to 20 years old running became my toxic obsession but also my passion. It was like the devil on my shoulder that told me if I don’t run, and I don’t look a certain way, then I am unworthy of love and undesirable and that people won’t accept me. It also became my form of therapy that gave me a feeling of being invincible and for those 45 minutes of my feet beating against the pavement, it was the only time I would allow myself to feel a sense of confidence. The thing I loved so much was also the thing that I used to punish myself.
Most of college has been a battle regarding my self-confidence. In sophomore year, I was running more than ever and restricting my calories so much because I thought if I could just reach that goal weight and if I was just a little thinner then I would finally be happy. I have been at my thinnest, and it’s safe to say I wasn’t happy. Actually, at my thinnest, I was the most depressed I have ever been.
Thin was never thin enough and I had set these goals for myself that were impossible to attain. I was moody and exhausted. I slept constantly and neglected relationships because I was so fixated on how uncomfortable it felt to be living in my own skin. One day it snowed so much that our classes were canceled and the gyms were closed so I went out in ski goggles in dangerous conditions because I refused to let myself take a day off from running. I was going through the motions of life and was controlled and trapped by this cruel obsession that I felt gave me worth.
It wasn’t until this past summer that I ran myself (literally) into the ground and was left with an extremely painful back injury. I was so distressed about not being able to run anymore and I honestly didn’t even know who I was without it. I was mortified by my body changing and looking different and feeling uncomfortable in my skin. This injury ended up completely changing my relationship with exercise for the better and has helped heal my self-image that I had trained myself to hate and neglect.
I have learned that I don’t need to run 8+ miles every day to maintain a body I consider ideal. I learned that it’s okay to take rest days and that my body won’t triple in size and become unrecognizable just because I took a day off and ate a little more than usual. I learned that I don’t have to run double the amount than usual just because I am going out to eat dinner that night. I learned that it’s okay for my 21-year-old body to look different than my 16-year-old body and that one day it will be okay for my 30-year-old body to one day look different than my 20-year-old body.
I wish so badly that I could go back in time and hug that 8-year-old girl and wipe her tears and tell her that she is so beautiful. Other people’s beauty is not the absence of your own. My worth is not and never was defined by the numbers on a scale or the numbers on the tag of my favorite pair of jeans. It is defined by happiness and the belly laughs I have eating 7/11 hot dogs with my best friends at 2 am. It’s defined by finally being free to love myself regardless of what I look like. My worth has more substance than numbers, calories, and measurements.
I have wasted so many years hating the body that lets me experience life and I have missed out on so many opportunities and experiences because of my insecurities and discomfort and shame in my body. I still have hard days when it comes to loving myself and loving my body, but I hope that if even one person reads this, you know that you are so much more than the reflection you see in the mirror. And for what it’s worth, I hope you know that I think you’re beautiful.
Mary F., Villanova University
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