Last year a little before summer began to fade, I asked my husband to snap a few shots of me in a bikini while at my in-laws pool. I had recently flown in back from Brazil, meaning I was eating like there was no tomorrow and we were on our way back from the perfect weekend getaway. When I looked at the camera monitor to see how the photos were coming out, I nearly had a breakdown. I saw something I’d been avoiding for months.
It was a version of myself I did not care for. Far beyond my ideal weight, I couldn’t help but feel very, very angry for the lack of respect for my own well-being. Oh yes, I cried. I also jumped in the pool, clothes-on because I’m dramatic like that. Now, before anyone starts making assumptions, I’m not talking about a serious case of obesity, an eating disorder, peer or media pressure. This is about me, an average size girl who lost track of her continuously terrible eating habits. And if you don’t believe me, I put on belly weight only, and some face. Easy to sneak-in.