Growing up, I wasn’t an athlete. In fact, I was definitely a non-athlete.
As an elementary school student, I vividly remember being dressed in a jumper and mary janes on PE day, and tripping over the kickball as it was rolled my way. My thoughtful teacher walked me to first base. I think he knew that some of us are just not made for team sports. Bless him.
In high school, I attempted to participate in volleyball. But that only lasted a season. I share all of this because I didn’t commit to a regular exercise routine until my second baby turned 2. Before then, I didn’t have the right motivation. I had the time (so much time before I was married, before children!), but there was no fuel to my fire. For me, there wasn’t a big enough reason to watch my weight or become stronger.
Now, there is. Now I know why I need to carve out space for activity, for sweat. It’s my kids. I do it for them. For me, too, but mostly for them.
Still, the number on the scale is haunting. It’s a battle I fight every morning—to weigh myself or not. To let that number speak to my worth, or not. You feel me, right?