Written on August 3, 2016
I’m ashamed of myself for how much my deflating belly makes me happy, for the pleased feeling when it no longer pokes out under loose shirts, for the joy at the lessening of curves, for the hatred that bubbles up at the rest of my body. For the stretch marks appearing in my loose skin, I’m ashamed for the joy my muscle curves bring me. I’m ashamed because I feel like I’ve given in and am becoming what people have always pressed me to be. I’m ashamed for loving it all, I’m ashamed for hating the parts ofme that are leaving and loving the spaces they leave behind. As if my worth is measured in the negative space of un-growing.