One of my most used self-care tools is the knowledge that when it comes to my body, I am both my most unreliable source of truth, and the only being on the planet that knows what is right for me in this moment.

Yep. Its a brain pretzel. But bare with me – leaning into this idea helped me lose 65 pounds, and continues to help me live peacefully in my body.

For several decades, every morning began with me stepping on the scales. My response to the number between my toes would determine how my entire day was going to play out.  Those little numbers could produce a response in me anywhere on the Spectrum of Feelings from benign acceptance, guilt, shame, unworthiness, frustration, break out the black hidey clothes; to finally I am doing it right, this diet/exercise programme works, I am winning at life, and to celebrate I will wear a frock! Until the next day when the number shifted and… you know how this goes.

I felt out of control, trapped in an endless loop of battling with my body. If someone had said ‘you just need to juice more!’ I might have assaulted them explained patiently, that body self-care is not about juicing. Especially when Failure to Juice makes you want to eat a pile of chocolate the size of your own head.

This is where George Costanza comes in. Seinfeld fans may remember the episode when George decided to change his life by doing the complete opposite of his usual approach? Similarly, when I decided I wanted to change my relationship with my body, I found that I had to unlearn almost everything I had thought to be true.

I had to embrace my inner-Costanza thus:

• The Scales of Doom could be arbitrary empirical data AND evidence of my utter crapness. The way of utter crapness had not been working for me for thirty years, so why don’t I just try playing with the idea that opposite was true?

• My soft, round endomorph body means I put on weight so super-easy it shows up on the scale the next day *dramatic sigh* AND it is also true that my endomorphic shape gives me an amazing source of immediately available data.

I discovered language to be an arbitrary body messaging system: the only thing that mattered was how I interpreted the message. I could choose how to feel about it.

And the little gremlin, the saboteur, the negative voice of all my utter crapness, was also just telling me one version of the truth. I could chose not to believe the little bugger.

This created a ripple effect. I began to question all the basic things I thought I knew. Instead of beating myself up, I got curious: ‘I’m always hungry! I will never lose weight!’ was met with really? Am I? How do I know I am hungry? What does that feel like? I learnt to interpret what my body was telling me and importantly, when to trust it. I started to recognise that ‘hunger’ might actually be thirsty, nervous, bored, tired, fed-up, excited, anxious… but surprisingly, not always hungry.

This body peace gig is a daily practice. And when I am expecting my Lady Moon Time, if I am tired, or its been a day of parking tickets and spilled milk, this process is more challenging. Sometimes I forget and neglect to listen deeply to the messages my body tells me. But its always there waiting, and reminding me in small and big ways when I need to return to myself.

George went from living with his parents to managing the Yankees. I passionately adore my perfectly imperfect body. Brain pretzel. I rest my case.

~

This post is a contribution to The Perfectly Imperfect Project :: a blog hop by Tamarisk & Mara. We are spreading the word about real-life, gorgeously nourishing, perfectly imperfect self-care. Click on the badge above for all posts and head over to Susannah for the next in the series.

It occurred to me on Saturday afternoon, as I slathered unsalted butter, then homemade marmalade onto toasted Vogel bread, that I haven’t been paying much attention to what I’ve been eating lately.

And I momentarily checked in with myself. And decided that this is a bloody amazing development.

Life is SO busy and juicy right now, the hours I am keeping are a little nuts, consequently I am not as organised as I would like to be. Dinner sometimes involves ‘pierce-film-place-on-shelf’ recipe. And the occasional takeaway (Lamb Biryani from Deliverance. Oh my). And our on-site cafe has cakes and pastries from Peyton and Byrne. Say no more.

Oh and pie? Following hours of coaching and being coached and all that this involves, we descend on Pieminister for warm and filling, pastry-based lunchtime nourishment.  This is self-care in action.

Right now, I am in transition, of stepping into my Life Purpose (just that tiny thing). So you know, things are interesting! The miracle of it is that I am not obsessy about food or the varying degrees of grabable wobble, at all (can I get a Hallelujah?!).

Through all this, my jeans are still sliding on nicely, and I have been hovering within a 5 pound/2 kilo range (I weigh myself every day). It doesn’t feel like a battle anymore: just a lifelong noticing, of being kind to myself, of looking for nourishment.

Yesterday we enjoyed super awesome sensory sustenance at the Wises’ Storytelling Sunday. Today I had blueberries and yogurt for breakfast and there is a homemade butternut squash soup waiting to be warmed up for supper.

For lunch there may be pie.

~

Marthe has the best ideas on the interwebs for how to take care of yourself when life goes crackers.  Also (re: elephants): Shirley and Jenny will break. you. open.

To be honest, its not my most favourite of things, to spend Sunday afternoon having my breasts manhandled by an aging matron. But I now have two new lacy bras that are a couple of cup sizes smaller than the last fitting (given my previous cup size was ‘Good God!’ my back is very thankful). And half an hour later I pulled on 32 inch ‘sexy boot-cut’ jeans at the Gap. I can fit jeans from the Gap! That are Sexy!

Dearest bloggy reader, I almost wept with all the awesome.

Spurned by this most momentous of events, I decided yesterday afternoon, that the time had come to actually BELIEVE that my body has changed. Almost 30 kilos have kinetically, chemistarily metamorphosed off my shape in the last two years, leaving me at a happy and comfortable size UK12-14/US8-10. Without much effort I am continuing to shrink very slowly, I trust that my body will find its happy place.

But opening my wardrobe to find a load of clothes that are too big for me, was beginning to feel like I was waiting for this to end. For the time when I return to the place of unconsciously unloving myself.

So in less than half an hour I threw into a bag: old grey knickers, several too-big bras, over-sized shirts and comfy pants, several maxi-dresses, and three pairs of jeans (with holes where the tops of my thighs rubbed together).  I remembered the process of buying some items. Of standing in the changing room mirror and thinking is this ok? Are all the parts of me that I don’t like hidden? Sometimes I was so grateful for getting the damn thing over my head and down my body, I would buy it (which explains the scary green frock that was never worn).

These days I enter a changing room with a deep love for my body. I refuse to be intimidated by snooty salespeople, or their ridiculous non-standard sizing methods that can sometimes feel like a conspiracy run by the 8% of the population that conform. I ask myself: does it suit me? Do I feel sexy in this? Does it tell you who I am?

It was such a relief to put everything that no longer fits my new life into a big black bag, I think I also threw out most of my doubts and anxieties about the permanence of this new size.

Sometimes Mr P says ‘you look lovely’ as we leave for work in the morning. And this makes my heart swell.

Confession: whenever I decided to change my body, my sole motivation was to reduce the size of my arse to something that did not resemble the back of a Black Cab. I wanted to look hot on the beach in a bikini. I concentrated on the outside stuff because I thought that the sacred cow of the perfect physical shape, would magically lead to the perfect life.

Yes, dear bloggy reader, I fell for THAT bollocks.

The outside results though, were so hard won and didn’t resemble anything close to happiness. I was in a cycle of deprivation, failure, shame and punishment even though I was doing everything the magic new diet/trainer/back of the pill packet told me to do. For years.

The amount of weight I felt I needed to lose was too much to contemplate, and if by some miracle I eventually changed my body, how the hell would I be able to maintain it with the metabolism of a heavy wooden table? I felt like I was engaged in a lifelong struggle of suffering. Of trying to resist Whittaker’s coconut rough choc. And failing.

I was so desperate to get some freakin’ peace.

And I did. And it came with so much more than I ever expected. Because getting to here had nothing whatsoever to do with anything that has ever existed outside of myself.

That’s the cosmic joke: the very thing we resist is so often the doorway to the life we crave.

My physical transformation only happened as a result of massive internal changes that have delivered more happiness than smaller jeans ever could.

By connecting my body, mind and soul into the bestest version of me, I now feel connected to everything and everyone around me. The kindness and compassion I have shown to myself, I can now give freely to others without unspoken conditions, and without it feeling twee. I had to learn to show love to myself when I felt my most unlovable: to just accept that the un-learning and the re-learning would be frustrating and the opposite of an instant fix.

And I had to find the courage to tell you my story in all its messiness and hard-truths. These were the necessary ingredients for finding the peace I despaired of for years.

That my arse is a bit smaller is a total bonus.