By: Kaitlin Laird
The sunrise was beautiful on my sister’s fifteenth birthday. The early morning light illuminated the cloud cover and the distant mountains a rosy glow. It looked like fire was coming up from behind the hills. But I wasn’t watching it for fun. I’d woken up at 5:00 to run at the park down the street, even though I prefer any other kind of cardio. But the Internet had filled my mind with 1200-calorie diets, intense workouts, and the idea that shrinking my body would finally make me happy.
When I was sixteen, I noticed my jeans were fitting tighter and my body shape was changing, but I still ate my favorite Tillamook caramel swirl ice cream without guilt. It took half a year for my observations to turn into insecurities. “My body looks different” became “My body looks bad,” and that soon evolved into “My body is bad, and therefore I am bad.”
“How to lose weight” became my favorite Google search, even though I was barely over 130 pounds. I hype-ranalyzed my body in the mirror, renounced my beloved ice cream, and calculated the calories in every bite of food. Eating dessert with my family—something that had been communal and joyful—now triggered anxiety and shame. I lived in fear of my body and tried everything to prevent my physical appearance from changing.
“You’re a very pretty girl,” my mom often told me. “You’re skinny; you don’t have anything to worry about.”
But people’s attempts at comfort didn’t help. My body was my idol, and I was convinced that “fixing” it would bring me satisfaction.
I fell further into depression as I pursued my version of physical health. There was some truth to my concerns—I sat at a desk almost all day, chose pretzels over fruits and veggies, and often ate past fullness—but rather than a healthier lifestyle, my goal was a perfect body. I didn’t realize that my goal was unachievable, and that only God’s freedom could fully satisfy me.
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