***

When I graduated, apartment-less and broke, whatever extra weight I was carrying briefly slipped off. I spent my days wandering New York City in 90-degree heat, and I spent my wrinkled, sweaty singles on slices of pizza for dinner. But as my life came together, the weight returned. Every time I reached a new high score in adulthood, I reached a new high score on the scale. Landed an apartment? Plus five pounds. Promoted from part-time to full-time? Plus 10 pounds. The more money I had, the more weight I gained. I was like a wealthy Englishman from the 1800s.

***

Over a decade later, I still yo-yo between accepting my body and trying to “correct” it. I’ve ceased borrowing clothes from tiny people, including my former self — but I still contort my arms so they’ll appear thinner in photographs. I’ve thrown out my scale, but I still feel relief when someone tells me it looks like I’ve lost weight. I love the peace of walking for miles (my favorite lazy way to be active), and for a moment in time, I was one of those SoulCycle drones people write think pieces about. And yet, the muscle (and subsequent weight) I gained from indoor cycling made me feel worse about my body than ever.

It makes sense that I struggle to accept my body. First, it was too skinny and flat, and people loved to tell me so. And when I did fill out, it was in the "wrong" way. Body acceptance, when I finally discovered it, didn't seem like it belonged to me — all I had to do was stop being lazy and work out, right?

But body acceptance is exactly for people “like me” — because it’s for everyone. Because it’s never just about accepting your appearance and your weight. It’s about self-acceptance — the entire self, not just the visible bits. It’s challenging the idea that your exterior is indicative of your value as a human being.

Some days, my experience of body acceptance is a scenic four-mile walk, and some days, it's pedaling on a stationary bike to nowhere. Some days, I'm high on empowerment endorphins, and some days, I'm googling “body dysmorphic disorder” for the third time that month. So for now, my focus is not on accepting what I see in the mirror, but on accepting that I’m going to feel conflicted sometimes. That there’s a version of myself who is trying, and a version who gives up on getting dressed halfway through because nothing fits right. And mostly, I try to accept that I don’t know when — or if — that tension will ever resolve. All I can do is take baby steps, knowing my ultimate goal has nothing to do with counting them.