You are amazing.
I don’t tell you that enough.
You were amazing when I was 21 and 110 pounds and wore a size 2. We trekked through college together; bagel fests and all night study sessions, midnight Lord Of The Rings premiers and hiking through state parks. Your flat tummy looked amazing in bikinis and your toned legs carried me through class to class, up hills and down valleys. We were amazing, you and me.
You were amazing when I was 25 and 130 pounds. You were packed with muscle, serving me well through firefighter 1 class. You kept me awake as I studied to become a paramedic. You were awesome the first time I ever did CPR; manually pumping blood throughout a body for a heart that could no longer do it on its own. You kept me going through the hardest physical thing I ever did, training as a firefighter, wearing heavy turnout gear with an SCBA on my back, crawling blindfolded through a maze. But we made it, you and me. And we were awesome.
You were amazing when I was 27 and 140 pounds, walking down my parent’s staircase, white dress form fitted to you. Your fingers trembled sliding a ring onto the hand of the man I loved, his eyes trained on my mine as we made solemn, scary, joyous promises to each other. He didn’t care that you were a little bit bigger than you used to be, thanks to the steroids I had been taking to keep my lungs open. I didn’t care, either. I was lovely in that dress and he was handsome and we were madly, crazily in love with each other.
You were so amazing when I was 28 and when I was 30, and both times I weighed an amount that I could not have believed when I was 21 and tiny. You grew two little lives inside, astounding, beautiful creatures that you nourished and protected. You swelled to proportions I did not know existed as my babies flailed their arms and legs around in you. You kept them warm and safe as they grew into babies until, finally, they were nestled in my arms. Oh, you were so amazing, growing those beautiful babies.
You are amazing now, when I am 32 and will not tell the world what I weigh. You are scarred, between c-section scars and gall bladder surgery and eye surgery. You don’t leap out of bed with quite the same vigor you did when you were 21 and only needed two hours of sleep. You are still beautiful, even now when your thighs touch and the varicose veins are starting to pop up and your arms might be just a bit flabby. You became a firefighter and a paramedic, and every day, you do amazing things for people who need help. You love a man who will love you when your brown hair becomes grey and your firm face dissolves into wrinkles. You hold a four year old and a two year old, and kiss their boo boos and rock them to sleep before tucking them into bed.
You are amazing. No matter what you look like. You were amazing when you were thin, and you are amazing now that you are not. You are strong and brave and kind and loving and you do amazing, amazing things, every day.