Rewind three years ago, to the start of 2010.
I had, through the course of 2009, dropped 50lbs and for the first time in many years, was slim. I felt like a million dollars. I was loving my exercise, particularly running and body attack and I trained with weights in the gym, though as it was a leisure club, my workout consisted of mostly machines.
Excitedly (and stupidly) I entered into my first ever physique competition which would have taken place in May 2010. However, just a couple of weeks into my preparation, my binge eating reared its ugly head and I was forced to pull out. It’s only now I look back over the photos and I am so glad I did.
Here is a picture of me in 2010, at the start of my competition preparation, alongside a picture of me now, in 2013…
I had worked my butt off to get back down to 10 stone/140lbs. Why that magic number? I have no idea. I’m pretty sure the last time I weighed so little was when I was about 16 years old, doing 3 hours of cardio a night and eating like a rabbit.
And it leads me onto thinking why lots of us, men and women, get so hung up on the number on the scale. It really is only a number and the pictures above prove that just because I might weigh less, doesn’t necessarily mean I will *look better*.
I used to be embarrassed about my weight, forever comparing myself to other women. But now I really couldn’t care less. I’m 5ft 8″ and have a naturally curvy, hourglass shape. I’m never going to be a petite, dainty size 8. Only now I can accept that and actually not give a shit.
I’m tall, I’m strong, I’m curvy, I’m Amazonian. I have muscle mass, I have curves. I can pull 130kg deadlifts. I lift heavy shit for fun. What’s not to love about that?