The Weight of Numbers

“One day… my eyes will be used to seeing my naked self, these luscious mounds of skin. Upon seeing my bare body in a mirror, there will only be love; well-known, unconditional, infatuated love.”

I wrote those words at the beginning of this year when my mind was fixated on the concept of blissful & positive body acceptance. I had been trying to wrap my mind around the curves that seemingly came out of no where.

The change was dramatic, stemmed from the inescapable development that comes with womanhood. My brain couldn’t comprehend this kind of metamorphosis. I loathed being in a body that felt so foreign. It left me feeling disoriented.

But I wanted to make peace with that.

It was my hope to have found acceptance in my new skin after months had passed & forgiveness from my self-hatred had taken place. And I was on the right track. I was able to stop obsessing about the voluptuous tufts of skin that rippled when I walked, stretched, slept, sat.

I was able to see the beauty of round bellies & even admire those who possessed them.

I was able to cradle my full belly in my hands & send to it positive affirmations — this is beautiful; you are beautiful.

And then I got weighed at the doctor’s office.

The first blow was given when I found out my true height in numbers (I’m a lot less tall than I thought I was). The second would come after I hesitantly stepped on the rickety scale & watched as the dial slid further & further to the right.

“One thirty four,” the nurse announced cheerfully, writing down the sequence of numbers in my medical records.

One thirty four. One thirty four. 1-3-4.

Those three numbers continued to bounce against the wall of my consciousness, echoing ceaselessly as my blood pressure was taken, as my eyeballs were examined, as my breasts were checked for abnormal lumps, as specimen was collected for my smear test.


In my logical, self-loving mind, I know that there is no significance about one thirty four, that it doesn’t reflect my womanly identity or self-worth.

It’s just a number.

But it holds so much weight for me; the heaviness of it presses against my chest & makes my head spin with irrational insecurity.

I now see 134 when I look at myself in the mirror. I see it when I look down at the fullness of my belly after devouring a home-cooked meal. I see it when I’m writhing with pleasure after a shattering release provoked by my partner.

I haven’t been able to shake it off.

I am tormented by the technicality of numbers, the daunting knowledge of how my weigh is distributed, but especially this inconceivable notion that my body is developing, evolving, gaining.

134 has been seared into my innermost thoughts & scarred across my eyelids.

I am saddened that I’ve not yet been cured from the preoccupation I have with my figure & its altering due to maturity. I cannot escape the melancholy thoughts about it.

And maybe that’s okay.

Not in the sense that having melancholy thoughts about my body is okay, but more in the way that body acceptance is not stagnant, much like self-growth is not stagnant. Perhaps there’s no destination to arrive at when it comes to confident, loving body image; perhaps it’s meant to ebb & flow as days, months, years go by.

Perhaps I need to go easier on myself.

I say all of this to think out loud, so to speak; to reveal a part of me that I am still coming to terms with; to admit that I am struggling & need to be reminded of my own beautiful affirmations.

It is through this admission that I can transcend my self-hatred.

It implies the need for me to be held accountable.

Thank you for allowing me to share this with you. I know I’m not the only one.


Q: have you come to terms with the way your body looks? Has there ever been a time where you loved your body in a way that is consistent?

© 2018 Ev'Yan Whitney. All rights reserved.