So I lie in bed, watching Gilmore Girls (I HAVE to catch up before the revival) and it’s too hot to wear my pyjamas so I lock the door and get into bed without my heavy layers. Somewhere between a stray laugh and a sip of wine, I seem to bump into myself. When I lazily look down, I see the rolls where my tummy meets my waistband and I surprise myself, because I am not unhappy.
Instead I touch my skin and it is soft, so I smile and examine the scars that pepper my body and I feel calm.
I feel happy and complete and that THIS woman’s body is enough to love, to like, to hate sometimes but always enough.
I breathe in the scent of my own skin and gently kiss my own arm. It seems I am getting there, and loving myself is unbelievably fulfilling.