Strong Enough

I am a twenty-six year old woman. I weigh approximately 150 to 155 pounds, that is twenty-five pounds more than I weighed in high school and about fifteen pounds heavier than I weighed merely two years ago when I was in grad school. My immediate reaction to writing those words is that I should erase them because they make me sound huge. But I’m not, I work out about six or seven times a week. I lift weights, do yoga, run on the treadmill, use the stairmaster and elliptical; I train, but not for anything in particular. I am lifting more weight than I ever have before in my life. I can run much farther and faster than I have ever been able to before. I am achieving fitness goals I never have before, and when I say “fitness goals,” I mean physical feats that I can complete, not what I look like in the mirror; I am not referring to my dress size. But, sometimes it seems that all I seem to care about is that dress size.

This week I caught myself considering backing off on my workouts because, and this is actually what I thought, “I was getting too strong.” I said this to myself multiple times before I actually heard what I was saying. I was afraid of being “too strong?” Why wouldn’t I want to be my strongest self?

I’ll tell you why.

I was afraid my arms looked too big. Who wants to date a woman who looks like she could beat you at arm wrestling? I was afraid that I didn’t look feminine anymore. But what does a feminine woman look like anyway? Does being feminine mean your biceps are only marginally thicker than your wrists? Does being feminine mean you have a gap between your two thighs when you stand of straight? I was afraid that I wasn’t beautiful anymore because, well, because no one has mentioned it in a while. For someone who professes to be trying to be “the best me I can be,” I sure do spend a lot of time comparing myself to others and to a version of me that no longer exists.

When I was thinking that perhaps I was becoming “too strong,” I was picturing myself in grad school. I was skinny, down to about 130-132 pounds. I could buy tight little A-line skirts and small blouses. I had to put smaller notches in my belts because my waist was getting too small and my pants wouldn’t stay up. Feminine, huh? I was also in the middle of terrible relationship drama and the hectic schedule of anyone in grad school. I was crying daily. I wasn’t working out except to push myself to exhaustion on the treadmill. I had lost the desire to eat and when I did, I threw up most of what I ate. I was riddled with self-doubt and fear, but at least I was skinny, right? Now you’d think that the people around me would have noticed how miserable I was, and maybe they did, but mostly I just heard about how good I looked in my little ensembles. Sure, I could fit into a jean size I hadn’t seen since high school, but at what cost?

So, now that I’m on the other side of that drama, now that I’m working out, now that my arm muscles are big, I’m eating what my body needs, I’m working hard, I’m setting goals and accomplishing them, I am not too strong. I am finally strong enough.

The other day at the gym two separate men stopped to ask me what I was training for, which entirely caught me off guard because I was feeling chubby and out of shape. I told them nothing, but that wasn’t true.

I am training to see what I can do. I am training because it makes me feel good and feminine and strong. I’m training for life—for my life.

Oh, and in case there is a zombie apocalypse.