photo by Lara Herscovitch
In March of last year, on my 32nd birthday, I thought my self-love journey was complete. I thought I’d done all the work — I felt so at peace with who I was. So, I decided to take some inventory and reflect on how far I’ve come.
“Is there anything getting in the way of my self-confidence?” I asked. “Is there something I should be doing differently?” A part of me expected only contentment in return.
Instead, a white-hot wave of embarrassment washed over me, as I quickly knew: physical care and movement. The body I loved so dearly, that I felt so at home in — I wasn’t taking care of it physically as best I could.
I’ve taught myself to have a healthy relationship with food in my adult life, but I have been pretty sedentary. I was acutely aware of how young I still was (and am) in my early 30’s, and also acutely aware that I was feeling aches and pains that could be remedied with exercise. I knew if I wanted to still feel good when I get older, I need to start now. It was time for a change, but I was scared.
Sports were never an interest of mine as a kid. I was the bubbly, “weird,” artsy girl — and I liked it that way. I got into trouble at school for doodling during math class, or for bringing animals I made out of erasers to science class. In fifth grade, I sat in the outfield with my legs crossed during softball games making flower chains. I never understood why that one girl on the other team took it so seriously. “It’s just a game,” I thought, closing the loop on my dandelion crown that I would only be allowed to wear for a moment before the coach yelled at me to stand up. I begrudgingly brushed the dirt off my polyblend XXL softball tee, the largest size they made.
Some of us wonder why there’s so much shame around weight and exercise — but I know exactly where mine comes from. When I was nine, my doctor told me I needed to lose weight. She hid it behind a smile and a sing-songy suggestion that my mother should watch what I eat, but all three of us knew what she meant.
I’m an only child, and was essentially allowed to eat whatever I wanted. I was gaining weight, but as a fifth grader, I didn’t know why, or how. At school, I felt antsy, sick to my stomach, and almost always wanted to leave; coming home to eat a snack made me feel better.
I was embarrassed to be fat, and I was embarrassed to be shopping in the teen section by the time I was 10. I was embarrassed to be picked last at kickball; embarrassed to be big and tall when all my friends were tiny; embarrassed that I couldn’t run as fast.
At some point — a core memory I have yet to recall in therapy — when my heart rate went up, I started getting the occasional panic attack. It happened during gym class in elementary school; when I tried out for the basketball team in middle school; when I tried to join the swim team in high school; when I tried to go for a run the summer before I started college. The attacks kept happening and I would give up; I never lasted at any attempt at physicality for more than a week. “It’s just not who I am,” I’d say.
Flipping through so many magazine pages of skinny girls in the 2000s and ads for sugar-free this and fat-free that, I thought I was just destined to never be skinny, and somehow, that was a bad thing.
I knew I didn’t want to spend my life hating my body, so my 20s were a time of moving towards finding self-love. And the larger culture was with me in many ways — the 2010s brought the quiet rumblings of a digital revolution: body positivity. Slowly, year after year, more blogs would pop up of plus-size fashion bloggers; plus-size models on magazine covers; body positivity campaigns on tv. I grew to realize that I could love myself for me, a feeling I’d always had inside, but never received external validation for.
I learned to love myself in so many different ways: delicious and nutritious food, fashion, makeup, getting good sleep. Even as a child, I gravitated towards creativity, fashion, humor; there was a part of me that thought, “If there are all these other parts of me that are likable, my size won’t matter.” People would be able to look past it. “You have such a pretty face,” my mother’s friends would say. Just like in the doctor’s office, I knew what they meant. But now, it felt like my body was something else I had permission to love.
But throughout all of this, the one thing I continued to avoid was movement. “It’s just not for me,” I’d always say, “it’s not who I am.” Deep down I knew those statements were based in fear of having a panic attack while moving my body, or being embarrassed at my lack of physicality in general, but that was a voice and truth I chose to continuously ignore.
I spent the first half of my 20s walking everywhere and was constantly on my feet in various retail and service industry jobs. This made me feel like I was doing enough to move my body. At 27, I began working a stressful corporate desk job; and that was when the problems started. Clenching my jaw in my sleep, shoulder aches, tighter hamstrings and back pain. I didn’t want this to be my life 24/7, but maybe this is just the way it is, I thought. I’ll never be consistently physical, my lifestyle is different now, and that’s just how it is.
The weighted blanket of my shame and anxiety around exercise avoidance creeped back in, until it was covering me every day and gluing me to my couch in the final years of my 20s. When the pandemic started shortly before my 30th birthday, the feelings of isolation made my fear even worse.
When I was a part of CLP in the winter of 2021-2022, there was a passing comment made about ‘the stories we tell ourselves.’ It was part of a larger discussion on self-awareness, and it struck me. I knew I was going to have to confront certain stories and question the truth or lies within them.
It was time to unpack. I was so tired of how I was feeling physically. I realized that throughout my dedicated journey of self-love, not moving my body got swept into it all. I realized I used the concept of “body acceptance” as a shield to cover my anxiety around exercise. The moment I was able to admit that to myself was when everything changed.
So, in March of 2022, on my birthday, I decided to confront this story of exercise avoidance that I’d been telling myself my whole life and maybe, maybe do something about it. I knew if I really loved myself, that I would.
I realized that exercise, diets, and hunger were always presented as a punishment. Shame and negative self-talk dominated my relationship with exercise. It took me 32 years to realize that it didn’t need to be like that. I didn’t need to feel ashamed about not moving my body. I love myself, and my body — so shouldn’t I be taking care of it? Just because I was raised to view exercise as a punishment and fat as bad, doesn’t mean I can’t give exercise a different meaning. What if I changed the narrative?
I made a promise to myself to go to the gym every week for the next year, April 1st to April 1st. An intentional lifestyle shift. No avoidance. This time, things felt different — because this promise was made out of the love I have for myself. I was finally allowing myself to ease into this change and hold space for messing up along the way. It didn’t feel like a challenge; it felt like a hug.
I told myself to take baby steps; to ease into it. I joined the Jewish Community Center in Woodbridge, a place I’ve now come to find great comfort in. I didn’t go much at first. I’d go once a week and do the elliptical or walk on the treadmill. I wore a baseball cap tight and low over my eyes to avoid any eye contact.
Then, I started going more frequently, trying different machines and asking for help. I started saying hello to the staff. I looked up videos on proper form and new exercises. I bought pink lifting gloves. I made workout playlists. I started writing down my workouts in a journal. I started increasing and tracking my protein intake. I already felt the difference, both in my body and in my mental health.
One day, a month or so into my weekly gym visits, I started on the Stairmaster and felt that familiar sensation — a panic attack — bubble up in my chest. I got off, dizzy and unable to breathe, and rushed into the bathroom to cry. I felt so frustrated, and ashamed. Those old stories of defeat washed over me, and I let them. I felt like a little girl in gym class all over again.
Early on, I decided that instead of setting lofty expectations, I’d practice temperance. And patience. And discipline. And grace. And gentleness. And kindness. And empathy. I was shocked at how soon into my new fitness journey I would come to the gym for stress relief, to feel better, to reward myself after a long day of work. I looked forward to it. I made excuses to go to the gym. During those first few months, the anxiety and hesitation around movement was unraveling faster than I could hold onto them. I was learning that the act of doing has so much more power than our thoughts.
So, on the day I found myself panicking and crying in the bathroom, instead of continuing to scold myself for the panic, I sat with it. I sat in the stall and blew my nose while people came in and out. I practiced slow breathing. “It’s ok,” I told myself over and over. Don’t be embarrassed for crying. It’s ok. What can I do to remedy this?” I started the Stairmaster at a level 6 when I started to panic, and while I’d love to be able to do that, I told myself I’d go back out there and start at a 3.
It felt slow, but I did a minute at level 3, a minute at 4, a minute at 5, and the rest of the time at 6-7. In the practice of patience and self-love, I allowed myself the time for my body to adjust to the increase of heart rate at the pace my body needed.
And it worked.
This is how I warm up to all of my workouts now, and it’s been over six months since I’ve had a panic attack at the gym.
Maybe it’s common sense that the solution to panic is compassion; but it is a solution that’s taken me a few decades to put into practice. And that’s ok. Now, when I begin my warmups on the Stairmaster, those first few minutes on a low speed is my time to ground myself and show myself that patience and love. I sometimes notice feelings of frustration during those first few minutes. It’s a mental exercise, then, to quiet the negative self-talk and remind myself that showing myself grace and compassion is a radical act of self-love. It all comes back to that.
I think one of the biggest reasons I was averse to exercise is because it’s just as much of a mental exercise as it is physical. And mentally, I was scared to go there.
I am eternally grateful to myself that I did.
This new chapter for me has never been about losing weight or achieving that dream body. There’s no number on the scale or number of workouts or whatever that can make me feel like I’ve made it with any body goals. Ultimately, that comes from within. And within, I’m exactly where I need to be. It really is all about the journey.
So I am here again, a year later in my birthday month, still evolving. As of April 1st, I will have successfully gone to the gym every single week (save a few weeks of illness) in the last year; something I’ve never done in my entire life. The relationship I had with movement and exercise in my youth is still a part of my story, and it’s a story I’ve also decided to change.
My story has additional chapters to come – and they are chapters I get to write myself. With love.
To reach Hannah directly: milliken.hannah@gmail.com or via LinkedIn