I Can Do Hard Things

For most of my life, I have struggled with my weight. I am not one of those naturally thin, high-metabolism people. I’m built sturdier than that. Pregnancy changed my body both times, and after each baby I fought hard to find my way back to some version of “normal.” And now, after two strokes, menopause, COVID, and simply the wear and tear of aging, staying healthy can sometimes feel like a full-time commitment layered on top of all the other responsibilities of life.

But I haven’t given up.

These days, though, my motivation has changed. I no longer chase some impossible ideal of thinness or youth. I want health. I want strength. I want energy. I want good lab results. I want to walk well into old age. I want to do everything I reasonably can to reduce the chances of another stroke. So I keep trying — eating better more often, walking more, lifting weights when I can, learning to care for this body instead of constantly criticizing it. And I’ll be honest, very often I fail at this and sometimes I just don’t even care.  I’m just exhaustified. But I press on….

And maybe this is one of the gifts that comes with age: perspective.

At some point, you begin to realize that your worth was never tied to the size of your waist or the number on a scale. The culture may worship youth and thinness, but God does not measure human value that way. He looks much deeper than outward appearance. He looks at the heart, the spirit, the character being formed through an entire lifetime of joys and sorrows and endurance.

Do I wish I had always taken better care of the healthy body I was originally given? Of course. But shame is a poor motivator for lasting change. I’m tired of fighting my body as though it were the enemy. This body has carried me through pregnancies and illnesses, grief and celebrations, long workdays and sleepless nights, surgeries and recoveries, mountains and oceans, kitchens and gardens, worship and ordinary Tuesdays. It has survived things I once thought might break me.

And despite its imperfections, it still serves me faithfully every day.

This body lets me walk beneath Alberta skies and see the mountains. It lets me hear the birds sing , music, and the laughter of people I love. It lets me taste warm bread fresh from the oven and smell lilacs in the spring. It allows me to hug my children, care for my mother, quilt at the table, bake in my kitchen, play the piano, dig in the dirt, sing in church, write my thoughts, and pray my prayers.

That is no small thing.

So yes, I still want to become healthier. I want to treat this body as a good steward should — not out of vanity, but out of gratitude. I want to nourish it, strengthen it, and respect it as the temple of the Holy Spirit it was meant to be.

But I no longer want to spend my life obsessing over whether I take up too much space in a photograph or whether someone else’s waist is smaller than my thigh.

In the end, those things simply are not important.

Health matters. Strength matters. Stewardship matters.  And I can do hard things.