I keep trying

A poem about hating your body.

I keep trying to hate my body

as the scales tip upwards, real slow

and the scars on my belly turn purple

and half of my clothes have been sold.



I keep trying to hate my body

as I scroll all the swimsuit sales

and return every order that I try on

because nothing fits my love handles.



I keep trying to hate my body

because that’s what I’m supposed to do:

to resent my new elastic bands

and portion out all my food.



But the mirror is a kind of rebellion.

I look closely and say, “This is real.”

This tender softness surrounding me

from hours of love shared over a meal



and I can’t stop crying at miracles

that consecrate where we belong

and allow us to dance,

and laugh, and give birth,

and that keep the air in our lungs.



So I keep trying to hate my body

But I’m tired, and it’s getting old.

For the love we receive

as we beg through fatigue:

“Turn these vessels into something holy.”



And all I can think is “What a gift”

as I plant my first garden at home.

My hands full of dirt

where I pray through the hurt:

“To whom else shall I go?”



The medication moves through me

Nausea and relief come in waves

And I want to resent

the hand I’ve been dealt

But I can’t, in this infinite grace.



I keep trying to do what they tell me –

to become an object of scorn.

But the steam of my coffee

and the Eucharist before me

makes my body a temple, adorned



for something or someone who’s greater,

who formed me in my mother’s womb,

who calls me by name,

and bids me to stay,

and cries “Love, I make all things new.”

All my love,

P.S. If you want to join me for live, monthly writing sessions rooted in Celtic Liturgy, consider becoming a paid subscriber. I’d love to have you in the writer’s room with us.