…And so I picked up The Scale from the bathroom floor and I put it into my closet on a shelf, where it shall remain for an undetermined amount of time.
Oh, sorry. I probably should explain a little. Let me start at the beginning:
My relationship with The Scale began as a child. I remember it like it was yesterday…
I have always owned a Scale. I have always used a Scale. I have always been indifferent toward The Scale. It was simply an instrument used to measure weight. Neither good nor bad. Completely neutral. The Switzerland of household appliances.
I could speculate a lot about that decision—placing The Scale in the kitchen. But, since I have no desire whatsoever to dishonor the memory of my awesome mother, I will simply assert that Mom must have been insanely confident.
The Scale tracked my growth through puberty, into high school and throughout college, where I somehow navigated the intense pressure to be ultra-thin, and simply enjoyed being healthy. With regular activity and a well-balanced diet, I managed to reach a very healthy weight and stay there for last 25 years.
The Scale was a baby-growth-tracker during my two pregnancies. I watched with anticipation as my weight went up, knowing this meant a new life was growing inside me. And I watched The Scale go back down after months of busting my behind, power walking with baby-in-tow.
The Scale had no power over me. I had no emotions—positive or negative—toward The Scale.
Then I watched The Scale go up eighteen pounds in less than 9 months.
I watched The Scale get stuck on a number and refuse to move downward, despite personal trainers and portion control, busting my behind, power walking, intense workouts and calorie-counting.
Before my very eyes, The Scale morphed from a neutral instrument to measure my WEIGHT, to an instrument to measure my MOOD. Every morning, The Scale said, “You weigh too much.” The Scale said, “you aren’t doing enough.” The Scale said, “FAILURE.”
The Scale introduced phrases into my vocabulary like,
“I look fat in this.”
“I don’t feel pretty today.”
“I look pregnant.”
All this repeatedly spewing out of my mouth in the presence of my three precious children.
I promised myself I would always teach my children to be healthy, not skinny. I promised myself that I would not only teach, but also demonstrate to my children that God created each of us individually, uniquely and perfectly—and our job is to be good stewards of our health, so we can do and be all He created us to do and be.
Up until a few months ago, I was doing well. But then, The Scale got stuck. The Scale determined I was “unworthy,” and I chose to believe The Scale.
And then, the day I prayed would never come–what I had worked for years to avoid: I heard my beautiful, individual, unique and PERFECTLY created 11-year-old daughter say,
“I look fat in this.”
I decided right then and there, The Scale would NOT be the final word on my mood. The Scale would NOT be the final word on my self-worth. And most of all, The Scale would NOT determine the value of my daughter. Only God is allowed to do that.
And so I picked up The Scale from the bathroom floor and I put it into my closet on a shelf, where it shall remain for an undetermined amount of time.