I have always been self-conscious about my legs. By the look of them, you might say that’s where I hold most of my strength.
After gaining thirty pounds last year, I grew tired of feeling uncomfortable in my body—like I didn’t even recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. That frustration sparked my third attempt to recommit to a workout routine and a healthier lifestyle.
Turning thirty reinforced my hope of one day feeling comfortable in my own skin. But I also wanted to prioritize my health and longevity.
After a month of faithfully showing up at my favorite LA Fitness, I noticed something unexpected: my confidence wasn’t coming from how I looked, but from my ability to consistently show up for myself.
I started finding my footing in the gym, watching my discipline strengthen with each visit. I set non–scale-related goals—wearing shorts to the gym, building strength, walking up a flight of stairs without losing my breath.
The “shorts goal” was the scariest. I hadn’t worn them in years, but I committed to choosing growth over fear.
In the name of exposure therapy—and thanks to Amazon Prime Day—I ordered a pair. They were an earthy, chocolate-brown shade that perfectly matched the aesthetic I was creating. But once they arrived, the real challenge began: putting them on and actually wearing them out.
After picking myself apart in the mirror for what felt like forever, I finally gathered the courage to leave the house. My discomfort was loud, threatening to drown out the confidence I had been building. Every glance in my direction felt like confirmation that my legs were too big, too full of cellulite, to be on display.
“These are just my legs,” I reminded myself. “There’s nothing wrong with them.”
At the gym, there was no turning back. I stepped out of the car, breathing in the affirmations I’d practiced.
Women are taught that beauty is currency—that without it, we lose power. Most days, I’m fed up with those standards. The pressure to fit into a certain “aesthetic” hangs over me like a dark cloud.
I was exhausted from being insecure. It had reached the point where I couldn’t even pinpoint what I disliked—it felt like everything about me needed to change.
I had braced for wearing the shorts to cause some kind of upheaval, an experience so negative that I’d never want to wear them again.
But none of that happened. I slipped into my usual flow at the gym and forgot I was even wearing them.
I left that day proud, knowing I’d proven myself wrong and faced my fears despite the story I had been telling myself.
Beauty standards will always shift, as they have for centuries. Whether I fit them or not, it’s my responsibility to love myself in spite of them. Self-love is rarely easy; these days, I think of it as a muscle—something I have to strengthen and recommit to over and over again.
I’m still nervous to wear the shorts a second time, but now I know I can.
msoull 