Workout Wednesday: The Real War

Very often in my life, I've been in chase of The Skinny.

The Thin.

The Svelte.

The Waifish-ness we've all seen splashed over the pages of magazines at the check-out stand.

And in that, I've been running, sprinting even, away from The Fat.

The Bulge.

The Pudge.

The Flab.

I've spent years - more than I care to count because they'd take me spiraling back into my childhood - doing it.

There were months spent fighting my natural build - my infinite musculature, my larger thighs, my lack of a chest, my everything that made me look like who I was but didn't really want to be.

And, in that fight, I was joined by thousands - millions, even - of women who were battling the exact same thing: The urge to whittle away at their waist or their rear ends or their apple-shaped torsos.

It's common, for all of us, to be dissatisfied by our bodies. To see them, even, as the enemy.

We insult them, ridicule them, and torture them.

And, in most cases, they didn't do anything wrong.

Because even exercise and healthy eating can go too far. Obsession takes many forms. Perfection comes at a huge cost.

And, still, some women fight on.

But others - yes, others - know different. Know better.

They are in the minority. And they are sad.

Some of them, even, are reformed. They, too, fought the Battle of the Bulge before stark reality made them a convert. An unwilling one, in most cases, but a convert nonetheless.

Their fight is real; their reality is much more painful than saddlebags.

Their body has betrayed them not on the scale but in the obstetrician's office.

And, all too suddenly, these women could care less about being at their fighting weight; they'd gain 100+ pounds if they could have what they want.

If their Benedict-Arnold body could finally succumb to what it had promised to do for them all along.

If their body would finally allow them to do what others around them seem to be doing ad nauseum.

They are infertile, and they, my friends, are fighting an actual war with their bodies.

While I know only a small snippet of their pain firsthand, I know it can be crippling.

It's not a game; it's not a chase. It's not a personal challenge between them and the scale, or the treadmill, or the models on the cover of a woman's magazine.

It's real.

It's war.

It's death and dying and emotional scarring and wounds so deep that basic triage won't work anymore.

Every day, they have to walk around in the body they feel betrayed them and dodge bullet after baby-sized bullet.

It's gruesome.

It's depressing.

It's constant.

It's costly.

The streets are lined with heroic success story after success story - and failure after failure.

And unlike the rest of us - who are congratulated for losing two pounds or admired for our persistent gym attendance - they receive no blessings, no pats on the back for getting up every day and facing the needles and prods and wands and prayers and herbal remedies and supposed-to-be-helpful jabs that are thrown at them.

We don't cheer them on as they fight against their own bodies to pursue one of the most blessed things a woman can be: A mother.

Where are their medals? Where are their Purple Hearts?

When do we thank them for their service? For their pursuit to raise up a child right?

Fact is, we don't.

Most of us simply plod along - counting calories, pinching our waistlines, memorizing our body-fat percentage points to the one one-thousandth decimal place.

We play at war with our own bodies; we are our own toy soldiers.

All while some of our sisters head out into real emotional mind fields hour after hour.

So the next time you feel the urge to complain about your pear-shape, remember there are those out there fighting a real war for, against, and with their bodies.

They are the ones who deserve our love, our prayers, our militant support. They deserve for us to recognize their service, their battle.

They deserve our respect.

So here's to Infertility Awareness Week. I hope, as women, we can all join together in making this battle easier for those who struggle in this fight daily. That we can step back - away from play-fighting with the scale and the mirror - and realize how much we've all been richly blessed with our own bodies.

And then I dream that all of us can really fight together - in research, in fellowship, in support systems - so that our fellow sisters can one day have those very same blessings.

I pray that one day all of us can look down at our bodies thankfully. Because it was those bodies that allowed us - all of us - to become mothers.

Happy Wednesday, everyone.