Ask most women and they’ll tell you that romance means getting showered with copious amounts of delicious chocolate, receiving a giant-ass bouquet of roses from your bae, or being whisked away for a fun date night. I can personally attest to this, because I’m definitely one of those ladies. But after having two kids and unexpectedly gaining a bunch of weight, I’ve decided to add something else to my list. As much fun as it is to have my husband love bomb me, I’ve learned that it’s also pretty damn romantic to shower myself with some major TLC.
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If the image of a woman with a soft belly makes you feel uncomfortable, it’s time to get curious about why. If seeing someone with a larger body immediately causes you to make vast, negative assumptions about their lifestyle & health, it’s time to be willing to change your narrative. And if looking at me smiling while letting my tum tum hang out all relaxed & shit brings up a ton of judgments & bias in you about whether I’m valuable enough to enjoy my body just because I do, it’s time to cultivate some major compassion. It’s time to stop believing that just because you have someone in front of you who looks different than society’s “golden” idea of perfection & success, that you know what they are going through, are doing, or more importantly, AREN’T doing. It’s 2020, folks. Time to educate yourselves, ask more internal questions, and widen your scope of what makes a person worthy of taking up space. 🔥 #effyourbeautystandards
This year, I’m on a self-love mission. And it starts with taking my FUPA out to an enchanting candlelight dinner for two.
The vast majority of us remember when Beyonce gave a sweet shout out to her “little FUPA” in 2018, and plenty of us are familiar with the term since it’s been around for years. But in case you need a refresher, FUPA (pronounced “foo-pah”) is an acronym for the “fat upper pubic area” on a human being. And recently, I’ve been thinking a whole lot about mine.
The place where my mom pouch hangs soft and loose used to be source of great emotional pain for me. I spent two exhausting decades existing in a thin body and went to extreme methods to keep it that way. Then motherhood hit me like a ton of bricks, and I couldn’t believe how much my body had changed after giving birth. Where did my flat abs go? Why won’t these stretch marks disappear? And when the hell will my boobs have their gravity-defying renaissance?
But then something pretty damn miraculous happened. One random day while checking myself out in the mirror, I kicked shame to the curb and let love hop into the driver’s seat. These days, living my best life includes celebrating my fat, fabulous bod and rejecting the notion that weight loss needs to be the cornerstone of how I take care of myself. Plus-sized stores are my current go-to shops, shaking my tush to Lizzo is a daily activity, and the body positivity movement is making room for its newest fan. My husband also jumped on board and openly declared that he’s really fucking into my bigger body and thinks I’m smokin’ hot no matter what size I am.
Newsflash: His wife’s really fucking into her bigger body too.
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Hey @jillianmichaels here’s ME at my current weight, happy as a clam, and in some of the best overall health of my life, standing beside the daughter I am raising to learn to embrace herself no matter how her body changes in this lifetime. If I can learn to love myself at any size, you can too. ❤️ P.S. the BMI is bullshit, diet pills that are potentially lethal aren’t cool to sell, fat-shaming is so out of style, & screaming at clients threatening their imminent death is not the way to champion health. Also @lizzobeeating is my WCW forever. 🎉#jillianmichaels #fuckdietculture #haes
Before I whip out the champagne and declare my undying devotion to all the FUPAs of the world, I want to acknowledge something important. It’s hard as hell to fall in love with a body part that society has been shitting on since the beginning of time. Many of us have worked tirelessly to hide, erase, and avoid having a cushy tummy, loose skin, or even a lil’ pooch. And for good reason. Profit-driven industries have been aggressively teaching us that our bodies come with a bunch of physical flaws that need to be fixed ASAP. The very businesses and institutions that are hoping we’ll buy their products and services are the same exact ones duping us into believing that a FUPA is problematic. Many of us are still buying into this lie, and I think it’s because it scares us to get out of our comfort zones and challenge the status quo.
But if the status quo is keeping enough of us in a constant state of shame, fear, and self-loathing, it’s time for a fucking wake up call.
So today, I’m personally inviting you to my self-love party. All you have to bring besides your badass self is your motherfucking FUPA. And while we’re at it, your cellulite, jiggly arms, and wrinkles can come along too. Just make sure to share this one important detail with each body part that’s invited. They were never the problem. You were never the problem. The shame-based conditioning we’ve been inundated with since we were kids? That’s the fucking problem.
Moms are on the receiving end of enough societal bullshit and pressure, and we don’t need to be inundated with lies that teach us to hate our naturally changing bodies. In fact, women everywhere contend daily with the idea that our appearance needs to look a certain way — and stay that way — in order to seem valuable.
I’m tired of it. How women look needs to stop being considered the most interesting thing about us because we have so much more to offer society than our size, shape, or bodily condition.
I wonder what would happen if women everywhere could just stop being pressured to battle against their own bodies. Imagine a land where FUPAs could roam free without unnecessary and time-wasting judgment, ridicule, and fear-mongering. Think about how much more shit we’d get done if we weren’t constantly being told to force ourselves into one unsustainable body ideal. I honestly believe if we could all just relax about our goddamn belly rolls and let our FUPA breathe for once, we could totally change the world.
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A very special opportunity to be a part of something from the ground up. 🦋 I’m in the beginning phases of creating a potential self-love coaching business. This new venture is going to be my way of paying it forward to the women who want empowerment, body image healing, to let go of impossible societal ideals, to break up with perfection, and to be pointed in the direction to the love & worth that has always existed inside of us all – all which will inevitably lead to authentic goals & actions being accomplished. 💖 For the month of January, I’ll be looking for three courageous woman who would be open to letting me intuitively coach them – for free! – for a few weeks. Interested? DM me! I will hand pick three woman from my inbox. For anyone who isn’t chosen, never fear – I’ll be sending you a special code so you can have 36% off of your first future coaching session. In case you’re wondering why it’s 36%, it’s because that’s how old/young I currently am! 🤗 Let the self-love games begin!! Oh and as always, fuck diet culture. 💖🌈 #effyourbeautystandards #selflove #bodyacceptance
In case you need the reminder, there is nothing you need to do, earn, wear, say, or lose in order to be worthy of taking up space. You can claim your inherent value right here and right now by becoming curious about the inherited thoughts others have forced upon you that keep you from loving your whole self. Your FUPA is as magical and deserving of respect as anything else. And what’s more, our bodies were always fucking meant to change. Whether you got your pouch from pregnancy or it’s been naturally hanging around the whole goddamn time, every single part of you is allowed to fluctuate. In fact, these parts of us are supposed to.
Today, I’m letting my FUPA fly free. I also plan on jiggling my belly rolls with everything I’ve got, flirting with my stretch marks, and whispering sweet nothings to my relaxed mom boobs. Not to mention happily tearing into the giant ass box of chocolates that may or may not have been bought by my husband.