I love to work out. But don’t get it twisted — it didn’t start with me waking up one morning like, “Yes, let me become a fitness queen.” No, it started with a tiny comment in 3rd grade that hit me harder than a dodgeball to the face. My mom — sweet, innocent, kimchi-powered mom — said I was “a little overweight.” Not mean, just matter-of-fact. But to an 8-year-old, that’s like dropping a Beyoncé-level mic on my self-esteem. That one comment sent me spiraling into insecurity faster than you can say “extra small.”
My family loved buffets. We weren’t rolling in money, so our version of a “fancy” dinner was Red Lobster on my birthday. I’d get excited about biscuits while my dad complained about prices like he was negotiating a hostage situation. Dad was from Vermont, right next to Maine where lobsters are as cheap as gas station coffee, and my mom was the Korean version of a Jewish grandma — always counting every penny. So when that bill hit the table, it was like someone had announced, “Surprise! You’re paying for everyone else’s dinner too!”
But while my parents were piling their plates like it was the Last Supper, I was over there with one sad little plate of salad — iceberg lettuce and shame — trying to stay invisible. My dad would whisper, “People are staring because you’re not eating,” but really they were staring because who goes to a buffet and eats rabbit food?
Fast-forward to high school. I’m 5’5” and 98 pounds. I didn’t want to cross the 100-pound line because, in my mind, 100 pounds meant “Big Bertha” status. People kept saying, “You’re too thin,” “You can see your ribs,” “Are you auditioning for a biology textbook?” One day I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and, y’all, I looked like a praying mantis in a Forever 21 clearance rack. Big bug eyes, Christian guilt, and bones sticking out like I was smuggling coat hangers.
That was my first real wake-up call. I was tired, weak, couldn’t concentrate in class. Jesus Himself probably looked down like, “Honey, this is not the glow-up I planned for you.”
So I made a deal with myself: eat what you want, but work it off. Simple math, right? Except it’s actually life-changing math. That day I went from counting calories to counting reps. From running away from food to running toward the weight rack.
Was it easy? No. Did I feel like the new girl at gym class who doesn’t know which machine does what? Absolutely. But each time I worked out, it was like reclaiming a little piece of my confidence back.
Looking back, it could have gotten way darker. Eating disorders don’t come with warning labels or soft landings. But I believe God stepped in like, “Sweetheart, let’s rewrite this story before you crash.” And thank God He did.
Now, every time I pick up a dumbbell or hit the treadmill, I’m not punishing myself for what I ate. I’m celebrating that my body works, that I’m still here, and that I’m strong enough — inside and out — to own my story.
Love me or love to hate me, either way you are consider my lover.
Jesus loves you and so do I.