The number on the scale, (the one you religiously step on), is not religion.
It is a number.
It’s not a curse and it’s not a blessing.
It’s not a descriptor, it’s not data, and it doesn’t identify.
It’s not a judgment. It’s not a hammer. It’s not a nail. It’s not a whip, or a chain. It’s not a mean girl. Or boy. It’s not your best friend, and no, it’s not your mother.
It’s a number. Even, odd, whole, prime, subtracted, added, multiplied, divided, infinite.
It’s not your broken heart. Or your bruised ego. It’s not the product of tears, or years, or fears. It’s not the end or the beginning of anything.
A number is not who you are.
The size printed on the label inside your shirt is not an achievement. It’s also not a crime. It’s not a trial. It’s not a deliberation, and it’s not a verdict. It’s not a life sentence, it’s not parole, or probation. It’s not prison. And it doesn’t beg to be pardoned.
A number is not a scoop. It’s not news, or a jaw-dropping headline. It doesn’t require an explanation. It doesn’t seek to be splashed across a cover. It doesn’t need to be investigated, or reported. It’s not the gossip you read on page 6.
It’s not a test grade. Or a competition. It’s not the game winning goal. It’s not a course record. It’s not a qualifier. It’s not a win, or a loss, or a tie.
It’s not a knockout or a decision.
It’s not a roundhouse kick to the face, or a slap on the back.
It’s a number.
Numbers do not punish or reward.
Numbers are not happy or sad.
The circumference of your thighs does not make you good or bad.
A number is neither pious, nor is it a sin. It’s not a confession, or an absolution.
It isn’t a rule. And it isn’t The Ruler. You need not obey it.
The wiggle-jiggle of your upper arms is not a funny joke. It’s not a punchline. It shouldn’t elicit your laughter. It doesn’t need to be pointed at, or pinched. Or pulled. It doesn’t care about your nervous, self-deprecating humor. It doesn’t deserve its own sitcom. Same goes for your belly. Your belly, lovely girl, is not made of jelly.
It doesn’t trigger your choices. It doesn’t help you become a kinder person. It doesn’t support your parenting. It doesn’t help you communicate with your spouse. It doesn’t plant your garden for you. It doesn’t do your laundry. It doesn’t keep you from the job you want. And a number does not prevent love from entering your life.
The number on the scale is not your feelings.
It’s not your family.
Numbers are not your adorable children nestled in your lap.
A number is not your work-ethic, and it has nothing to do with your endless potential, your talent within.
It’s not an accomplishment, or a failure. It is not a triumph, nor is it a defeat. Numbers do not merit awards, or medals, or trophies. There is no podium. And no, you do not need to prepare a speech.
It doesn’t need counseling. It doesn’t need therapy. It doesn’t need an expert opinion, or a second one, for that matter.
A number on a scale is a number.
And your number, the one that magically and precisely appears, after just a few short seconds – those little, red digits dutifully lined up in that small, dark window when you begrudgingly step on that high-tech scale you paid an arm and a leg for – is not your life story.
The story of your life is what a number is not.
And that number, the one you want to see, is not an aspiration.
So just stop now please.
Release your beautiful energy into the world.
Stop looking down at your toes and lift your head instead – straight up.
Do, see, feel, hear, taste, and wonder at other things.
A number is far too simple and static for your inner brilliance.
No more giving it your undivided attention.
Your number doesn’t care about you.