I don’t care if you exercised. If you got a personal trainer and toned up, trimmed down, fitted back into the clothes you wore before the pandemic hit. I don’t care that you got moving, went from couch to 5k, or beat your personal best. I don’t care that you want to be a “better version of yourself” by the summer and that you can’t wait for the gym to reopen because your bikini body is in sight.
I don’t care if you lost weight. If that exercise routine “paid off” or if you went on a diet. I don’t care for the details, the smoothie recipes, the before and after photos, the “I feel so much better now” posts on Facebook and the endless photos of colourful salads. And I really don’t care that you’re looking forward to the day when you can have one glass of wine again as a treat.
I also don’t care that your skin is glowing. That you tried every product recommended by influencers in order to get the “good skin” Instagram told you was vital, and that you believed you needed it because you’ve been stuck indoors for months staring at your own face. I don’t care that you’ve battled your wrinkles, pores, and spots to win the skin texture of your dreams.
I just. Don’t. Care.
But I do care that you’re happy. That you’re alive and smiling and full of hope for the future. I want to see you in person once all this ends and I don’t care what you look like. I want to see your happy face and I want to hug you so hard that we both laugh and maybe even cry. I want to sit with you, on the same sofa, and ask how you feel inside. Hear about the joy of new hobbies, all the things you’ve been doing, and your plans for the future. Reconnect with the version of you who survived this and came out the other end comfortable, and really fucking relieved.
The body you have has got you to this point. Move because moving feels good. Eat because eating feels good. Forget about what others say are “good” habits or “bad” habits and just do what feels right for you. We’ve come too far for all this bullshit to take hold once again.