I didn’t love the way I looked in a bikini before I had children. I fretted over perceived imperfections, poured time and money into fixing them. I drank green juices, combined cardio with weights, and observed the scale intently for feedback about my efforts. I gave up sugar. I worked out daily, often twice a day. I sacrificed the joy of cooking hearty, delicious meals because comfort food doesn’t lead to a smaller waistline. And, as it always is with the paradox of perfectionism, the more “success” I had, the more consumed with my flaws I became. It was how they say it is with drugs; the little wins were no longer “ high” enough; I needed “more” to feel the same level of satisfaction. More pounds lost, more compliments, more heads glancing my way as I passed. 

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