Learning to Respect a Body That Doesn’t Always Feel Lovable

Learning to Respect a Body That Doesn’t Always Feel Lovable

Apr 29, 2025 | Personal Growth, Real Life, Self-Care | 0 comments

There are days my body feels like a battlefield.
Days when getting out of bed is a full-contact sport.
Days when nothing fits right, nothing looks right, and my reflection feels like it belongs to someone else — someone heavier, sicker, older, and more broken than the version of myself I still carry around in my head.

If you know that feeling — that deep, gut-punch disconnect between who you are and what you see — then you already know:
Body positivity isn’t always about love. Sometimes, it’s just about survival.

Body respect: the version of self-love that doesn’t require a mood ring

For most of my life, I thought body positivity meant waking up every morning, throwing on a bikini, and twirling in front of a mirror, shouting, “I’m a goddess!”
(Newsflash: That’s not reality. That’s an Instagram ad.)

When you’re living with chronic illness, disability, trauma, aging, or just…being a human being in an unpredictable body — forcing yourself to “love” everything all the time is another impossible standard. Another stick to beat yourself with.

So I stopped chasing love.
I started chasing respect instead.

  • Feeding my body even when I’m mad at it.
  • Stretching gently, even when it feels stiff and foreign.
  • Dressing in clothes that fit me, not the me I “should” be.
  • Taking rest seriously, not as a guilty secret, but as a freaking necessity.
  • Speaking to myself like I would to a dear friend who’s fighting hard to stay alive.

It’s not glamorous.
It’s not always photogenic.
It’s real healing.

The world profits off our self-hate. I’m opting out.

The wellness industry, the beauty industry, even the so-called “body positivity” movement sometimes, they all whisper the same garbage:
“If you just try harder, spend more, punish yourself longer — you’ll finally be good enough.”

You know what?
I’m tired.
And I’m not buying it anymore.

This body — right now, as it is, on its best day and its worst — is good enough.
Not because it looks a certain way.
Not because it performs a certain way.
But because it’s mine.
Because it carries me through all of it: the heartbreaks, the flare-ups, the ordinary Tuesdays, and the small, stubborn joys.

That’s worth respecting.

How I endeavour to practice body respect (even when I don’t feel like it)

Here’s what it looks like on a normal, messy Tuesday:

  • I move when I can, how I can. Sometimes it’s yoga. Sometimes it’s hobbling to the couch. Both are valid.
  • I feed myself like I deserve nourishment. No punishing diets. No apology meals.
  • I rest without guilt. Productivity culture can kiss my very tired, very worthy ass.
  • I set boundaries with media. If my feed makes me hate my body, I unfollow, block, delete, walk away.
  • I celebrate functionality over appearance. This body digests food. It hugs my people. It lets me laugh until I snort. That matters more than what it looks like.

I’m not aiming for perfect self-love.
I’m aiming for loyalty.
I’m aiming for partnership.
I’m aiming for showing up for myself, even on the days I don’t feel lovable.

Because guess what?
Respect doesn’t wait for perfection.

You deserve that too.

You don’t have to earn your own compassion.
You don’t have to be “fixed” before you’re allowed to care for yourself.

If you’re breathing, you’re worthy.
If you’re fighting, you’re worthy.
If you’re just surviving today, you are already doing something extraordinary.

Let’s stop waiting until we feel like we “deserve” to treat ourselves kindly.
Let’s just decide — right now — that we do.

Because we do.
Because you do.

“You Don’t Look Disabled”: The Reality of Living with an Invisible Illness

“You Don’t Look Disabled”: The Reality of Living with an Invisible Illness

Apr 24, 2025 | Editor’s Journal | 1 comment

Today, I had a horrible experience in town — and sadly, it’s one that many people with invisible disabilities know all too well.

I parked in a disabled bay. I’m allowed to. I live with multiple sclerosis (MS), a chronic, degenerative illness that affects me every single day, even if you can’t see it.

As I was getting out of my car, a woman approached me and said, “You don’t get to park there.”

I calmly explained that I have MS.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please, that doesn’t count,” she said.

When I showed her my valid disabled parking disc, she sneered and said, “You can buy those anywhere,” before waving me off like I was some kind of fraud. She didn’t stop there — she berated me in front of strangers, making sure I felt humiliated, belittled, and dismissed. And I think she was filming me, just to twist the knife a little deeper.

This is what public shaming looks like when you live with an invisible illness. This is the quiet cruelty that people don’t see — or choose not to.

Later that day, I went online to my support group, still shaken, still trying to ground myself. I shared what had happened — and the response was overwhelming. Hundreds of people replied. Not only had they been through similar encounters, but many admitted they now prepare for them. Mentally rehearsing what they’ll say. Keeping their documents close at hand. Some even avoid using accessible bays altogether to sidestep the confrontation.

Think about that for a second: people with real, diagnosed disabilities are bracing themselves to be challenged for using a parking spot designed for them.

Yes, we appreciate when others understand that disabled bays exist for a reason — but now it’s gone further. There’s a new layer of judgment: if your disability isn’t immediately obvious, you’re assumed to be lying. The burden of proof is dumped on the person already struggling.

MS is real. The fatigue, the spasms, the brain fog, the pain — it’s all real. And believe me, if I could trade my disabled badge for a healthy body and a regular parking spot, I would.

But here’s the thing: not all disabilities are visible. And just because someone “looks fine” doesn’t mean they aren’t struggling.

To that woman, and to anyone else who thinks they can play judge and jury in a parking lot: your ignorance isn’t just offensive — it’s dangerous. You’re not protecting the system; you’re making life harder for people already carrying more than you can imagine.

So the next time you see someone in a disabled bay who “doesn’t look disabled,” maybe consider this: your eyes aren’t qualified to diagnose anyone. And a little kindness costs you nothing.

Editor’s Note

I hesitated to share this — but the truth is, silence doesn’t protect us. Sharing these moments matters, because every time we speak up, we make it harder for ignorance to win. If you live with an invisible illness, know this: I see you. And if you don’t, I hope this helped you see us more clearly. Everyone deserves the right to move through the world with dignity — no explanations, no justifications.

Nasty old woman shouting and holding up her cellphone.
Nasty old woman shouting and holding up her cellphone.