I like my body. My body is jiggly, and curvy and covered in imperfections. And yet, it is mine; it is adorned with markings I chose and some I didn’t. My body has scars and cellulite and wobbles when I walk. My body is mine, it has fought for 23 years for me to love it. It has loved me and supported me even when I refused to do the same for it. The jiggle when I walk comes from me trying to improve myself and be healthier. The cellulite on my thighs is from woman-hood, an honour I accept graciously. The stretch marks across my chest come from becoming a woman and my vain attempts to shun it. I have scars from when I did not appreciate the skin I was in. My body is strong and powerful, my body supports me and lifts me up when I fall; it lies me down when I need rest. My body has tolerated everything I’ve put it through, the chemicals and substances, and yet it still stands by me. I feel my body ready to fail me through no fault of it’s own. I feel my hips start to ache and my back stiffen and I know that if I gave my body half the love it gives me it can be strong once again. My body is sacred, and can create life. My body can create another similar to itself and while at this time I do not want this, I can accept that my body can do this. I’ve heard the phrase ‘your body is your temple’ but only in recent months have I been willing to accept this. Yes, my body is a temple. I am the god it is dedicated to. Because if my body can survive every abuse I throw at it, I owe my body the respect to love it. My body is not perfect, far from the ideal standard or my own, but my body is my body nonetheless and I love it for everything it is.