Tight Jeans

I lie to myself all the time, usually about a pair of jeans.

I swear they will fit if I dance or shimmy in some kind of way and am convinced they will look good when the impossible finally happens (even if it means I can’t eat or sit down). I am often deceived by the memory they bring and overlook their rips and shrunken belt line. I ignore the obvious solution: ditch the pants.

I reject so much needed change in my life. I will tell myself anything to keep from having to move on. I push the change away because it requires guts. Bravery can be a tough pill to swallow because it calls for admitting something is wrong.

As much as I tell people I love change, I really don’t, especially if it means changing me. I flip between countries, workouts and foods like it ain’t no thing but I will fight to the death to keep from changing an emotional or spiritual habit that I have come to rely on. Old habits truly die hard, people.

I recently had to make a very difficult decision. There was nothing wrong with these so-called ‘pair of jeans’ but something wasn’t lining up. It was subtle, like a loose seam, but I couldn’t ignore or fix it. They were one heck of a pair of jeans that changed my life, but they no longer belonged in my closet.

For months I was shocked at my lack of courage and indecisiveness. I have only recently regained the notion of what it means to be and feel brave. My true self started telling myself the pieces didn’t fit but I fought tooth and nail to ignore it. Change was calling and I was hanging up the phone.

I hate tight jeans. No matter how awesome your body may look, it won’t feel normal and certainly won’t look normal in a shape that isn’t yours.

I don’t know if this is a woman thing, but I will often struggle through something just to prove I can do it. I feel stronger by putting myself through torture. I easily accept this deep-down feeling of discontent as a normal way to prove I’m tough. I know keeping the tight jeans on all day won’t make me skinnier (or eat less) but I cling to them and remember a time when they were my best friend, when they had my back (er, butt) and literally lifted me up! What changed!? I did! And that’s ok.

It’s called life.

I was no longer the person I was meant to be and I was pretending I was someone I wasn’t. The margin between the old me and the person I was striving to be was about a half a size different. Enough to be called a difference and enough to make me take notice.

I can better detect areas in my life where I need to change when I am by myself, listening and praying. I am a pro at ignoring the truth but there comes a point when I have to throw myself over the edge and trust that God’s best is there and waiting. I hit a point when my heart facts are undeniable and cannot be suppressed anymore.

I have to first see my own disobedience or unwillingness to listen before change is put in motion. It usually takes walking through hell to get out, but please believe me when I tell you it is worth it.

The necessary suffering that leads to change will also bring peace.

If being you means letting something (or someone) go, then prepare for extreme heartache. The road less traveled is not an easy one to walk. Often I feel like I am crawling. But the joy and freedom on this side of living closer with who you are meant to be is liberating. I find myself breathing again, with the tight jeans all tangled on the floor.