I hope I’m measured by the size of my heart…..and not the size of my pants.

I hope I’m measured by the amount of grit and grace I have…..and not the width of my hips.

I hope I’m measured by my level of courage….and not how small I can make myself.

I hope I’m measured by the amount of joy I bring to the world…..and not how tiny my waist is.

I hope that I’m measured by the size of my smile …..and not for the scars that weave across me.

I hope I’m measured by the amount of love I have for my family…..and not the silver stretch marks that dance across my skin.

I hope that I’m measured by how many times I’ve stood up after getting knocked down…..and not how I’ve tried to tear my own body down.

I hope that I’m measured by the impact I make on a person’s life…..and not the number on a scale.

I hope I’m measured by how much I celebrate my body……and not how much I hate it.

I hope that I’m measured by the good relationship I have with food…..and not the idea of a perfect body.

I hope I’m measured by the way I treat my body as a home……and not how I try to conform it to unrealistic standards.

I hope that I’m measured by the way I’ve taught my daughter to change the face of beauty…..and not by how I let my mind bully my body.

I hope I’m measured by the way that I teach my daughter that beauty is not a weight, a look, or a standard and not by how much I try to shrink my body down.

Because my body is a keeper of magic….so who cares how much it weighs, where it folds and curves, and has scars delicately sprinkled through it?  Why obsess over how it’s measured when I can be in awe of what a masterpiece it is?

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