I have to admit a horrible truth about myself. I get jealous.
I scroll through Instagram and see amazing yoga bodies and people embarking on epic adventures, astride mountains or diving into pristine waters and I am jealous. I don’t envy the picturesque locations or their Insta worthy looks, but the way they use their bodies so casually and effortlessly.
I miss the way that I could rely on my body to catch me when I tripped or support me if recklessly attempting a cartwheel for the first time since primary school to amuse my sons. I had no fear of everyday movements, never knew the gut clenching horror of tripping or stumbling on broken limbs. The only thing that used to hold me back was the scale of my ambition, now I hold back through fear.
Despite trying to focus on the things that I can do, I still find myself helplesly listing all the things that I can’t. I try to drown out the sick longing for my old physical self with positive thoughts, but this new body feels alien to me even four years on. My damaged leg vibrates with its incongruity, clamouring for attention.
I know it is an attitude shift in me that needs to take place. I am also acutely aware of the artifice behind those carefully curated little squares, after all, I produce them for clients, but still I scroll through my Instagram feed and feel the pangs of jealousy.