The Crane

I’ve spent most of the past year in Florida, riding out the pandemic with my parents, in the house I grew up in. I haven’t spent that much time in my hometown since graduating from high school many years ago.

The pandemic has been stressful for all of us. I’ve grown to appreciate having more time at home and more time to reflect. I’ve also had more time to snack.

Lots of people are talking about gaining “the pandemic 15.” I’m definitely a little heavier, and because of my complicated relationship with my body, eating and food, gaining weight is difficult for me. My weight has been a source of anxiety for as long as I can remember, and my self-worth has been contingent on my size for a lot of my life.

Therapy helped me make a lot of progress. Some days, the weight gain is harder to accept, other days my confidence and appreciation for my body is sky high.

While in Florida, the way I think about my body shifted even more, and it all started with a crane.

My dad and I started hiking at a local park. Once a cattle ranch, Circle B Ranch is now preserving the local ecosystem, acting as home to wildlife including alligators, birds and way too many mosquitos.

On our second hike, we took a different trail that’s surrounded by marsh on both sides. As we walked, we saw some gorgeous things: dew drops on spider webs; a baby alligator right on the bank and a lovely bridge overlooking the water.

Toward the end of the trail, I spotted a crane, standing so still, so serene in the water. I’d never thought much of cranes before. They’re bigger birds with long beaks, and that’s about the extent of my thoughts on them. But for whatever reason on that particular morning, I couldn’t take my eyes off of that crane. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

The beak was long and thin, and it had these beady blue eyes that looked weird. Its neck was disproportionate to its small head. Its chest, torso and back were like a blob, not distinct from one another. Its legs were way too thin, looking so fragile that they could snap, while also defying the laws of nature as they supported the rest of its body.

As I took in the crane’s maladroit figure, I realized why I found it so stunning. Each feature was awkward, yet completely unique. It was the unusual qualities that made the crane captivating. 

We continued on to another trail and I kept thinking about the crane. I’d spent months doing thought work, meditating and trying to make peace with my heavier body. I was insecure and embarrassed that my clothes were tight. I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. But these bigger parts of my body that made me feel awkward were also unique—just like that crane. If I could take in the bird’s gawky features as separate parts and see them as beautiful all together, why couldn’t I do this with my heavier body?

I can look at my body as a whole now, recognizing that it does amazing things for me every day. It keeps me alive, moves and bends and has a fantastic hourglass shape. It’s a human body, but it’s also my body, no one else’s. And that crane has taught me to make peace and accept it as it is right now. 

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