{"id":17511,"date":"2026-03-10T14:26:14","date_gmt":"2026-03-10T14:26:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/gpbookstore.org\/articles\/uncategorized\/seeing-herself-through-gods-eyes\/"},"modified":"2026-04-10T06:03:51","modified_gmt":"2026-04-10T06:03:51","slug":"seeing-herself-through-gods-eyes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gpbookstore.org\/articles\/inspiring-stories\/stories-of-faith-and-hope\/seeing-herself-through-gods-eyes\/","title":{"rendered":"Seeing Herself Through God’s Eyes"},"content":{"rendered":"

I pulled into the Gold\u2019s Gym parking lot, but I didn\u2019t get out of the car. Michelle, a mom from my daughter\u2019s middle school, had invited me to spin class<\/a>. \u201cCome as my guest,\u201d she said. \u201cGrab a bike. See if you like it.\u201d<\/p>\n

No big deal, right? Except I hadn\u2019t been to a gym in more than 15 years and was terribly out of shape. It wasn\u2019t that I didn\u2019t want to exercise and take better care of my body. But every time I thought about it, something kept me from taking that first step. Something I couldn\u2019t quite put my finger on.<\/p>\n

A perky gal in her thirties sashayed past my car, wearing fluorescent purple leggings with a matching print top. She looked as if she\u2019d stepped off the cover of Shape <\/em>magazine. I slunk down in my seat and pulled my ball cap over my eyes. Scowled at my baggy gray sweatpants. She\u2019s everything I\u2019m not, <\/em>I thought. Slender. Beautiful. Confident. Not to mention 20 years younger.<\/p>\n

Everything in me wanted to throw the car in reverse and return to the comfort of my home. But Michelle had texted that she was on her way.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d actually been thinking about going to the gym ever since last Thanksgiving, when someone posted a photo of me on Facebook. I stared in disbelief at my thick waist and thighs. The extra folds around my jawline. Dear God, is that really what I look like? <\/em>I quickly untagged myself from the post.<\/p>\n

The truth was, I\u2019d hated my body ever since I hit puberty. I was curvy when the models in all the magazines were flat-chested and Twiggy-thin. It didn\u2019t help that appearances were everything to my father. He worked out regularly and was proud that he cut a fine figure with his narrow hips and broad, muscular upper body. When I was little, back before he and Mom divorced, Daddy liked to flex his arms like a weight lifter and bid my younger sister and me to hang from his biceps.<\/p>\n

As a sales rep for a clothing line, Daddy went to fashion shows and rubbed shoulders with gorgeous models. He made no secret of the fact that I didn\u2019t measure up. When I went away to college, he sent me notes pushing me to lose weight, telling me how unattractive it was to be a size 12. Once he even offered me $500 (a lot of money in 1980) if I lost 40 pounds. His note explaining the bribe ended with \u201cSize 8 bottoms are best.\u201d<\/p>\n

Those words had made my heart ache<\/a>. Here I was about to become the first person in my family to graduate from college, but he\u2019d made it clear that wasn\u2019t what mattered. I longed to have the kind of father my friends had, someone who loved and accepted me for who I was.<\/p>\n

After college, I landed a job as a television news reporter. I managed to lose the weight Dad had wanted by practically starving myself. (Because the camera adds 10 pounds, I even took up smoking after a colleague confided that it was her secret to staying thin.) Still, Dad never once said he was proud of me. When I was named weekend anchor, I sent him a tape of my first broadcast. \u201cWho watches the news on the weekends?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

In the mid-1980s, someone gave me a copy of Jane Fonda\u2019s workout videotape. I was hooked. I put on leg warmers and a headband and felt the burn with Jane. Later I joined an aerobics studio. I spent a decade working out. No matter how slim and in shape I was, I didn\u2019t feel good enough. I desperately wanted love, but deep down I didn\u2019t feel as if I\u2019d find it.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s no wonder I went through some bad relationships. Until I found Michael, the kindest man I\u2019d ever met. He loved me the way I\u2019d always yearned to be loved\u2014unconditionally. We married, and when I got pregnant at age 40, it was a good excuse not to work out.<\/p>\n

I visited Dad\u2019s house when I was five months along. \u201cYou\u2019re getting fat,\u201d he said. I wasn\u2019t even wearing maternity clothes yet. I expected him to be thrilled that I was giving him his first grandchild. That was the last time we saw each other. He died three days later.<\/p>\n

As I got older, I came to understand that Dad was an alcoholic<\/a> with a traumatic childhood who was desperately unhappy and unable to show me love because he\u2019d never experienced the unconditional love of a parent. Now, 15 years after his death, I couldn\u2019t have been happier about my life\u2014a strong marriage, a wonderful daughter, a fulfilling freelance writing career, the centrality of my faith\u2014yet I still couldn\u2019t be happy about the woman I saw when I looked in the mirror.<\/p>\n

I saw the woman Dad saw. Not pretty enough. Not skinny enough. Not good enough, period. In other words, me.<\/p>\n

So here I was in the parking lot at Gold\u2019s Gym, hiding in my car. My eyes followed the gal in purple as she strode through the gym doors. Was this the closest I\u2019d come to working out in so many years because I feared I\u2019d never measure up to women like her?<\/p>\n

Now that I thought about it, that attitude wasn\u2019t just about going to the gym. In almost every situation, I compared myself to the women around me. And I always came up short. Most women were younger, prettier, more successful, more active at church, better mothers, kinder, more patient\u2014you name it.<\/p>\n

Michelle tapped on my window. \u201cReady to ride?\u201d<\/p>\n

I smiled weakly and followed her into the gym\u2019s cycling studio. Two rows of bikes formed a semicircle facing a mirrored wall. Great, now everyone can judge me.<\/em><\/p>\n

I threw my leg over the bike next to Michelle\u2019s and pedaled slowly to warm up. I peeked at the mirror, cringing at my ungainly self. The instructor dimmed the lights. Woohoo! At least no one would be able to see me struggling. Sweat poured down my forehead. My legs burned. Pride kept me pedaling. I didn\u2019t want Michelle to know how out of shape I really was. An hour later\u2014spent, breathless\u2014I hobbled off the bike. My thighs felt like noodles.<\/p>\n

The next morning, I lay in bed, moaning, my muscles too sore to move. My phone buzzed. A text from Michelle. \u201cYou\u2019re gonna love Donnie\u2019s class today. I\u2019ll save your bike.\u201d<\/p>\n

My bike? I\u2019d planned on spending the day recovering. But I couldn\u2019t have Michelle thinking I was a wimp. I made it through the class. Barely.<\/p>\n

Three weeks in, I was still just making it through class. I was constantly sore. I hadn\u2019t lost any sort of weight. I wasn\u2019t experiencing any exercise high. I was going through the motions, wishing I were home already. If I missed more than a day, Michelle texted me, asking where I was.<\/p>\n

My M.O. was to hop on my bike, get the class over with and get out. As if the workout were a punishment.<\/p>\n

One morning, after I\u2019d wiped down my bike and left the spin studio, I spied a familiar silhouette on the weightlifting floor. Narrow hips, broad upper body. Biceps big enough for kids to hang from. My breath caught.<\/p>\n

Daddy?<\/em><\/p>\n

The man turned. I saw his face in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Of course, it wasn\u2019t my father. Dad had been dead for 15 years. His death was tragic: He had died in a fire, and because so many of his problems were unresolved, he never found peace. His alcoholism, his self-hatred, his emptiness, his struggle to love and be loved.<\/p>\n

But I still carried him with me, didn\u2019t I? His expectations. His disapproval. Then I caught my own reflection in the mirrors. That\u2019s what kept me from working out for so many years\u2014my negative body image. Dad was gone. It was time I let all those damaging remarks\u2014that I needed to look a certain way to be accepted and loved\u2014go too.<\/p>\n

I stared at my reflection and imagined how God saw me. How he saw every one of us in the gym. He wasn\u2019t judging us by our appearance<\/a>. Our fitness level. Our career success. Not even our kindness or generosity. He loved each of us perfectly in our imperfections, not because of who we were but because of who he is.<\/p>\n

On my way out of the gym, I passed the woman I\u2019d seen on my first day, who\u2019d seemed so intimidating in her confidence and color-coordinated outfit. I caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back. Both of us were there to stay healthy. We weren\u2019t so different after all.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been a regular at the gym for three years now. I\u2019ve taken up strength training and kickboxing too. I try to work out four times a week. Sometimes I miss a day or gain a few pounds. I don\u2019t beat myself up<\/a>. What matters is that I\u2019m getting fit physically, mentally and spiritually, and learning to love the body God blessed me with. And that\u2019s good enough.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to <\/em>Guideposts<\/strong><\/a> magazine<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I pulled into the Gold\u2019s Gym parking lot, but I didn\u2019t get out of the car. Michelle, a mom from my daughter\u2019s middle school, had invited me to spin class. \u201cCome as my guest,\u201d she said. \u201cGrab a bike. See if you like it.\u201d No big deal, right? 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