My stretch marks took center stage at the #140You.

It was an amazing moment for a speaker, I daresay one of the headiest feelings I’ve had in my career.  I stood in front of a cheering crowd, the room overflowing with laughter and cheers, the positive energy lifting me from the floor.  The hot lights warmed my skin as I watched the last few seconds scroll away, my #140You presentation came to a close.  As I triumphantly stomped to the side of the stage, I looked down at my black leather wedge

sandals and acutely felt the dichotomy, one of the highlights of my experience as an “inspirationalist” and I was wearing kelly green workout shorts and a running bra.  Hardly the tailored yet fashion-forward look I normally go for.  My look was important nonetheless, the perfect outfit for my talk.  It showcased my heavily muscled legs, and defined shoulders and arms, a result of hours of sweat and sacrifice in the gym.  But there was an even more vital body part I wanted, no needed, everyone to see.  It stood for self-love, authenticity and truth.

My stretch marks.  Formerly known as my stomach.

For those of you who saw the images on my Facebook wall and thought I strolled on stage, stripped my black dress, flashed my stretch marks and walked off, I want to fill you in.

I looked really fat at last year’s #140 conference.

A year ago I did a #140 presentation, about the importance of authenticity in social media.  Oh yeah, and 30 days of sex with my husband.  It was another beautiful moment and I couldn’t wait to get home, settle in front of my iMac and start blogging.  When I pulled some images to help me tell the story, I was struck by the dissonance between what I thought I looked like and those images.  What was the belly fat hanging over my jeans, the hunched shoulders, the frizzy unfinished hair.  Sure the stretch marks were remnants of love, a result of my first pregnancy with twins, but I didn’t care.  I would return, and when you saw me again on the #140 stage I would be invincible, an even more skilled speaker with a powerful body to admire.  Most importantly, the showpiece of this effort would be my “abs.”  I would have a small, fat-free waist with a grid of muscle for you to admire.

My love/ hate relationship with Burpee Bounders.

I enlisted a trainer in my journey, Natalie Largesse.  A fellow track and field athlete, she understood my drive and focus and delivered accordingly.  Workouts that were scary, pushing me to the edge of burning muscles yet building inner confidence through balance and strength training.  With some adjustments to my diet, I lost fifteen pounds fairly quickly.  My jiggle retreated into firmness.  My lungs felt bigger, mind clearer, sleep deeper.  I no longer needed to pull my waistband to hold that

poochy layer of skin back.  People started to tell me I looked different, better.  Even my stomach was starting to show the tell-tale shades of definition.  Those abs were coming and I still had six months to the #140!

It was during an exercise called Burpee Bounders that something changed.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Burpee, it is the WORST exercise known to man.  You stand, then throw yourself into a push up ready position, then bunch yourself back into a crouch and jump with your hands to the air.  The Bounder part of the exercise requires you to jump forward instead of up.  As I

jumped forward, I felt something I hadn’t felt for a long time. STRENGTH.  My body was not meant to be an accessory, a show piece, a work of art.  It was complex and beautiful, meant for running and jumping, reaching and twisting. I had found my inner athlete.

Can I get someone to unzip me, please?  I have to show off my stretch marks.

By the time my #140 anniversary arrived, I looked better than I had in years.  I was ready to reveal my new body.  Only it wasn’t the body I intended to reveal.  Along my journey I had learned some lessons about the caloric power of wine and the importance of hydrating.  But most important was a sense of self-love.  I could not lament my stomach any longer, not when it carried me through countless Burpee Bounders.  Instead of carefully choosing an outfit that played up my assets, I wanted everyone to see the “worst” and “ugliest” part of my body.  For my health was no longer a social strategy, but an act of self love.  There was 1 minute and 14 seconds left in my talk.  I took a deep breath and teasingly called one of the sound guys onto the stage to unzip me.  I stepped out of the dress and kicked it to the side, rolled down the waistband of my shorts and revealed it all triumphantly.

I have stretch marks!  So, who has flabby arms?

See?  This is me- all of me.  I am my stretch marks, my muscles, my smile, the aging crinkles around my eyes.  This is me, the only me I will ever get and I

love it.  The crowd reached forward and hugged me with positive energy.  They jumped up and clapped for their own issues, flabby arms, skinny legs, thinning hair.  Together we sat in a group hug only experienced in the #140- we loved ourselves even for that moment.

People have told me I am inspirational, even brave.  They ask me about it with a quizzical, cautious look.  It’s possible my actions will be misinterpreted, hardly the fodder of a corporate speaker.

I won’t regret it though.  It’s only the beginning of me and my stretch marks.  This is 42.