Abs of Steel

Abs of Steel (based on an excerpt from my middle school diary)

As stupid as it sounds, I once hated the letter “S” because “S” stood for scoliosis and the shape of my spine. I was only nine when I was diagnosed. I remember my fingertips brushing my pink Barbie sneakers, and the chilling breeze of air conditioning grazing my back. I shivered every time the nurse shakily swept down my spine. From that day, it felt impossible to be “perfect” like Barbie on my shoes, and I could only see my flaws. I felt ashamed of being imperfect.

Shortly, I got a scoliosis brace, and my self-esteem plummeted beneath rock bottom. I hated the suffocation, the agony, and the awkwardness. I questioned why people treated me differently—even when they didn’t. On the playground, I asked why I was always the “it” chasing the other girls. At home, I wondered why my mom called my brother handsome more than she called me pretty. 

I made countless excuses to ditch the brace, but there were consequences. Every doctor visit, the situation became graver, and I inched towards spinal surgery. The doctor’s warnings and my mother’s tears didn’t matter, because I only wanted to feel accepted by others. I taped down the noisy metal parts and wore my dad’s double extra large hoodies even in the hottest weather. When someone pointed out the edges poking through my clothes, I would avoid them for weeks in hopes they’d forget.

Even in emotional isolation, time passed, middle school started, and I turned numb. I got used to the brace and the loneliness with it— until Sara accidentally bumped into me on the bus.

“What was that?” she asked.

In shock and without thinking, I said, “They’re my abs of steel.” Then, for the whole ride, she begged for my workout routine. 

Rumors about my “abs of steel” spread and distorted. I felt mortified. I cried in the bathroom when someone called me “turtle” for my hard shell. I was bewildered when someone knocked on my abs for “good luck” on their geometry test. Once I adapted to the teasing, I realized this silliness kept me from being lonely, and gradually I saw acceptance.

One lunch period, Sara walked in on me as I put on my brace in the nurse’s office. Curiously, she asked me what I was doing. Terrified, millions of words circled my brain, but I was tongue-tied. We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, and the whole time I wanted to wither to dust. But it finally occurred to me: Why am I so afraid of what other people think? So I took a deep breath, and for the first time, we both listened to my story.

Afterward, Sara helped me keep this secret and insisted on carrying my heavy books. It felt wonderful to finally trust a friend with my feelings instead of bottling up negativity. Finally, after I started approving of myself and felt accepted by someone, I stopped defining myself with something that I resented.

From this journey, I learned two valuable lessons. First, everything will get better, but it will take time. My abs of steel gave me willpower to overcome obstacles. The key is persistence, patience, and positivity. Second, they say you must love yourself before you expect others to love you, but I learned that a friend’s love and acceptance could open the door to your self-love and acceptance. Knowing your strengths is the first step to loving yourself, so I make an effort to make people aware of what I admire about them. I actively listen and offer support when people share their feelings. I now know the importance of showing someone how much they matter and how much you care.

Few people are proud of their embarrassing middle school experiences, but I am proud of the growth that mine has given me. I’m ready to take on life’s hurdles with full confidence. In the end, I suppose my abs of steel grew me some nerves of steel.