When she was so little, she only had a few dozen words, my daughter used to come up to us, arms reaching into the air and say “I need comforting! Comfort me!” when she was upset, or scared, or had found herself in the middle of a tantrum and she didn’t know how to get free.

Since the day they let me hold her, which is not the same as the day she was born, I would hold her and tap her butt lightly as a way of comforting her.  

As she grew, her little body would stretch out across mine, and I would tap the diapered butt softly, lulling her into sleep.  Years went on and the diapers disappeared, and now at age 7 3/4 she still asks for comfort. “I need help calming down” she says.  Her body stretches out, legs well off to the side, and I comfort her. 

Comfort me.

There is a reason I found myself at 217 pounds.  Food is a comfort for me sometimes, and I have found myself fueling my comfort rather than my body with things that make me feel yucky.  

I need comfort.  I should find it on the road, in the run, in a yoga pose, but I have found it in the drive thru, and the freezer full of girls scout cookies, and ice cream.  

Over the last few days I have felt a failure for it, and as a result, I have been stuffing my face with all sorts of things, daring my body to gain weight, thinking that is what I deserved.

Comfort me, no, I think it is more punishment. 

All I know is, I need to figure it out and get to the other side, where I belong, where I am comforted in the run, food is fuel, and I have a balance of moderation in quality indulgences.