My love/hate relationship with exercise

I have a love-hate relationship with exercise. 

I love the way I feel when I’m running by the water and I have no time limit for when I need to be back, phone on airplane mode, not worried about how fast or slow I’m going. I love the feeling of laying on my back after a long, cleansing hot yoga class. I love feeling strong and capable, and like I can accomplish anything I set out to do.

I hate how I feel when I'm dreading going to workout. I hate when I haven't run in a while, so everything feels hard and I can't breathe and I'm flooded with thoughts of "I'm a failure" for only being able to run 2 miles. I hate that there are mirrors everywhere in every gym I go to. So, despite my efforts to "love myself at any size," I end up focusing on the extra weight around my arms or my hips, or how tomato-y my face looks after doing a few squat jumps.

I hate that so much of exercise is geared toward "building the perfect body," changing myself and punishing myself for eating "badly." I hate that I ruminate on the bodies of long-legged literal models who are tall and lean:  legs for days and pencil-thin frames. (The body that I was born with stands 5’1, but despite my petite stature carries weight primarily in my butt, creating a disproportionate pear-shape.) I will absolutely never have the body that I want— that’s a fact. So what am I trying to “build” exactly? Self-hatred?

Lately, I’ve been trying to find a balance between the things I love about exercise and avoid the things that drive me into depression. I am trying to enhance the body that I have rather than trying become a completely different composition. It’s hard to leave the gym after 20-30 minutes, rather than 2 hours, and not feel lazy. It’s hard to get back outside for a run and end up walking after a mile or two. But I'm trying to listen to what my body needs and not push it too hard. After all, shouldn't we be kind to our bodies? We only get one.