At 26, I know that I have spent too much of my life at war with my body, trying to bend it and break it and smoosh it and rip it and cut it into an aesthetic of beauty that is no more natural than capitalism or Doritos-flavored taco shells. And like so many wars, there’s never going to be a real winner. So I’ve begun making peace.
At 26, I’m learning to love my body, finally. I’m learning to recognize my personal beauty, despite
my flaws what other people society has taught other people to see as flaws. And if you don’t see it, too, then the flaw is in you. Not me.
This is, in all honesty, the hardest thing I have ever done. More difficult than passing my Master’s degree comprehensive exams, more difficult than graduating from the 12th-Highest ranked high school in the U.S., more difficult than coming out to my mom, more difficult than coming to terms with the fact that the religion I was raised to never question was morally wrong.
The most difficult thing that I have ever done is show you this picture of my body.
I am not ashamed. I am beautiful. And if you don’t see that, you’re the one who’s ugly, even if you wear yours on the inside.
I will no longer be a casualty in the war against my body.