She is three years old and her mummy stands in front of the mirror, pinching a roll. She doesnât understand the shimmer of disappointment on her face, but she knows the words: I should be smaller. She is eight years old and she is learning. She plays bulldog with the boys and is thrilled to be the winner, proud of her speed and her fearlessness, until her best friend points out that she is bigger than the others. She is ten years old and getting her first proper pair of jeans. âStay in that size and youâll be fineâ, her mum says, but the disapproval at the number never fades. She is twelve years old and gets her first secondary school photo. She hates it, she complains to her mum, she hates the way she looks. âItâs you that made yourself that wayâ she is told. She pushes away her dinner. She is fourteen years old and counting calories by the minute. âYouâre so good at mental maths!â a friend tells her in maths. âYeahâ she responds, and in the toilets at break she loathes herself as her snack steps over the 100 mark, as at dinner as it crosses 1200. She is fifteen. She is lighter, but she is brittle, so so brittle, and itâs so hard. She is scared to go to sleepovers because she knows that if she goes theyâll order Dominoâs pizza and sheâll eat too much. She stops baking, even though she loves it. She is sixteen and she gives up. Exams settle in and she lets herself eat what she wants, but every mouthful is a thought and a curse and a failure to herself. She is seventeen and there are no photos of her in her friendâs albums, because she is always the photographer, always capturing their grins from behind the camera so she canât be disgusted by the image of herself that might appear. She is eighteen and her nails dig into her wrist as she feels guilty about a cake she ate when she was out with a friend. She is eighteen and she listens to her friends complain as they pass a weight that she hasnât been since she was thirteen. She is eighteen and she loves her boyfriend, loves him so much she thinks she will break, but every moment she is naked she is hating herself, disgusted by the body she was born in. She is nineteen and she is trying to be better, but loving yourself when youâve been taught for so long that you take up too much space, that your body is a disappointment, a temple of unhealthiness, when all youâve ever done is work to try and improve it, is a mountain so steep.
It takes so much bravery to be yourself.