loudbodies
I used to obsess over whether something was flattering.
That single word held more weight than comfort, joy, self-expression, or even how I actually felt in the garment.
What I didn’t realize then was that flattering was never really about style. It was about control.
“Flattering” meant slimming.
It meant manipulating the eye so that the parts of me that didn’t fit into the ideal — the parts that were too soft, too full, too visibly fat — could be tucked away, reshaped, made less offensive.
And somehow, this was framed as empowerment.
We’re taught to chase silhouettes that “elongate,” fabrics that “skim,” cuts that “streamline.”
We’re told this is taste. Sophistication. Good design.
But it’s always been code.
Code for “this makes you look smaller” — and therefore, more acceptable.
We don’t ask if something flatters our personality. Our mood. Our movement. Our joy.
We ask if it flatters our body — and by that, we mean: does it apologize for our existence just enough to make others more comfortable?
When did looking smaller become the only goal?
When did beauty become about convincing others we take up less space?
And more importantly — what would happen if we stopped asking if something is flattering, and started asking if it makes us feel powerful, comfortable, soft, alive?
Because I don’t want clothes that flatter me.
I want clothes that honor me.
Clothes that make me feel like my fullest self — not my smallest.
And maybe that’s not the aesthetic the industry is pushing.
But I’m not here to be easy on the eye.
I’m here to exist, fully and unapologetically.
You are too.
