For as long as I can remember, I was my worst critic. It was never about what others said or how they looked at me —It was about how I viewed myself, picking at what I perceived as imperfections that were invisible to others. The body shaming came from within, a corrosive voice that echoed in my head whenever I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I became obsessive.
What started as simple, innocent gestures of self care metamorphosed into uncontrollable ways to fix what isn’t even broken. Skirts became baggy sweatpants. Lip balm gave way to lipstick, and eventually, to overlining my lips. Mascara was traded into fake eyelashes, and pimples? They were buried under a layer of concealer until my skin became a flaky canvas of my insecurities. I became so disgusted by what I saw in the mirror that I stopped looking in mirrors altogether, as if avoiding my reflection could erase the ugliness I felt.
Over time, I realized that the pursuit of an ‘ideal body’ is fake. Even if I managed to overcome one insecurity, another would promptly take place. It was an endless, exhausting cycle.
However, the cycle only spins until you let it.
