My Journey With My Body

Learning to Love the Body I Once Wished Away

When I was younger, being underweight wasn’t something I thought much about—until people started pointing it out.

At first, it was harmless comments “Wow, you’re so tiny!” or “You’re like a little twig!” But as I got older, those words started to sting.

By middle school, I couldn’t walk into a room without wondering if people were silently sizing me up.

I’d hear whispers like, “She must not eat enough,” or jokes about how a strong breeze could knock me over.

Even if people thought they were being funny or kind, it planted a seed of insecurity that followed me everywhere.

I remember standing in front of the mirror, tugging at my clothes to see if they could hide my frame.

Shopping for jeans was a nightmare—not because I was picky, but because even the smallest sizes sometimes slipped right off my hips.

At dances, I’d catch myself comparing my body to other girls’ curves and wishing I could magically wake up looking “normal.”

It’s strange, because we’re taught to think that being thin is what everyone wants, but I felt invisible, fragile, and—honestly—less feminine.

Freshman year of high school made those feelings louder.

Social media didn’t help.

My feed was full of “perfect” bodies with toned abs or the kind of hourglass figure I thought I was supposed to have.

I started wondering if people thought I was sick or if they judged me for something completely out of my control.

Sometimes I’d try to eat more just to prove to myself and others that I could gain weight, but my body didn’t change much.

I started to feel like I was broken somehow, like my worth was tied to a number on the scale.

The shift toward self-love didn’t happen all at once.

It started in small, almost quiet ways. Sophomore year, one of my closest friends confided in me about her own struggles with body image—except her feelings were the exact opposite of mine.

She envied my small frame while I envied her curves.

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That moment opened my eyes:

No matter what our bodies look like, we all carry insecurities that can feel just as heavy.

Realizing that was the first step toward being kinder to myself.

I also began noticing what my body could do, instead of only how it looked.

My legs carried me through Volleyball practice.

My arms hugged my best friend tight after a long day.

My energy helped me stay up late laughing with people I love.

Slowly, I started to see my body not as something to be fixed, but as something that allows me to experience life.

That realization didn’t erase all my insecurities, but it loosened their grip on me.

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Another big part of my journey was changing the voices I listened to.

 I unfollowed accounts that made me feel small (literally and emotionally) and started following people who celebrated body diversity.

 I surrounded myself with friends who valued me for my humor, my dreams, and my heart—not my size.

Even hearing athletes or influencers openly talk about their own insecurities reminded me that no one’s body tells the full story of who they are.

Now, as an 11th grader, I still have days where I look in the mirror and feel a twinge of doubt.

But those days are fewer, and they don’t define me anymore.

I wear clothes that make me feel confident instead of trying to hide behind baggy sweaters.

I can laugh without worrying if my collarbones are showing.

And when someone calls me “tiny,” I can smile and remember that their words don’t have the power to shrink my worth.

If I could go back and talk to my younger self, the girl who thought being underweight made her less beautiful or less “enough,” I’d tell her this:

Your body isn’t a flaw—it’s your home.

It’s okay to wish it looked different sometimes, but don’t let that wish keep you from seeing all the good that’s already there.

You are not defined by curves, numbers, or comparisons.

You are defined by your kindness, your dreams, your laughter, and the way you show up for the people you love.

Loving my body hasn’t been about gaining weight or reaching some imagined “perfect” size—it’s been about realizing that my body deserves love at every stage, just as it is.

And now, when I catch myself being critical, I stop and thank my body for carrying me through another day.

That simple act of gratitude feels like the kind of love I wish I’d given myself years ago.