No one ever had to tell me that there was something wrong with my body, for me to feel dissatisfied in my own skin. The narrative that I needed to shrink myself was drilled into me from seeing only thin people on TV and in magazines. I remember being 8 years old and wearing shorts in the pool to hide my legs. In high school I recall being embarrassed that I couldn’t fit into sizes 2 or 4 and by college I was in round three of weight watchers saving my points to drink with my friends.

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My desire to be thin was never about health but rather about being accepted and fitting in.  Up until my late thirties, I believed that when people looked at me all they saw was my size and that they must judge me for it.  I was never taught that my body was a product of my genetics and that there was only so much change that would be possible.

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It was my negative body image that built my rocky relationship with food. I spent decades with disordered eating. I would diet, lose weight, be praised for my smaller figure and then life would happen, and I would gain back more weight than I had lost. Eventually, I would start a new diet, lose some weight, and think, “I will NEVER go back to where I came from. This time I will reach my goal and keep it off forever!” But no, I would never get as small as I wished, and I would always gain the weight back and always feel guilt and shame.