Age 16

I have always had a weight problem. I was an overweight baby. I am now an overweight teen. Growing up, my parents were always positive and supportive - ignoring the problem of having an unhealthy child. I don't blame my parents, but I wish we had conversations about my weight as a child instead of pretending the problem didn't exist. Maybe I could have learned healthier habits. Maybe I wouldn't have felt like such an outcast. Maybe I could have been happy.

I can't remember a day when I haven't been teased about my weight/looks. Every night, I cry myself to sleep, dreading the fact that I have to go back to school. I am so sad. So depressed. I hate myself. I hate being/feeling so alone, but I can't stand the thought of being outside. I feel safer in my room where I don't have to hear the cruel words of my peers…where there are no longer any mirrors to remind me of my weight.

I've tried dieting, but it's so easy to get discouraged. And when I get discouraged and sad, I eat. I have been sad my entire life...and I eat. And eat. And in the morning, I put on my oversized clothes and a smile and pretend everything is OK when I'm really dying on the inside.

Age 32

For most of my life I hated and disrespected my body. Over those years, there was a constant, mutual betrayal – my body would let me down, not living up to the high standards I set…and in return, I would starve myself as a brutal form of payback. We truly hated each other.

Then I got pregnant…and everything changed. My focus shifted to the health and well-being of my unborn child. During my pregnancy, I truly learned to love my body – the curves I hated and cursed for all those years I now welcomed and cherished. My body created life…and in the process, gave me back my own.

Age 16

If we are not able to look like our peers, we feel neglected. If we look too different from our peers, we become outcasts. It seems to be a lose-lose situation. Reading the other posts, at times I was like “What! They’re crazy!” But when I question if I would have said the same thing or done the same thing, I was silenced. A quote that stuck with me that I read in a post was, “I would like to be able to say I wish I were more comfortable in my own skin…but the truth is, I don’t want to be comfortable in MY skin.” At first I thought that was outrageous, but then I knew I felt the same way. I always put this exterior shield of protection where I try to make all my girlfriends (and even guy friends) feel that I am 100% happy with how I look. But truthfully, that’s not possible. Yeah, no one’s perfect, but in today’s society that’s not acceptable. Sometimes I look at my sister and her friends and see how GORGEOUS they are, yet they always seem to find “those flaws.”

So reading another post - “I imagine that some women would think my body was perfect and others would think I was too big” - I was able to come to the question, “What is beauty? What is beautiful? Is it not in the eyes of the beholder?” Yet knowing all this, you can’t help to feel that judgment against yourself. I know sometimes when I am with a group of people who look prettier than me, I begin to imagine what they are thinking of me - “Ewww…look at her thighs…can she weigh anymore?…Only good thing she has are those eyes, but other than that she’s done…” - but then I just snap back to the conversation and try to make a joke and act like everything is alright. Because of my rough exterior behavior, guys see me as one of them. I am that chick who is more a guy then a girl, the one who says it like it is so “she’s not playin’ no games and she ain’t tryin’ to hook up with any guy.” And that hurts. Once in a while I want to be looked upon as one of “those girls,” the ones guys look at and go “wow.” But then again, I just don’t want to be another girl to be looked upon as “I’d tap that.” I want to be that girl that catches your attention because she uses the mind that god has gifted her with - and yes, maybe because she is beautiful, inside and out.

Another subject I think no one seemed to touch upon was color. Traditionally, where I come from, girls that have lighter skin color are consider prettier….and me being BROWNER than anything you’ve seen, my family seemed to always bring that topic up. Luckily to me, I always found my skin color pretty…it was the one thing I would never ever change because it made me feel different and unique. I know I can’t say the same for my cousins. In a country where your skin color is such a big deal, I have seen them literally bleach there faces to try to make themselves look as white as a “pearl” - it was like watching Michael Jackson get his treatment right in front of you! All jokes aside, I feel that it’s sad that as women (and even sometimes as men) we go to SUCH extremes to become that “beauty” - to become accepted into that stereotypical beauty.

Age 22

Today a stranger told me I was beautiful. My first thought was he was lying – this had to be a cruel, hurtful joke. Is it possible for someone to really think I am beautiful?

I hope a day comes when I don’t shy away from compliments. I hope a day comes when I believe what others see.

Age 17

Realistically I know I am not unattractive, but when I look in the mirror I am so sad by what I see. I want to be happy and confident in my skin, but all I see are flaws.

Stringy hair.

A constellation of freckles.

A big nose and crooked smile.

A frame that lacks tone.

A small chest.

I’ve learned to use humor as a way to appear happy and comfortable with who I am. But I’m sad. And scared. Scared that I’ll never walk with my head up and mean it. I want to be proud. I know I have so much to offer…I just need to find the inner strength to show the world. I need to be OK with me. I hope that day comes…soon.

Age 15

I was really excited to start the school year. Every summer I go away and don’t see all my friends, so school is where we reconnect and share stories.

This year is different.

While I was away, things changed. My friends are taller. My friends have developed breasts. Some of my friends even got their period for the first time. None of those things happened to me. I am the same girl in the same child-like body jealous of all these changes I don’t get to experience with my friends.

So much has changed.

I have not.

This year is different.

Age 40

I battled with anorexia for many, many years. It is an illness that controlled every moment of every day. When I finally asked for help, I found healing. I still have dark moments, but continue to work on me. Along the way, I learned that beauty is within and radiates throughout…no matter how old…no matter your size. I am happier and healthier.

Age 30

My Body - these words reverberate through my mind like buckshot searching for clean, unmarred flesh. My Body - two little words that hold such power over my feelings of self-worth and right to participate in society. How much longer will I continue to berate myself for wanting food, not exercising 4 hours per day and wearing clothes that fit me, not the media's version of what's right? How many more hours of pinching fat on my stomach and wishing I had the courage to induce myself to vomit? What amount of self-loathing and flagellation will be enough to convince myself that I am not disgusting and irredeemably ugly? I yearn for the days when I starved myself into a body devoid of all indications female - a stick-like body that allowed me to ignore the joys and pain of womanhood and sexuality.

My body has been the enemy for the entirety of my remembered life. It is something to beat down and suppress into submission. It is never to be acknowledged, except to criticize its shortcomings, and especially unworthy of celebration. It is outside of me and yet, I can recognize the self-defeatism of tying self-worth to something as ephemeral as physical appearance. Even so, here I sit, hating myself for not being taller, thinner, prettier, better. I sometimes fleetingly daydream about what it would be like to wholly accept myself, but in truth, the word "self-acceptance" has no tangible reality for me; it is a word on a page that applies to other people, never me.

Growing up in a household where no product or technique was too dangerous in the quest to take up the smallest amount of space - a whittling down curbed only by skeletal dimensions – a paradigm of self-denial was created that has stalked me to present day. I can remember at the age of seven scrutinizing my reflection in the mirror, searching for affirmation of the thin ideal propagated by mother's words and actions. For a time, all was right and good with the world - I projected that ideal. Of course, when weight gained on the heels of my parents' divorce created a chubby child and adolescent, the condemnation and judgment of my family and peers was immediate and relentless. Constantly being scolded for my food choices, clothing size and weight led me to believe that somehow I was worth less in this bigger body.

I learned to associate a sense of shame with my appearance that remained even after I starved myself into psychological numbness and physical insignificance. Morphing into a body that fit the vision of cultural acceptability made me hate it even more. Now, instead of being vilified and scorned for being too large, I was applauded and lusted after for being so small. When did my body become public property?

I am tired of only seeing a chubby, mushy, worthless girl that doesn't deserve to eat or to live. I am tired of feeling slightly sick every time I look in the mirror, terrified of what I may see. Can I tolerate the image reflected back, or will I cry and decry the need to face the world while appearing so broken? I don't want to be stuck, forced to choose between subduing my body into a weak, unnatural shape and nourishing it so I can be free to move and run.

Age 16

Unlike most kids, I’m happy summer is over. Bathing suit season is done and I don’t have to make up excuses on why I can’t join my friends at the beach or pool anymore. I hate bathing suits. Or maybe just how I look in them. I feel so exposed. All of my friends are skinny and pretty. And me? Well, I’m just average. I know I’m not overweight…but I am not as thin as them. Not as pretty. I feel like I’m being judged when I am around them. I would like to be able to say I wish I were more comfortable in my own skin…but the truth is, I don’t want to be comfortable in MY skin. I want to be pretty. I want to be skinny. I don’t want to be average.

Age 44

Growing up, I hated my body. Schoolgirl competition certainly got the best of me. I compared myself to my classmates, wanting to be thinner, prettier and well-liked…just like the girls others admired. This obsession continued when I entered college, only my self-loathing intensified. Bulimia became a way of life.

I was always disappointed with the body I was given.

At 39, I was diagnosed with cancer and thought, once again, my body had let me down. This was the ultimate betrayal.

But what I discovered in the months that followed my diagnosis was that I was strong and ready to fight…and so was the body that I abused and tormented for years. We were in this together – and finally on the same page. The body I hated for so many years quickly became my biggest ally. I wanted to live. We wanted to live.

I fought back.

My body fought back.

I am now 44 and cancer-free. A survivor…and thankful for the body I was given. I’ve learned to treat my body as a friend, and not as an enemy. I am strong. I am healthy. And I am so happy to be alive.