In middle school, I was bullied because of my weight. At age 12, I was told I needed to join Weight Watchers and that was a comment which actually still, unfortunately, haunts me to this day. I can still vividly remember the scene, even though it’s been something I’ve tried very hard to put behind me. With that said, this is probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever challenged myself to write. But you’ve got to do the things that scare you, right?
I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my body for as long as I can remember. I had a messy puberty where I would eat an entire box of Kraft Mac & Cheese in one sitting – shortly followed by a complicated couple of years in High School where my therapist recommended that I see a nutritionist cause she believed I may have been suffering from some sort of eating disorder. In those pivotal days of development, the ideal look was the sickly skinny frame, hip bones prominent and chicken legs poking out of the shortest of Abercrombie skirts. At the time, I was best friends with a girl whom would encourage us to NOT eat, claiming that the only way we would ever be desirable to the opposite sex would be if we had a “thigh gap”. We obsessed for months, sticking pencils in between our legs in order to see when (or if) they would drop without ever touching skin. I was excruciatingly jealous when hers dropped and mine never did.
When I was 18, I won my first beauty pageant – meaning that I had to hit the gym religiously to try and get my body down to the desirable shape of what a titleholder should be. I was at the gym every. single. day. in an attempt to fit into what I believed was the mold of what a Miss California should look like. Despite my attempts, my extremely supportive committee still received calls from various other members of the organization saying that I needed to work on “presenting” myself in a better way. Not only did I need to work on my figure, but I needed to change my hair and change the way I dressed in order to fit in. My sister titleholder and I adopted the titles of the “oddballs” of the pageant world, since we were so intent on not completely changing who we were in order to be successful on stage.
Beyond that, I am and always have been obsessed with fashion – which means that every time I get dressed I sit in front of the mirror analyzing the extra ten pounds that could easily be eliminated if I just got my ass to the gym a little bit more often. Granted, I criticized myself in the mirror – but rarely ever actually follow through with the threats/promises I make to myself. To this day, and I’m kind of ashamed to admit it, I’ll squeeze the skin around my middle and just imagine how much better I would look if it wasn’t there to begin with.
I had pretty intensive stomach surgery back in March which resulted in me losing 15 pounds in less than a month. I basically just watched the pounds drop off my body and then prayed that they would stay off – that I would maintain my sickly looking figure for the rest of time. I treasured those hip bones, the fifteen year old inside of me relishing over the fact that you could see my ribs through my skin. And then I realized how STUPID that was.
I’m trying to view my soul and my body as one single entity, rather than two separate things. It used to be that I would think, “I could be successful if I lost fifteen pounds” and now I’m trying to train myself to think, “I’m successful because I am myself.” Your weight and the way you look are not a measure of who you are as a person. Just because I see one being when I look into the mirror, does not mean that is the same being that every other single person sees. I’m short. I’m, for the most part, pretty compact. I have big boobs. I have a butt. And I’m slowly trying to embrace all of that and accept it as WHO I AM. I can’t sit here fighting myself anymore, mainly because there are so many larger battles in the world I know I’m going to have to fight.
I’m SO grateful that we’re living in a world where curves are becoming “sexy” – where that skinny, heroin chic of the 2000s is no longer the norm, and where women are striving for curvaceous, delicious bodies, with meat on their bones. The Kardashians, despite how much crap they get from the world, are at the forefront of this revolution, and I cannot thank them enough for helping me accept my booty and the extra meat on my thighs.
These days, I admire women who put themselves out there. Women are SO beautiful – and we’re living in this incredible period of time where authenticity and being true to yourself is welcomed by society. Girls posting photos of themselves across social media, taking back the power with hashtags and bold statements – screaming to the world that they LOVE THEMSELVES just the way they are, no matter what the media declares is “beautiful”.
Recently, I received a message from a girl on Facebook telling me that she thought I was “a badass of a girl”. A BADASS. I’ve never been called that before in my life and it made me all sorts of proud. It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with my body. And a large part of this whole learning process these past few months was me taking ownership of myself and of the body that I used to wholeheartedly resent for such a long time.
I didn’t want to be ashamed of myself anymore. I wanted to be able to be the girl who walks through the crowd with her head held high, immensely proud of who she is and what she stands for. Sexy isn’t necessarily the muscles you have, but how well you command a room when you walk into it. It’s not about how you look in the dress, but the way you treat people while you wear said dress. Being and feeling sexy is so beyond the way you look – it’s an internal light, a confidence, that generates from within you and infects the people around you.
For the first time in my entire life, I’m beginning to love myself. I’m accepting my curves, and learning how to love them. I’m shopping for dresses with the lowest cuts and the shortest hemlines and it’s exciting in a way that gives me a little thrill in the pit of my stomach whenever I put on something that the old Allie would have never worn. I’m still figuring this out. I’m still dealing with fighting that demon on my shoulder that tells me I need to “fix” myself, each time I look into the mirror, or that I need the “thigh gap” and the six pack in order to be desirable. I’m still trying. Still fighting. But that’s the first step.
Here’s hoping that sooner than later, I can fully come to terms with the skin I’m in – and totally evolve into the inner badass that resides inside of me.
