I spent years believing I was only lovable if I was thin.

It was there in the rituals. In checking the mirror before leaving and letting it decide what kind of day I was allowed to have. In the habit of standing a certain way in photos, of pulling at fabric, of thinking one version of me deserved to be seen and the other needed better lighting, better angles, better luck. It sat inside ordinary things and made them heavier than they needed to be. Shopping stopped being shopping. Compliments arrived with conditions. A full meal could turn into guilt by night. And all of it came from this quiet little lie I had swallowed whole ...that love would come easier if there was less of me to love.

It changes the way a girl carries herself when she starts believing her body is the thing standing in the way of tenderness. You begin to treat your present self like a rough draft and your future self like the real girl. The one who will wear the clothes without second-guessing. The one who will stop hiding in group pictures. The one who will accept being wanted without immediately looking for the catch. So much of life gets postponed like that. Not dramatically. Just in tiny denials. I’ll wear it when I lose weight. I’ll take pictures then. I’ll feel pretty then. I’ll let myself be loved then. As if life is meant to be lived on layaway. As if joy should wait in the corner until the body becomes easier to approve of.

And the cruel part is how normal it starts to feel ... speaking to yourself in a language you would never use on someone you love. Turning your reflection into a problem to solve. Acting like softness on the stomach, fullness in the face, flesh on the arms are personal failures instead of proof that you are a person with a body and not a sculpture made for approval. It’s such a thief, that kind of belief. It steals from random Tuesdays and birthday dinners and trial-room mirrors and girls’ day-outs and every photo you could’ve kept without zooming in on the part of yourself you were taught to hate. It takes ordinary girlhood and fills it with negotiations. With bargains. With this exhausting feeling that love is a reward waiting at the finish line of becoming smaller.

I think that’s the part that hurts the most now ..... not even the insecurity itself, but the years it took from me. The tenderness I withheld from myself because I thought I had to earn it first. The way I looked at my body like it was delaying my life, when all it had ever done was carry me through it. And there is grief in realising how many girls have been taught to disappear a little before asking to be adored. To become easier to hold, easier to show off, easier to choose. As if love has a preferred shape. As if being cherished belongs more to certain bodies than others.

But I don’t think a body was ever supposed to become a test you spend your life trying to pass. I don’t think love was ever meant to be reserved for the version of you that takes up less room. And I don’t think tenderness should arrive only after punishment. There is something devastating about all the years spent trying to become easier to love, only to realise the real tragedy was ever believing you had to. ..