I am aware of the social privilege of living in a non-marginalized body. Airplane seatbelts fit me. Public buildings and restrooms accomodate me. Doctors believe me. No one side-eyes me if I order dessert. The more time I spend listening to those who live in larger or disabled bodies, the more I learn how much easier it is for me to move through this world than it is for some of my friends. I see and recognize that.
And yet, existing in a thin body has not spared me — nor any woman that I know — from insecurities, comparison, and feelings of failure. Our media is so toxic, our collective imagination for beauty so anemic, that any deviation from airbrushed supermodel structure is considered positively gross.
Things are slowly improving. We are seeing more demand for companies to present diverse models in real bodies, warts and hair stubble and all. But change is slow and skin-deep. I want more for my daughter. I want more for your daughter. I want more for myself and for you and for us.
I know you think this is where I romantically purr about how “this is why I wrote the prayer ‘for a world without photoshop’ in my book of feminist prayers.” But I’m gonna get a helluva lot more vulnerable than that.