I just wanted to tell you that I admire you so greatly for not only embracing but projecting a body acceptance attitude both on your tumblr and your blog. It has caused me to think far more deeply about my own issues with weight and self-esteem. Why is it such a struggle for me to accept my own body as it is? I fluctuate between approval and outright despair. I can look at myself and notice a slew of aspects I find pleasing. I have been told frequently that I am beautiful, that I have the perfect hourglass shape. I receive a fair amount of attention on a regular basis. I don’t want for admirers. So why, despite all of this outside reinforcement that yes, I am attractive and yes, my body is equally attractive, do I feel the urge to disparage it so? I am constantly trying (often slowly, painfully, and exhaustingly) to make myself smaller. Daintier. More delicate and less voluptuous. And while I recognize that due to my body structure, I will never be waifish, will never have small breasts, will never have slim hips instead of a wide-set pair, I nevertheless continue to restrict and diet. Compared to almost every female I’m on close terms with, I eat less. And not just less: significantly less. It is quite seldom that I enjoy junk foods; I almost never indulge in a slice of pizza, cake, or pie—and should I happen to, I immediately feel guilty about it. I view it as some small failure on my part. It is purely internal, this lingering self-criticism I roll around in on a daily basis. Growing up, I was slightly chubby but certainly not unhealthy. I had an active childhood. But every woman—large or small—around me was on a diet of some sort. I watched my stepmother eat dinners of raw vegetables or unbuttered, unsalted popcorn, followed by feverish workout sessions. Once I was caught sneaking a handful of said popcorn from the kitchen after dinner and reprimanded for it. Let me emphasize the absurdity of this: I was lectured about eating a handful of fat-free popcorn. My grandmother alternatively slipped me pieces of chocolate in a silent war against my stepmother and criticized me for appearing too pudgy. When I was in high school she handed me a package of metabolism boosting pills to take before dinner. I gawked at them. I wanted to throw them away, to reject an idea I found so appalling. I’d like to say I did, but I can’t. I took them, dutifully. At the time, I received plenty of exercise and weighed roughly 140 pounds. These days I fluctuate between 145-150. Ultimately, I hate to play the blame card. It seems childish. My self-esteem and my sense of worth should not be shattered by something so trivial as weight, but my upbringing reinforced an opposing train of thought that I can’t seem to shake: that approval is granted for weight loss, that raised eyebrows and passive aggressive remarks, cornered conversations about dieting, a shovel filled with shame and guilt are all reserved for weight gain, for an outward appearance deemed unsatisfactory. I fight myself on it. One of these days I hope I can look at myself and say “to hell with it, I am beautiful as I am.” But right now, I’m not there yet. Such energy and such happiness we sacrifice in the pursuit of the ideal.

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