Probably what most, if not all, of those women who’ve felt as insecure as I have, have felt.
“the constant, heartbreaking echo” – and I broke, right there.
My brain tells me I wouldn’t want to buy more clothes if I were thin. That I’d suddenly open my closet and love every piece hanging there, many of which aren’t even two years old, but that I constantly fling to the floor in frustration when I can’t camouflage the extra weight I carry in my tummy and hips. My brain tells me I’d grow out of my need to wear mostly black.
“You would dance if you were thin,” my brain tells me. My hips would move in the subtle, joyful, graceful way of girls with actual rhythm. That I’d jump up and down and whirl round and round with my arms in the air without worrying that my shirt would ride up and someone might catch an offending glance of the less than perfect me that I’ve worked so hard to hide.
“You’ll measure up to the people…
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