When was the first time you were not happy with yourself?

Too fat?

Not pretty?

Nose too big.

Shoulders too hunched.

Was it when you were 19?




Who told you something that made you feel insecure?

Your best friend?

Your mother?

A crush?


I was 5. “Hairy legs! Hairy legs!” yelled my cousin and rubbed my legs. I made sure to wear long pants around her. 

I was 9. A boy in my third grade class took a marker and poked me in the side and laughed when the fat bounced back.

I was 12. I was out two weeks with pneumonia and had lost 20 pounds. “Oh look at you! You’ve lost all your baby fat!” remarked the family friend. “Well the majority of it anyways.”

I was 13. The boys at my table in spanish said pretty girls were only the ones that were below 100 pounds. I was 125.

I am 15.

“You should stop grazing around the kitchen, pac man.” said my aunt. “The fat is catching up to you”

“Can I have your extra pasta?” “Now, Ceci, is more pasta really a good idea” says my mother.

“I lost 10 pounds, I’m down to 113 pounds. Ugh I’m so fat!” remarks the girl changing next to me in the locker room.”

When did we begin to loathe ourselves? 

We were not born hating, but were we born loving?