Somewhere along the way, the world decided that a woman’s worth could be measured in inches. That thinness meant discipline, beauty, even morality. And if you weren’t thin, then you must have failed. Failed at control. Failed at caring for yourself. Failed at being lovable. I believed that for a long time.
I spent years trying to earn belonging through shrinking myself. I believed that if I was thinner, I’d be taken more seriously, loved more deeply, respected more freely. But the goalpost always moved. It was never enough.
Then something shifted. I realised I wasn’t put on this earth to meet other people’s beauty standards. I wasn’t born to impress strangers, to apologise for taking up space, or to spend my life chasing a smaller version of me. My existence is not a debt I owe the world. And thinness is not a ticket to peace.
What I do owe is this: respect. To myself. To the body that has carried me through heartache and healing. To the girl I was, and the woman I’m still becoming. I owe her gentleness. I owe her kindness. I owe her freedom from the idea that her body is a problem.
Respect means feeding myself without guilt. Moving because it feels good, not as punishment. Dressing my body with care, not shame. Letting myself be seen—right now—not “when I lose the weight.” It means not joining in when others talk about “fixing” themselves. It means protecting my peace when people project their insecurities onto me.
I don’t need to be smaller to be valuable. I just need to stand in my truth, fully and without apology. Thinness might satisfy the world for a moment, but respect—real, rooted, deep respect for myself—that’s what builds a life worth living.