Body dysmorphia is such a cruel and relentless companion. It whispers in my ear when the world goes quiet, and its voice is louder when it feels like everyone around me is stepping into their own radiant light. In my head, I know I’m fine as I am. I hear it from friends who remind me that beauty is in my laughter, my kindness, my resilience. I’ve heard it from family who tell me stories of how my presence alone has made a difference in their lives. Doctors and counselors have patiently explained that the charts, the numbers, the standards, do not define my worth. I know this. I truly do.
But then, I see those I love embracing transformation. I see them shedding not just pounds but insecurities. I watch them blossom, and I’m so happy for them. I celebrate their victories with genuine joy because I want nothing more than for the people I love to thrive, to look in the mirror and see their best selves reflected back. They deserve that. Yet, as they ascend, I am left grappling with the deep, echoing pit of my own insecurities.
It isn’t envy. It isn’t jealousy. It’s more insidious than that—a quiet trigger that pulls me into the downward spiral of self-loathing. It begins with an innocent comparison, one I don’t even realize I’m making until the hateful self-talk creeps in. “Why can’t you do that?” it asks. “Why aren’t you enough? Why can’t you fix what’s wrong with you?” And no amount of logic seems to silence it. It’s like trying to pour reason into a broken vessel; it just leaks out, leaving me empty all over again.
I know to my core that a daisy and a rose are equally beautiful without comparison. Their beauty is intrinsic, unique to their nature. And yet, when I try to apply this to myself, to remind myself that I too am worthy in my own form, it feels hollow. I can’t seem to bridge the gap between knowing and feeling. My mind understands, but my heart feels broken.
The hardest part isn’t the mirror or the scale or even the world’s unattainable ideals. It’s the relentless fight within me, the constant push and pull between logic and emotion. There’s a profound loneliness in this struggle, even when surrounded by love and support. It’s isolating, knowing that the battle rages on inside, unseen by those who care for me.
I’ve learned to wear a smile that reassures everyone else while my inner voice wages war. I’ve mastered the art of encouraging others in their journeys while quietly unraveling in mine. It’s not their fault—it’s not anyone’s fault. I wouldn’t wish this inner turmoil on anyone, least of all those I hold dear.
I hope for the day when my reflection becomes more than a battlefield. I hope for the day when I can look at myself and see not just the flaws but the whole picture—the strength, the kindness, the beauty that others see. Until then, I keep going. I keep trying. Because even when it feels impossible, even when I feel broken, I know there’s a part of me that still believes. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.
These are my thoughts. You may have all of them, some of them, or none of them…