I was a pre-pubescent twelve year old, wearing old 5k t-shirts with floral leggings.

I'm pretty sure my underwear still had Cinderella's face printed on the ass.

My best friends were my family, even when they told me my thighs were too thick for Nike pro spandex. So, I didn't wear them. They were probably right; I wasn't "meant" to be on the cover of Vogue, wearing a strappy bralette and Christian Louboutins. I accepted that... until I didn't.

At this point in my life, there seemed to be a formula for success: put in the work and maybe eventually you'll drive a Ferrari. If I wanted to be skinny, to be beautiful -- I was the architect of my experience -- I could create that. And I really tried to.

Flash forward to junior year and I'm doing crunches on the bathroom floor in the library. 98,99,100… done! Now, I could continue my work, rehearsing the steps of cellular respiration, pretending like all of this is normal.

I never considered myself "sick". I knew that if I didn't have time to go to the gym I would cry myself to sleep, and if I ate a bite of pasta, I would die.

This seems crazy, right? Well, it kind of is, but I was ill and unable to introspect clearly.

There's a reason eating disorders affect young, adolescent women in tragically high proportions. We scroll through Instagram, see a hot tan chick in a designer bikini. Her rib cage is protruding, but hey, she got 32,000 likes -- that must be sexy.

We internalize unhealthy standards of perfection and aim to achieve a size 23 waist with porn star boobs. When we prioritize our physique over our physical health and overall well-being, our behaviors shift from questionable to downright concerning. I thought I was so hot when I was a ninety pound seventeen year old, but in reality, I had no tits, hollow cheeks, and the energy level of a grandmother. I wasn't happy.

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What begins as a pursuit to look like Kendall Jenner evolves into obsession.

We all crave interpersonal control; it's an evolutionary need: we want to feel stable and centered -- like a four year old with two parents and a white picket fence. Unfortunately, most of us have not had such luck.

Life is unpredictable and people are shitty. Sometimes, we don't know how to navigate the chaos; we want to press pause on our lives, like we do in "The Bachelor", when Peter starts making out with the villain.

It's not logical, per se, but restricting your caloric intake is a form of coping. We hyperfocus on our soon-to-be six pack to escape difficult realities. When your thighs are burning on the Stairmaster, you're not thinking about your parent's divorce, and if you're beautiful, at least youlook like you have your life together.

This attitude is elementary -- to say the least -- but when shit hits the fan, this logic seems surprisingly appealing. However, you underestimate the lifelong consequences of your behaviors.

I had a line down my stomach like Emily Ratajokski, but at what cost? I feel sorry for that girl. She was so unhealthy that she didn't get her period until college. Her immune system was wrecked, and the common cold could set her back a few weeks.

If you're aiming for beauty, then starving yourself won't get you there. Don't believe me? I once had a boy tell me I should eat a burger after taking me to bed. I know, harsh, but he did have a point!

Our perception of physical attractiveness is defined by markers of good health. A woman with an ass is probably more fertile than the twig. Thus, driven by evolutionary instinct, men survey the bar, looking for their own Kim K.

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Before I continue, I'd like to clarify. I am not prescribing tacos as the remedy for all of your life problems. I am not suggesting you alter your body to get some guy hard. Your body is your vehicle to life. With our "thick" thighs we climb mountains; and maybe one day, our rounded hips will allow us to bring life into this world.

Our bodies are built for function, not`for the aesthetics of your Instagram feed.

We are all victims of insecurity, even those pretending to have the confidence of Kanye West. A recent article in the Chicago Tribune headlines: "As Millennials Strive for Perfection, Anxiety and Depression Increase".

Fuck. If you're looking for perfection, it does not exist. Accept the reality and move on. Improve upon your mind, invest in your relationships, nurture your health. At least you'll be happy, even if you don't fit into 00 Lululemons.

At the end of the day, our time on this Earth is finite, why spend half of it eating asparagus?