I remember struggling with body image at the age of seven; I remember it pretty clearly actually, the words I said that cut through my worth like a razor. I remember telling my own dad that I was ugly and fat. Of course, he responded like any father would and told me that I was a beautiful young girl and that I did not need to change anything about myself, but I just shrugged his comment off. He was my dad, after all, he had to say that about me.

Flash forward to the age of twelve. I remember crying one day in front of mom and my aunt because I had stretch marks on my thighs. I remember thinking that these stretch marks were a sign that I was fat. I believed so strongly that they were not a healthy and normal sign of growth.

Flash forward to the age of fifteen. My breasts had grown and continued to grow until they became much larger than many of the other girl's breasts in my class. I no longer fit into bras at Victoria's Secret, so I had to start browsing elsewhere, mostly Von Maur because that was the only store in the Eden Prairie mall that actually carried my size. I hated bra shopping. Actually, during this particular season in my life, I despised bra and swimsuit shopping. Hardly any store carried my size, especially in swimsuits, which more often than not left me feeling defeated, and that there was something wrong with me because nothing fit my body quite right.

I remember specifically when my family took a vacation down to Florida I was knee-boarding on the beach. I had wiped out and my breast had fallen out of my swimsuit, my mother was quickly motioning to me to get myself together before anyone else on the beach noticed. That day we went shopping for a new swimsuit, I had found bottoms no problem, but the tops were a different story. I spent nearly an hour trying on bathing suit tops only to become exhausted because none of them fit right, or covered enough. I became so frustrated that I started to cry. In the store. Eventually, I did find a swimsuit top that fit, but by that time I had already decided that I hated my body even more. Why did my boobs have to be so big?

Fast forward to age nineteen, my sophomore year in college. The previous spring I had gained roughly ten pounds, and it was noticeable. I remember looking back at pictures of myself from that period of time and saying out loud that I looked disgusting. I told myself that my stomach was too fat and my face too round. I thought I had been gaining muscle, but I was obviously wrong and I felt humiliated for being so confident in a body that I thought was so ugly.

So I vowed to never gain that much weight again, and as you can imagine, this snowballed into a nasty and possessive eating disorder. I began working out, and once I saw myself becoming more toned I became addicted. Each day that I went to the gym I pushed myself harder because I wanted to be stronger and look more muscular. Soon nothing was ever enough. I became very defined, but all I saw in the mirror was how much more muscle I could gain. I began to spend extended periods of time at the gym, pushing my body as hard as I possibly could just so I could look more defined. I would weigh myself at the beginning of my workout and at the end of my workout, and I would only be satisfied if the number dropped even the slightest amount. The next day I would come back with the hopes that I would weigh less than I did the previous day.

Even when I was working out every day, I still was not satisfied with my body. I only ever saw room for improvement, and that process of thinking almost killed me.

It hasn't been until recently that I have started to accept my body again, just as it is.

Lately, I have been deciding to try and be okay with the way my body is. I have come to terms with the fact that I was never and will never be a bodybuilder. I have accepted the fact that this is what my body looks like when it's healthy, stretch marks, tummy rolls and all. I have finally decided to quietly whisper kind words to my body and to be grateful for all that it does for me, instead of criticizing every single inch of it. It has taken a long time, but I have finally decided to start trying to love my body again, despite the fact that society and my eating disorder try to convince me otherwise. Ultimately, I have decided that I am proud of my body, and all the work it has done. I have realized that my body will never be perfect, or exactly the way I want it to be, but for now, I have decided to appreciate all that it currently is and all that it will continue to be.