At 8 years old, I started Hating my Body. This is what Helped Me.

I think I was about eight years old the first time I rejected my body — an age a bit older than many girls today.

I remember laying down on the ground on the only square of sunlight shining down from the glass ceiling — eyelids heavy and allowing the subtle warmth to rest on my cheeks.

A moment of peace.

A moment of being.

A moment of stillness interrupted as I lifted my arms and placed my palms on my protruding hips — intuitively trying to connect to my body.

My eyes immediately sprung open. I used the strength of my neck to look down at the crater in the center of my body, and I sighed.

“Why won’t my body look like this when I stand up?” I questioned.

I blamed my body for her “failure” to meet the standards of what I was taught was beautiful. My mind stuck her nose up to the sky and my body was left with no one to hug…at eight years old.

At eight years old, I started criticizing my every dimple, fold, and soft spot. I stood up from the only light in the room, and I moved to the shade where I hardened.