What If the Unrealistic Body Image I’m Chasing Is Mine?

Those women in the magazines did a job on my head — after all, I was one of them

My sordid past, as captured in Oxygen magazine, 2003–2004

The media has changed its tune. First they told me I had to be beautiful and fit. Now they tell me I need to build my self-confidence, regain my self-esteem, and separate my self-image from how my body looks. They insist I need to put aside my own self-loathing not only for my own happiness, but also for the sake of my daughters. And here’s the thing: They’re telling people who have terrible self-image it’s their own fault for not feeling good about themselves. They’re not body-shaming, but brain-shaming. It’s the same message, but in a different package. And I’ve struggled with both my body and my brain as long as I can remember.

Let me tell you about me.

I am small and pale and red-haired. Four foot ten and not a curve in sight. In my family, nobody praised me for being pretty. Was that because my parents didn’t think I was, or because they sincerely thought looks didn’t — or shouldn’t — matter? I was expected to do very well in school (I did) and try my hardest at sports (I did). If those were the important things, I guess it was a good lesson; after all, it’s better than thinking I just wasn’t pretty.

Besides, I was a tomboy. I was one of the smart ones.

They’re not body-shaming, but brain-shaming. It’s the same message, but in a different package.

But I wanted people to think I was pretty. I wanted to be pretty. By high school, I didn’t know how to control my still-impossible poofy red hair. I didn’t know about eyebrow tweezing. I knew absolutely nothing about fashion (’80s fashion, no less) and how to make it work on my childlike body. I didn’t know what looked good on me and what just looked, well, weird. Aside from looking and dressing weird, I was too smart to be cool, although I was always surprised when I got a 95 on a test or a paper because compared to my sister (who got 98s), that meant I wasn’t smart enough.

Nobody ever called me pretty.

In our final year of high school, a friend wanted to get a membership to the school’s weight room, so I…