I’ve skipped more lunches in my life than I would care to admit. Dinners, too. And I almost never eat breakfast. 

I stare at myself in the mirror and pinch the soft skin of my stomach, wishing I had the completely unattainable goal of a belly with no rolls when I sit. I have felt that way since I was eight years old, and it is a ritual I have continued on nearly every night for the past thirteen years.

I realized it was a problem when I lied to my therapist about why I passed out at a hair salon. It was nerves, I told her. I had just gone through a breakup and forgot to eat! Nothing was really wrong. I was just sad.

That wasn’t true. I had a big dinner the night before and felt bad. I didn’t eat a morsel of food for 24 hours. The pass out spell was partially nerves, but mostly my empty stomach. I had accidentally called my mom when I fell to the ground, and I couldn’t avoid telling her what had happened. My little sister had to retrieve me from the floor of the half-clean bathroom while I thought I was dying. She made me eat a burger from Wendy’s, even though I insisted I was fine. I haven’t gone back to the salon in the year and a half since.

I worked an internship this past summer. I often wore business casual clothing that hugged my stomach in a way that made the alleged softness of it apparent when I sat down. When the thought of “I look pregnant” popped into my head, I resorted to a handful of grapes in the morning and no more food until late afternoon. That would be all I ate in the day, with every calorie tracked along the way. I never quite broke 1,500 calories. I felt dizzy all the time. I nearly passed out at work and found myself sprawled on a bathroom floor all over again. I went back to work like nothing happened. I lost about ten pounds in a very short amount of time. I already had a small frame, but it shrunk further under my strict routine. 

I weighed 99 pounds in high school. I would compare any part of my body to someone smaller, hating every part of myself that was different. I don’t know where the hatred of my body came from. My mother always did her best to build me up and love myself. I would have spells where I did, but they would go away the second I saw something a little too big for comfort.

The self-hatred didn’t just extend to my body fat. Sometimes I would look at my face or my smile and feel like I was plain. I would immediately feel bad once the thought crossed my mind. I’m always told I look just like my mother, and I think my mother is absolutely beautiful. So why did the features she gave me look so different in my own skin? Why didn’t I like the features that I loved about her?

It took a lot of work to deconstruct years of body dysmorphia. Most of it was silent, as I didn’t want to admit the struggles I had gone through for most of my life. Some of it was spent hunched over a toilet, trying to keep my dinner in. My own mom didn’t know about it until I told her I was writing this article. Admitting you struggle with something as simple as eating is humbling to say the least.

I still stumble when it comes to progress. I find myself saying “you’re not hungry, you’re just bored” more often than I would like to admit. I catch myself looking at myself in my mirror and wishing I could erase the pocket of fat that keeps my internal organs safe.

But I also look in the mirror and admire the way my parents’ features came together to make me. I love the curve of my nose and the hands I got from my mom. I love the eyes I got from my dad, and the eye shape I got from my aunt. I love that, when I look at photos of my mom, I see a version of myself smiling back. I love that I look like my little sister in some ways, and my older sister in others. I love that my boyfriend has made my body feel worthy of the love I never gave it. 

I can now wear a tight-fitting dress and not feel self conscious. I wear sleeveless tops and don’t worry about how big my arms look (because they don’t). I don’t avoid looking at my frame when I step into the shower. Do I do yoga and pilates? Yes, but because they make me feel good, not because I want to be the weight of a child at 20 years old.

After 13 years of self-imposed abuse, I finally feel secure in my skin. I look forward to seeing how my shape and skin changes as I grow and change. Bodies aren’t meant to look 16 years old forever.