Content warning: This post deals with mental health and eating disorders.
I learned about body shaming in sixth grade, when the boy I had the biggest crush on told me to “go home and take some growing pills,” because my breasts hadn’t yet developed. I did go home, but I cried to my perplexed mother instead, who encouraged me to shake it off.
This silken-haired boy with the one perfect dimple was my true love. I couldn’t get over it.
That moment was a defining one in my young life. I was transitioning. The way people viewed me was changing, and this acknowledgement became the first tendrils of confusing judgement. It was disruptive to my world, where I had played with my toy goat and dreamt of owning a kitten.