Content warning: this article deals with disordered eating and mental health, and may be triggering for some readers.
I was probably only in Year 2 or 3 when I realised my body was something to be ashamed of.
That it was a little bigger than the others. That it was embarrassing. That it needed to be scolded, tamed and controlled.
I don't have a lot of childhood memories in which my body wasn't a problem that needed to be fixed.
I was a sporty, active kid, but one who was constantly tugging at her t-shirt, avoiding cameras, and looking at her crossed legs at the school assembly and comparing them to the girl sitting next to her.
I grew up in the 1990s, a time when diet culture was at its most perversive. Low-fat, sugar-free, chemical-packed foods lined the aisles in every supermarket.
Ads for Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers and two-for-one ab rollers dominated daytime TV.
I would watch my mum sweat her way through an hour-long aerobics workout on a VHS tape, in 40 degree heat, before rewarding herself with a plate of boiled veggies for dinner.
She was always trying to 'lose those last few kilos', like reaching a certain number on the scales would suddenly mean that she was okay. That she was enough.
By the time I reached high school, I had my own tricks. I started drinking coffee and diet soft drink, instead of eating meals. There was a stage when my diet consisted mostly of apples. I felt my body growing smaller and my confidence increasing.