You just had your third baby and you hate your body. I know, you think. I’ll have surgery. I’ll get that flappy bit on my stomach chopped off so I don’t have to tuck it into my jeans. I’ll get my boobs lifted so they look less like socks with golfballs in them. Can I get my nipples made smaller? That would be great.
And then you go see a doctor and he says, sure. I can do all those things for you. It will cost around $30K and there are risks associated with surgery but you’ll probably be fine. And you think, yeah great. I’m going to do this. I deserve to have a body I don’t feel ashamed of.
Your youngest child is a girl and when you look at her one day, shortly after making the decision to have the surgery, you think about what you’ll tell her. What message are you sending to her by cutting and reshaping your own body? And then you realise you can’t possibly have the surgery so you join a gym and work out like a maniac. You starve yourself and obsess over everything you can and can’t eat, until you’re as toned and skinny as the women you’ve always thought had the ‘perfect’ body.