Content warning: This article discusses eating disorders and body image
I got called a twig on what I think was my first day of junior school. I was six. It was an innocent throwaway comment. But to me, it was the first time I clearly understood: my body was a problem to be solved. A mental note was taken, ‘twigs aren’t good, got it.’
Later at age 12, I was digging through our photo albums and came across a recent photo of me in the pool. I was donning my goggles and swim cap—safety first, Mum always said. Except I didn’t see a happy kid swimming; I saw how round my head was. I was horrified—my only thought was that I looked like a basketball bobbing on the surface of the water. A mental note was taken, ’round isn’t good, you don’t have any defining features.’
Years of comparing and comments on bodies at ballet, school and well, just living life, laid the foundation for desired change. And this time—looking at this photo—resolution set in. I can fix this. And so before long, I found myself proficient in using gym equipment, well-versed in diet speak, and tracking and restricting my food intake. I contorted my face in the mirror daily in an attempt to sharpen my chin and built a new habit of pulling at my flat nose as if I could magically force a taller nose bridge.
I took to it all with ease. I had internalised fatphobia and Eurocentric beauty standards. All I had to do was listen to what the world told me it desired, and act.
Over time, I created a patchwork of the perfect body. Achieving each of these idealised body parts acquired status and desirability. It didn’t stop people from commenting on my body, but it would switch from chiding to praise. Though as soon as I thought I had reached the goalpost and could rest—another would appear for me to direct my energy toward.
It was only when I was older that I was diagnosed with an eating disorder. Diet culture had convinced me that manipulating my body through diet and exercise was the definitive path to good health and moral virtue. All I had to do was listen, and act.
Now when I see 13-year-olds, I wonder how it was possible for someone that young to have thought my thoughts and done what I did to my body with such vigour and conviction. It is simply heartbreaking. But when you’re in the thick of it, nothing feels more natural or normal.
It is hard to fathom how much of my life I’ve wasted striving for this patchwork of appearance ideals. Now at 26 years old, it still takes so much effort to unlearn these deeply ingrained beliefs. It is one thing to know these truths in my bones, for myself—it’s a whole other thing to manage the feelings and real-world consequences that come with interacting with society.
I am just one of the estimated 4.1 million people or 18.9% of the Australian population significantly affected by body dissatisfaction in the last year. A new KPMG report commissioned by the Butterfly Foundation found this to have an annual social and economic cost of $36.6 billion to the Australian economy.
But these numbers don’t tell the full story. Behind them are people like me whose lives have been shaped by these ideals in ways that are difficult to quantify.
There are many ways I could tell my story. About how, as a queer, femme-presenting person of colour, I still struggle with what this identity means and looks like. How on a good day, I know that by being queer, I am queer—there is no look I need to strive for to prove that to myself or others. Or how it takes so much energy to pick my battles when I experience microaggressions in the workplace, because my looks apparently mean I am perennially too young and inexperienced. I sometimes still go out of my way to hide my age, because somehow sharing the number never quite seems to help.
I am still learning. Learning that my worth is not dictated by my looks or external validation, and learning to live with the consequences—because I refuse to consciously manipulate my body to appease these illusive and destructive appearance ideals. We all deserve a world where bodies are just that—bodies.
If you or anyone you know requires support, please contact the Butterfly Foundation at 1800 33 4673 or Lifeline on 13 11 14.
