Growing up I felt ugly, fat and stupid. All I ever heard was how I should cover up more because “no one wants to see that.” When I was in fifth grade I refused to go to school until my mother allowed me to wear jeans every day because I was already lacking such confidence in myself. She insisted on shorts. I am not ashamed to admit, though as a mother she should have been, that I pitched a fit. I cried and stomped and threw myself around. Eventually she caved, and slowly shorts leaked out of my drawers and into the closet went long, loose jeans. All the time. In summer. In Florida.
I never felt pretty, and I learned different ways of holding my body as I got older. If I sat just so maybe my thighs looked less like cottage cheese shoved into jeans. By…
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