by Suzanne Alderson
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25 July 2023
If you’re one of the 11million+ adults in the UK alone whose body image has made them anxious, I see you. I hear you. I am you. I vividly recall getting changed after swimming at school aged about 10 and realising that I was about 2 feet taller than everyone else and that I had the beginnings of breasts. As I dried myself, someone pointed at these mounds of flesh and everyone stopped and looked at me as if I’d grown another head before their eyes. And as I looked around at the picture perfect girls before me - small, perfectly formed, and nowhere near puberty - I thought how strange I must be to be different. Not good different then, but sad, bad, differently different. I think that was the day I consciously stopped innately, naturally, loving myself. By rights, I should have been delighted about the burgeoning boobage. My first memory is running down the stairs on my 5th birthday crying to my Mum that they hadn’t come! I thought breasts grew overnight when you were 4 years and 364 days old. These early memories set the scene for me to feel somewhat out of sorts with my body. Always bigger than everyone else, I have fought my beautiful body for decades. If anyone else had size 8 feet in the 1980s, I am sorry for the pathetically small range of Clarks school shoes you also had to choose from. Thankfully times have changed. The fight I have with my body hasn’t developed as rapidly though. It has taken me decades to come to terms with my body: this amazing vessel that has borne 2 beautiful, perfect human beings, that hasn’t ever broken a bone, that survived physical traumas, that continues to function, regenerate, and breathe without my overactive mind telling it to do so. And it’s a work in constant progress and flux.