B is for Body Dsymorphia.
This is an essay about my journey to self-acceptance, both physically and emotionally. If you’re someone who has struggled with accepting and loving your body, feel free to come back to this when you’re ready.
I’m 17. I’ve just come back from being a counselor at summer camp and I walk in the door and my dad says, “You’ve gained weight!”
I remember the flush of shame, the guilt, the irritation.
I don’t say anything; I walk upstairs.
It’s my senior year of high school; my parents fight a lot, facing the prospect of an empty nest.
It’s a hard year.
—
I’m 18. I’ve completed my second summer as a camp counselor; I leave for Stanford in a month. I walk in the door and my dad says, “You’ve lost weight!”
I had. I’d stopped eating full meals, intentionally restricting how much food I’d eat, deriving some sort of satisfaction from my ability to manage my hunger; my “self-control.”
I was so close to being under 110 lbs. I remember feeling proud.
A few days later, I faint for the first time in my middle sister’s bedroom. I remember my field of vision going black, like a screen pixelating, and I regain consciousness on top of a clear trash bag filled with stuffed animals that I’d fallen upon.
I feel scared, but I don’t know what else to do.
A week later, I’m at my older sister’s apartment in NYC and I take a shower and nearly pass out from the heat.
I finally tell her that I’m struggling.
–-
I’m 19. It’s my freshman year at Stanford and I’d gained the notorious “Freshman 15”. I had just finished babysitting. I don’t know how it came up — perhaps I’d said something that triggered the question, but I remember the dad asking me: “Tiffany, you think you’re fat? Or overweight?”
“You worry about your weight?”
I remember nodding and saying “Yes” because that was my reality. I remember his look of confusion and disbelief; the furrowed brow and the concern.
With the hindsight of 20+ years, I cringe. I was 5’5” and probably 125 lbs (I knew because I cared then). And the man who was asking me was over six feet tall and at least 2–2.5x my weight -
If I was overweight, what did that make him?
—
I’m 20. I’m sitting in the sun of Main Quad, reading a memoir despite the mountain of schoolwork and reading I have to do.
It’s a book about a high performing executive who is anorexic and how she manages it.
It destroys her heart and her health; I’m terrified this will be me; even as I take mental notes on what I can copy from her.
—
I’m 21. In the context of a safe community, I share that when I’m stressed, I stop eating and I stop sleeping; a way to control my reality when I feel out of control.
And a way to punish myself when I don’t feel like I’m good enough.
I graduate from Stanford a few months later.
—
I’m 23. I’m visiting the in-patient ward at Stanford Hospital; my friend’s sister is here because of her struggle with bulimia.
Weeks earlier, she’d shared with me that she takes laxatives daily. I think about it but I’m too scared to try.
I’m here by her side because this could’ve been me.
—
I’m 24. I feel overweight; I haven’t exercised in years. I admit to my then-boyfriend that I’m worried that I’ve done damage to my heart with my disordered eating and sleeping. He tries to reassure me by telling me that I’m fine.
—
I’m 25 and managing a team of 20-something year olds. And one of the brightest minds on my team — a talented writer, a gifted observer, an empath with high EQ — tells me about her struggles with eating disorders and encountering the term “body dysmorphia” in college.
I listen empathetically; I can see her worth beyond her shape.
And I finally have a word for what it’s like to look in the mirror and see imperfections that no one else sees.
—
I’m 27. I’m in therapy for the second time, mostly because of a relationship.
As much as I’m here to fix my relationship with him, I realize my relationship to myself is fucked up.
My startup is acquired by JPMorgan a few months later.
—
I’m 28. I run a half-marathon for the first time; I’m the strongest and fittest I’ve ever been. For the first time, I realize that my body is strong, is meant to be strong, is my partner in living my life.
The internal voice in my head that tells me I’m overweight has stopped. Because I’m toned beyond belief.
I see my family and my dad says, “You’ve lost weight!”
I smile happily.
–
I’m 29. I’ve finally admitted to my therapist that I sometimes don’t eat enough, that sometimes, when I’m stressed, I punish myself by not eating or not sleeping.
In therapy, I learn that when I internalize my emotions, when I turn inwards on myself, I’m harming myself — and I realize that it’s counterproductive.
Punishing my body won’t change how I’m feeling.
I realize that I’ve been waiting for someone to notice that I’m struggling; to see me.
And I learn that I can see myself.
That I can compassionately acknowledge my own suffering and name emotions instead of waiting for others to see that I’m losing weight or see the bags under my eyes to understand to ask if there’s something wrong.
—
I’m 30. I realize in therapy that there’s a larger mindset of anorexic or “restrictive” thoughts that keep me from stepping into a mindset of abundance and that keep me from giving myself permission to indulge, to enjoy, to glory, to thrill in life.
It’s partially my immigrant upbringing; it’s partially my dad’s perfectionistic tendencies, internalized. It’s partially the Christian belief that “all of us are sinners” and “the body is bad”; it’s my mother’s Asperger’s which paints the world in black and white, good and bad.
I start to believe that I am good.
That I am enough, just as I am.
We name this mindset “Ed” (for Eating Disorder”), so that when these thoughts come up, that I am not enough, that I’m not good, that I’m bad -
I can just say, “Oh, that’s just Ed.” Dismissively. Flippantly.
Like Ed is just an unwelcome family friend who stays over too long, talks too much and really needs to just leave.
—
I’m 31. I’m driving back from Saturday morning yoga class and there’s music on the radio; I’m bopping along and dancing in the driver’s seat at the stoplight.
And I realize that I really LIKE myself.
That I like life.
Me. My life.
It’s taken me 3 decades to learn to like who I am.
—
I’m 32. I’ve just made Executive Director. I’m taking night classes towards being a therapist, but that means I’m starting my day with 6 AM calls with New York and finishing my 3 hours of class at 9 PM and starting all over again.
I stop out of the Masters in Counseling program and decide to go to business school full-time.
—
I’m 33. I’ve just completed one of the most intense years of my life. I’ve also moved to London, taking on an enormous new role, and I realize something is wrong. I’m waking up in cold sweats at night; I’m losing hair, and I’m either frenetic with energy or completely exhausted.
I’m worried it’s cancer; luckily, it’s just a stress-triggered thyroid disorder.
—
I’m 34. It’s the global pandemic. I’m 135 lbs, the most I’ve ever weighed. After a lifetime of eating half of a meal and saving the rest for later, I’m eating full portions of fried chicken. #comfortfood
Some days, I walk less than 700 steps in my London flat.
—
I’m 35. I remember the feeling of being strong, of loving my body, of seeing my body as a partner. So I start running again. Slowly. 2 min at a time.
I sign up for the local gym and take my first weight lifting class. I love it.
I love feeling like I can lift heavy things.
I love that I can do a 5 min workout and burn the same amount of calories (or more) as a 20 min run.
—
I’m still 35. My parents are visiting London, and my dad says, “You’ve gained weight!”
With the training of nearly a decade of therapy, I say, ‘Dad, when you say that, what’s coming up for you?”
He looks puzzled, so I try again: “What is beneath that comment? What are you trying to say?”
He says, in his simple English, “That you look good!”
“I like it when you guys have a little more weight.”
“I worry when you guys get too skinny. It’s not healthy.”
“In Taiwanese culture, a little bit of fat is a sign of health and wealth. So that if you get sick, you have enough fat to recover”
My mind is blown.
For almost 20 years, I’ve blamed my dad for my disordered eating in high school.
If I’d only asked one more question, then.
Or if he’d said just one more sentence, then.
—
I’m 36. I’m finally on thyroid medication. I’m at the gym and I find myself looking at the other women and wondering:
“Is that what I look like? Or am I taller? Shorter? Bigger calves?”
I realize I have no clue what I actually look like, still.
My boyfriend describes me as “willowy” and I realize that in my mind, I still think of myself as “stumpy” in comparison to my 5’8” and 5’10” sisters, who I’ve tried to be by wearing 2–3” heels constantly.
But I’m figuring it out. I’ve stopped wearing heels to compensate, embracing my height.
When I work out, I whisper to myself (and my body), I love you. I love you. And I mean it.
—
I’m 37. I’m sitting next to my 9 year old niece at dinner and I notice her plate is still pretty full, so I say, “Eat your dinner so that you can grow up to be tall and strong!”
And she whispers to me, softly, “I want to grow up to be tall and thin.”
My heart breaks.
She’s perfect as she is.
—
I’m 38. I’m in my year of sabbatical, at a shop in Paris, deciding between two outfits — one where the bottoms are a teeny bit small and the other, where the bottoms are slightly too large.
I realize that the probability of being the same size or larger is near 100%; the probability of being smaller is near zero because I’m already regularly working out, eating healthily and doing all the things I don’t do when work is busy.
This body, this size, is my set point.
I realize how much progress I’ve made, that I fully accept that my current size is the smallest I’ll ever be, that if I ever get smaller, it’ll either be cancer or because I’m harming myself and I don’t want either.
—
I don’t know when I first internalized that thin is good, smaller is better or separated my body from my self.
I can blame society, my parents, religion, the teen magazines, etc.
But what I know is that I needed to unlearn those messages and learn new ones:
Strong is good. Healthy is best. My body is my partner.
I find myself grateful for Beyonce, Megan Thee Stallion and Rihanna — all the women who’ve embraced their curves and have made having a booty something to be envied.
I am grateful for the space that therapy created, to face and confront the unconscious beliefs and internalized voices — and let go of them.
I am grateful for my therapist, whose humor, kindness, compassion and unfaltering positive regard has helped me shift how I see myself.
I am proud of myself. I see myself more fully.
My body, a temple; not just for god or a higher power,
but for my own soul.
—
For more information on body dysmorphia, you can read this article.
If you feel like you may be struggling with body dysmorphia, disordered eating or overly restrictive or critical thought patterns, I encourage you to talk to your primary care physician, medical doctor or a therapist, and to share how you’re doing with someone you trust. You’re not alone and the way forward is to acknowledge you’re struggling.
