As every girl knows, around the age of 11, or near the beginning of middle school, lots of things start to change for us. We notice different, uncomfortable physical qualities we never noticed before, like leg hair and the formation of curves. In many cultures, puberty is a celebrated event in a woman's life.

In modern America, however, we as women have another new feeling that many women of other cultures don't notice during puberty- shame. All over the media, we see the same type of woman being celebrated again and again- flawless, hairless, stick-thin women with clear skin. So when hair starts to grow, curves start to form, and acne appears on our faces, we don't feel like we're coming into our own beauty; we feel like we're leaving it behind. We think we've passed our prime before we've even turned thirteen.

In my case, I noticed an extra, extreme physical change happening to me around age 11. I was tall, (five-foot-four) healthy, happy; I never even had allergies. My only problem was that, being taller than most other girls my age, I was also naturally heavier. I had always been a thin child, but my number on the scale was still higher than all of my friends, who liked to brag about who was the tiniest and lightest of all. I remember the uncomfortable silence I contributed to the conversation when weight came up- especially when I began to approach 100 pounds. I told myself I'd never, ever let myself hit 100 pounds. For me, that was the official sign of being "fat," whatever that meant. The picture above is of me on my first day of sixth grade with a month of weight loss yet to go. I was sure I was overweight.

Then, just a few days after I'd hit that dreaded 100 on the scale, a "miracle" happened. I started losing weight. I was happier than I'd been in weeks. In fact, I hadn't been very happy over the last month or so. I was moody, changeable, and prone to getting angry and lashing out at my parents for no apparent reason. I was past the point of normal preteen angst, I was out of control. I wasn't feeling as healthy as I had for most of my life before, either. I was constantly thirsty, drinking water until I was sick. I was starving to the point of pain, no matter how much I ate. I remember riding in the backseat of my mom's car when I suddenly began screaming in pain, demanding we stop somewhere for food right that instant. I was crying, writhing around in pain. It felt like my stomach was eating itself.

And it was.

I didn't know it yet, but I had developed Type 1, or Juvenile, Diabetes. I lost 30 pounds, dropping from 100 to 70 pounds in just a few weeks. At five-foot-four, that put my BMI at 12, two points lower than the low end of the normal weight limit for a child my age. I was bony and angular, my long legs trembling whenever I stood too long, my eyes sunken back into my head and my cheeks sallow.

But still I thought I was fat.

I still put on my gross, saggy gym uniform at picked myself apart in the locker room mirror, standing and staring long after role call, trying to find the perfect way to tuck in my shirt so I didn't look like I was wearing a potato sack. I would go to the YMCA on the weekends to swim with my friends, and stare at myself in my swimsuit from all angles, sucking in my nonexistent stomach to try and look like I thought I should. Worst of all, I remember on one such trip to the YMCA, I got into an argument with my two best friends over whether or not I was too heavy, I was actually defending myself.

The three of us had always been thin, but suddenly I, having always been tallest and curviest (bad qualities, at our age,) was now the skinniest, and it didn't go over well at all. I remember them telling me that I might be skinny now, but if I was squished down to their height I'd be "kind of pudgy." We were kids. They refused to acknowledge that this didn't make any sense. That it wasn't relevant to how I looked then.

But I went home believing them. The super models, the ads and the billboards were inescapable. Every day I compared myself to what I saw on TV, and every day I decided I didn't measure up. I actually idolized anorexic girls when I saw articles about them online, or PSAs about the disorder on Teen-Nickelodeon. I wished I didn't eat either. Suddenly eating seemed disgusting. It seemed like women really shouldn't eat at all.

Now, being older and much healthier, I know what was really disgusting about the whole thing.

When I got to the hospital, they had to put me on an IV to give me enough nutrients to regain my health. They told me I needed to gain all thirty pounds back, and then probably some more. They told me I wouldn't have made it much longer before things got serious, my weight being what it was.

And I thought I was "fat." I was 11-years-old, and already I'd seen enough of our modern society to believe I could never measure up. I'm ashamed of myself, but I'm also angry at the world that made me think that way. I'm angry about all the photoshopping of already-beautiful women, about the idolization of being skin-and-bones, and the awful, pervasive belief that women should take of as small of a space as possible.

I'm angry that I would look at my arms and wish I could shave what little remaining fat I had right off, because I wouldn't be considered truly beautiful if I had any fat at all. I'm angry that eleven-year-old girls thought they should be eating nothing but iceberg lettuce, because even the Disney-Channel movies that satirized beauty-standards just made them more pervasive as a standard.

And now, I'm angry that nothing has truly changed. I'm angry that 1-in-5 women suffer from an eating disorder at some point in their lives, and that the average age of onset for eating disorders, before being ages 13-17, is now ages 9-12. I'm angry that nothing has changed. But I want to channel that anger into a solution.

We have to begin teaching our children that skinny is not the best thing they can possibly be. We have to acknowledge the beauty of thin women, while also admitting that there is far more than one type of beauty in the world. We have to teach girls that being beautiful is not taking up as little amount of space as possible, but rather having as wide of a positive influence as possible. We have to deny what we know is unrealistic and unhealthy, and give American children a chance to learn about healthy eating habits from an early age- while still giving them a chance to just be children.

Puberty is hard enough, but it's supposed to help us grow, not tear us down. I have hope that we can make these positive changes a reality. I have hope that one day, no little girl will have to go through the same thing I did- that no girl will look in a mirror and see something other than her own, honest reflection.