Dear stomach,

This letter has been a long time coming. I wrote a column in the fall of my senior year of high school about my struggle with insecurities. While I was really proud of myself for publishing something so personal to me at the time, I had focused mainly on my relationship with makeup. I didn't have enough confidence to talk about what I was the most insecure about.

We've had a complicated relationship, to say the least. Like my other insecurities, this one originated in middle school (in my defense, perhaps my judgment was skewed by the blue eyeliner I was wearing on the DAILY). My first mistake was thinking there was anything wrong with you in the first place.

Heartbreakingly, I distinctly remember training myself to suck you in even while I was walking around. Then it was the refusal to wear shirts that were a little too snug around my midriff. Hell, it could probably even be argued that my fashion style today was based loosely on my subconscious hatred of you; high-waisted pants and fashionable baggy sweaters cover you up, and I'm not a stranger to using my cardigans to hide you when I'm sitting in class. Before long came the worst part of this toxicity: Spandex.

I first bought Spandex with my junior prom dress. When I found myself happy with the results, I began wearing it every day I went out in public because God forbid people knew you existed. It wasn't just school or the store that I wore the Spandex too, oh no; I continued to wear it in weights class and when I went to the local gym for yoga class (I can almost hear the gasps of the people who are reading this).

I'm lucky I got away without any health issues as a result of this obsession with the compression material. You and my torso hurt as I write this article just thinking about the elastic digging in for an entire school day plus any after school activities I had. I think it took a little less than a year for me to slowly phase it out of my everyday wear, but I still wore it with formal dresses.

My first tattoo was meant to be a promise to love myself with all my flaws. It still means the world to me, but there's nothing quite like the feeling I've failed this permanent pledge when I have my off days, try to hide you, or dig out the old Spandex, but I'm only human.

I don't want to have this relationship with you anymore, especially when you have done absolutely nothing wrong. I want to be your friend, I want to wear crop tops and leggings without apology, and I want to redirect energy hating you into something I feel passionate about.

You're not the only enemy I have either. Having club feet has made me hyper-aware of how different my feet look compared to everyone else's, my teeth aren't perfectly white, I'm not toned, my hair and skin can get oily pretty quickly, and I even feel self-conscious if I'm not wearing an outfit that doesn't feel put together. It's absolutely exhausting to be worrying about all these different factors all the time, but you always get the brunt of my criticisms and I'm so incredibly sorry about this.

At the start of this year, I did something I thought I would never have the courage to do: I became involved in a club including the premise of running around in costumes that would showcase you. Even better, the other members are body positive and so very supportive. So why is it that I still felt like hiding you in my tighter-than-I-normally-wear skirt when I was around people who I knew would be honest in telling me I look great?

I don't want to feel ashamed of having you stick out farther and be rounder than other people's stomachs. I want to wear baggy sweaters as a fashion choice, not a security blanket to cast you back into oblivion. I want to feel secure enough that anyone who thinks I need to change my outer appearance and/or values it more than my personality can cry me a river.

I want to feel like I'm enough in my own body.

I've made so much progress on this journey of mine, but it's not enough. I don't think I'll ever be free of the bad days in which I just feel like being invisible, but I have to try. We have to try.

I vow to be better. For you, for me, and for anyone reading this who are dealing with their own insecurities.

With much love, your friend,

Abby