I have a pluche. I carry my pluche around with me everywhere I go. In class, at parties, working out, and at the beach. My pluche is my worst enemy. I hate my pluche, but I can never get rid of it.

Damn you, pluche.

My pluche is this little pocket of fat right below my belly button. It is a pocket of fat I have carried with me for years and years and has never gone away.

I’m sure pluche isn’t the correct term for it, but that’s what my sister and I came up with. It started as a joke, me and my pluche. I would make jokes about how it’s where I stored my fat for the winter. I said it was just a little extra cushioning. I would make jokes about it because, ultimately, I was incredibly insecure about it.

My boyfriend in high school said he thought it was funny that I was rather embarrassed about it because truth be told, I was skinny. I was skinny everywhere else except for this one damn patch of fat on my belly. And I hated it. And I hated when people said it was cute. Or that you couldn’t notice it. Because I could notice it, and that was enough for me to hate it.

I worked out a lot in high school. I was chubby in middle school, and before my freshman year, I decided I didn’t want to see myself as the fat one anymore. So that summer, I ran a mile around my neighborhood at least twice a day. In high school, I played three sports. There was never a time I didn’t play a sport. When we would get an off day during swim season to rest, I would run. I didn’t want to get fat again.

And eventually, I would look in the mirror and almost think of myself as “skinny.”

Huzzah! Skinny! The true goal in life!

Yet, even at my skinniest, I was still fixated on my pluche. I was obsessed with having a flat stomach. I could never get it, though. I would look at my stomach straight on, and not see it. But when I turned to the side, there it was.

So after wrestling with my pluche for about seven years, I have this to say:

Looks don’t matter. They really don’t. There are millions of conventionally beautiful people and millions of conventionally ugly people and millions of people in between. You see the pretty and the ugly and the in between, and you move on from it. I can shout it from the rooftops in a “you go, girl!” kind of way - looks don’t matter! Beauty is only skin deep. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.

And I believe that. I truly, truly do. I truly think that looks fade and that the most defining characteristics you should have are what’s in your heart.

But, looks will always matter insofar as you let them.

I had people tell me in high school that I was pretty. My mom. My boyfriend. My friends. People gave me validation - validation I desperately wanted and thought I needed. You could tell me a million times that I was pretty and skinny, and my mind would still instantly go to the places where I wasn’t.

And so I say I’m a feminist, but I still want my butt to look good in jeans. I still want to have a dress that makes my waist look tiny. I still want to be a size four even though I’m becoming a size six. I say I’ve claimed agency over my own body and that I’m empowered to make my own decisions, but I still buy into wanting the traditional feminine frame.

I think this is where feminism fails us - at least where it fails me. I look to women who say looks don’t matter, and they’re beautiful. Or I see women who say looks don’t matter, and people think they’ve let themselves go. I’m not at a place where I want to ‘let myself go’ but I’m also at a place where I truly don’t want to spend another minute scrutinizing if a girl looks skinny in a picture she posted on Instagram.

Young women, we’re our own toughest critics. If boys say something mean to you, whatever. You blow it off. You say they’re mean and insensitive. Fine. But, why don’t we look at the systemic analysis we make of each other?

We look at photos of ourselves and compare them against others. I don’t look great in a bikini, I’ll be the first to admit. And lots of girls do look great in bikinis, and they post pictures of it. Good for you, girls! Own that. But, then when you correlate skinny with what’s good or what’s acceptable, it draws a correlation with chubby and unacceptable.

One isn’t better than the other. This isn’t hating on skinnier girls. This isn’t glorifying curvy women. This is me saying I really don’t want to care about it anymore. This is me saying I’m over the body hate and praise of a singular body type. This is me saying it should be enough for people to be happy in their own skin.

I have stretch marks and a pluche and I’m done with being mad about it. It’s a declaration that I need to answer the question: what do I have to do to cross over the line of self-loathing to self-love? What can I do so that it is enough, for me and others, to be healthy and happy?

So, if you want to make a change about your body, just ask yourself if it’s for you. If you want to work out more and attain more of your own goals, right on! If you want a healthier lifestyle, I’m proud of you. Make that change. But if you do these things for other people, just know that true satisfaction may never come because that validation you want may never come. Every time someone told me I was skinny, I had a pep in my step that quickly faded because I, again, felt fat.

I’ve known people that were bullied for being fat. I’ve known people that were bullied for being too skinny. I wonder what it will be like when there is a day that we admire people who are just healthy.

So whatever your pluche is, wherever it is, reclaim it. Don't let it get you down. Don't let it make you lose sight of what is truly important - building your well-rounded life.