I am obsessed with my physical self.

The educated, millennial part of my brain knows it’s unhealthy. But as I step into my truck after church, I feel my stomach roll up and roll over like an unwanted passenger. It’s like I’m full of water and I can’t suck it in. I pull my jeans up and over the biggest bulge and carry on, pretending like I feel beautiful and not like a large, week-old balloon with stretch marks and a weird shape.

I just sat through a wonderful Sunday morning of love and praise. God molded me, formed me, made me with a purpose and with intention, but…. I think--this time--He made a mistake.

He must have, right?

I mean, look at me. Then, look at the high fashion models. They create such art with their bodies and because of this one characteristic that I’ve fought so hard to make perfect, it’s an art I can only admire from the outside. I’m sitting in the nosebleeds watching beauty and fun parade around the stage.

The crowd applauds, and so do I. I may be average, but I still appreciate beauty… or do I? God said not to call anything unclean that God has made clean. Do I call things ugly that God has made beautiful? All the time. My own body is a prime example.

Hello, fellow human. My name is Cassandra; I am over six feet tall, former Division 1 athlete and I struggle with self-image. (Everyone says, "Welcome, Cassandra.")

I’m terrified—is that okay? I see the imperfections in others and automatically pin “imperfection” onto their forehead. Do my inadequacies make me, as a person, inadequate? Seems like it, sometimes. Am I a woman if my stomach isn’t toned and flat and qualifies for a modeling job? Seems like it, sometimes.

I see modeling as a type of art, but the high-fashion art in which I love is exclusive to women who are much skinnier than me. It makes me feel like the kid on the playground pouting because I want to swing and they've been taking up all the swings the whole time. Art should be inclusive and playgrounds need more swing sets.

I can’t mold myself—I think that’s what’s frustrating. God has chosen a select few to be fit the "beautiful" mold and I wasn’t one of them.

No, no, no.

Society has chosen a select few to be beautiful and I am sometimes one of them, depending on too many factors that don’t matter. God, however, made me fearfully and wonderfully and I am pouting because I’m not cool enough. “But, Daaadddd.” I may say, “All the other kids have sweet abs and long hair… why not meee.”

He would laugh, I think. One of those laughs you do when someone you love does something cute but wrong at the same time. He’d say something like, “Sweet, daughter. You’re missing the point.” And then, more sternly, “I don’t make mistakes.”