I have a lot of curves. With these curves I undulate between either loving or (mostly) hating each dip, sway, valley and crater.

With that said, I appreciate the amazing ways my body can preform: thick thighs let me dance on the weekend for hours, wide feet carry me over mountain ranges, sculpted calves help me reach the cup on the top shelf, strong arms preform hours of manual labor, plump cheeks emphasize my happiness. A friend can body-shame herself, but I’ll be the first to silence her negative vibrations and replace them with positive ones.

So why is it so hard to not pinch the extra love on my hips, traces the stretch marks on my inner thigh, or poke the dimples on my booty?

I have, and I believe all females do, struggled with my body image since age eight when I first noticed my sister’s legs were half the size of my own. Later, I noticed in sixth grade when the boob fairy sprinkled her magic on my chest. Boys started snapping my bras and poking at my self-consciousness as puberty pounds piled on in awkward places. I learned what the term anorexic meant in middle school, skinny, as I battled fitting my body into the latest fashion trends. I endured high school with the same amount of self-loathing as I wished my extra flesh could dissipate as easy as piece of cake or bowl of spaghetti. I desired a thigh gap, high cheekbones, and a Kim K booty.

If I thought my behavior and/or body image was bad before, then college only revealed the extremity of my deepest terror. I became hyper sensitive about my body. The freshman fifteen scared the daylights out of me. “She really let herself go,” or “Wow, she got heavy,” or “Oh, she’s really filled out” were all comments I heard friends make about other girls that only further perpetuated my fear of becoming fat. Obsessively, I exercised and refrained from eating after nine o’clock. If my stomach groaned from hunger, I reassured myself that at least I would be thin.

As a current sophomore, I have learned the freshman fifteen is real-but not in the advertised hamburgers, pizza, poutine, Netflix and chill sort of way. A health conscious person, I actively run, practice yoga, and eat raw foods; I skip out on the fryer options and save the sweets for special days. Yet, I “gained weight” because Mother Nature prepared my hips for future childbirth. All of this happen to coincide with college. I feel like this transition is the one that should be emphasized to girls; my jeans are snug not because I’m chunky, fat or big-boned, but rather because my girly figure is turning into a woman’s body.

Even with the realization, I wish I could say I have changed my self-view to match my worldview. I wish I could look at naked reflection with love and acceptance. I wish every time I sat down I didn’t get paranoid about how my thighs stick with summer heat to plastic chairs or how my stomach under layers of clothing rolls a little bit over itself.

There is a strong disconnect between the way I praise other beautiful women compared to the way I point out my own flawed image. I’m not sure I will ever look at my body and think, “This is how I want to look”.

The answer? I am unclear. I could blame social media, cultural constructs or consumerism, but all three only add to the negative image from which I’m trying to dissociate. Instead, taking ownership of my own body and empowering my personal self-image is the best mode of action. Maybe pausing at moments like after a long-distance run or during a challenging hike is a start. Maybe these moments will help me to appreciate and celebrate this vessel I have.