When I was in middle school, I was obsessed with butts. Everyone was. It was 2006. It started with peeks and glances and then mirror self-inspections and the finally we got to the point where we could openly discuss Booty. Sure, the Era of the Big Butt wasn’t officially announced until a 2014 issue of Vogue, but in Syracuse NY, we had been solidly in ass appreciation since, well before me. I don’t know how long we were obsessed; I’m sure I’ve always been interested in them. I’ve always been interested in mine. I can always count on it, no matter where I go or what I’m doing I know that it is right there behind me flexing and swaying.

I remember first becoming aware of my butt in Mr. Swanson’s first-grade class when my “boyfriend” Malcolm told me I had nice jean bumps, but I don’t remember when other people’s started to matter. Funny coincidence, Corey - who used to get nervous and pee in the corner during story time - actually said the same thing five years later even though I was in my cargo pants phase. I loved that attention. I loved that I could walk down the hall and know that people wanted me. No matter what diet I was on, skincare routine that didn't exactly work, or clothes I was able to grab from the clearance section of the thrift store, I was always the girl who filled her jeans nicely.

Then there was middle school. I went to a school in the Puerto Rican neighborhood of the West Side. It was a K-8 actually, where all the new immigrant children went to learn English and where the Irish Tipp Hill kids got bused to if they didn’t get into the charter school. My name was Katie then or white girl with the black ass. I’ve always had body issues; I’ve always looked for makeup, clothes, hairstyles so I could be beautiful. I was able to be proud of my ass. It was one of the things that made me hot in high school. I was someone because I had a big booty. But then the hashtag “#whitegirlsdoitbetter” began trending on Twitter, Miley wore dreads, and Amandla Stenberg’s Instagram became more informative than my social science classes. My self-worth had become linked to putting women of color down. That was the first time I recognized that my beauty meant putting other women down. My complicity is racism; society praises me for my ass while typing WOC with big booties as lazy, hyper-sexual, unhealthy, and ugly. Although I have solid thighs, round calves, and rolls, I am still a blonde white girl in size four jeans.

My New Year’s resolution this year is to begin to appreciate my body without making myself superior to any woman. I'm brave for loving myself. I'm brave for loving my body. I won't be just another white woman asserting her power over WOC. I won't allow that love to come from a place that praises Kim Kardashian but mocks Nicki Minaj. My self-love isn’t revolutionary. I am thin, white, and not visibly disabled. Empowering myself when I’m already the standard of beauty, when I already have so much privilege, isn’t helping women. It’s expected for me to reassert my position in racial hierarchies rather than working to destroy them. There’s nothing wrong with me being proud of my butt. There’s nothing wrong with my big thighs that keep me grounded. The problem is when I allow myself and other people to validate my body because I am white.

This year, I’m going to make my body-positivity more empowering. I will correct myself when I make judgments about others. I will acknowledge that it is hypocritical of me to know that there is no “wrong body” while still trying to attain a "right body." I will recognize that although personally I’ve had to deal with bullying, self-hate, and deeply ingrained shame over my body, that I still have privilege as an able-bodied cis white woman. I will correct myself when I feel sorry for people based on their physical bodies. I will speak out when I hear micro-aggressions or comments that compare women or value one type of woman over another. I will recognize that “average” sized white women hijacked the body acceptance movement, acknowledge that there are bodies that are invisible, unwanted, and illegal; and work with people who are marginalized rather than working for.

2016 will be the year that I learn how to love without comparing myself. It will be the year that I wear short shorts without worrying about cheeks slipping out. It will be the year that I continue to dismantle the hierarchies that I’ve internalized.