When I was nine, the first time I ever got made fun of for my weight was at the neighbourhood swimming pool. A girl my age told me she couldn't 'lift my heavy body' up onto a raft.

When I was in middle school, my mother taught me to suck in my stomach, and not to pick out clothes that would be 'unflattering'. I learned commenting on other peoples weight was normal and that fat didn't equal good or attractive - despite her being an outward supporter of my body, these things are what I learned passively.

I was relentlessly criticized by my father for my weight. Offering me money to lose weight, commenting on what I ate, and criticizing my food choices. In 7th grade, he encouraged me to join Weight Watchers. I carried around a little calculator to track my calories.

I grew up stifled in the cloud of religion. Women should be modest, never show too much skin. Don't have sex until you're married, and being sexy in any capacity? Completely off the table. Bad. Immoral. Dirty. Wrong.

In high school, when I learned that one of our costumes for choir was a skintight orange spandex body suit, I cried for hours and considered dropping out of choir all together.

In college, my plus size shame let to a fear of being physically intimate in any kind of way. I was sex-repulsed. The the idea of being naked? Showering someone else with my fat body parts? Not being fully covered? Unthinkable. In my senior year, I met a guy. He said he liked bigger girls - maybe this was as safe space. To be naked for an hour with another person, not thinking about my body and how gross I thought it was. A reprieve from the daily grind of jeans, cardigans, shirt adjustments and pillows on my lap.

After a forceful recommendation from my doctor at 23 to lose weight, I joined Weight Watchers again. I planned every aspect of my life around food. Meal prepping, pre entering all my points into my app, not allowing myself to eat something that I wasn't allowed to eat. I used a measuring tape weekly to track my inches. I was obsessed about "being good". I stopped drinking, and my new rigid lifestyle made it hard to be with my friends. Tuesdays were weigh-in day. I wouldn't allow myself to eat or drink anything but two full glasses of water until 6 PM. The weight was dropping and my hard work was validated - I looked happy, healthy, good.

I kept loosing weight, and was so proud. 30 pounds, all of a sudden I didn't need to buy plus sized anymore. 40 pounds, then 50. I landed into a relationship with a man also weight obsessed - our first date was at a gym. I justified that he gave me shit for getting dessert, or harassed me for not loosing enough that week. Over time we both started to gain weight. He accused us both of being fat and lazy, and that we needed to get back to our previous weight to be sexy again. I left eventually - putting all my weight back on and then some.

I fell into a depressive valley. I didn't leave my house unless necessary - I couldn't stand getting out of the shower because then I would have to see myself in the mirror and see how far I had let myself "go". I remember holding parts of my stomach in my hands just wanting to chop it off - I didn't want anyone to see me. To be disappointed in me. After a particular low point, I started to see someone and made the slow climb to try and separate self worth with my physical appearance. Over time, I made the mental shift to just accept myself as I was. I reclaimed the word fat and it worked? I started focusing on the things I like about myself that have nothing to do with my physical appearance. When I saw one of my fat positive bloggers posting photos from an empowerment photoshoot - I felt a pull to go for it.

I felt so fucking badass during the entire photoshoot. A bit nervous to start but once I got going I just got into it. I was JUST like the women I had been admiring in all the photos - except it was me! I felt real. I felt seen, valid and valuable. I felt sexy after getting my photos back. Me! Sexy! Without shame. I did that - I had the courage to stand in front of a camera, being vulnerable and taking up space. The space I desperately deserved. That kind of feeling is unprecedented for me.

I'm fat. I have stretch marks, a double chin, cellulite, spider veins and chubby fingers. And - NOT BUT - and I'm fucking beautiful. I'm worthy of love. Being capable of acknowledging this has been a really, really long time coming. It won't always be easy, but holy shit - here I am! I'm not 'pretty for a big girl', I'm just really pretty.

So thanks to my photographer. Thanks for making me feel visible and worth having my picture taken. Since the shoot, I've dressed up a few times for myself, done my make up and just lounged around my apartment. Sometimes I take selfies. Sometimes I even send them to my partner or close friends. Why not? I'm a beautiful badass bitch, and I deserve love - from others sure. But mostly? From myself.

Again, a heartfelt thank you to my lovely muse, SJ, who offered up her story and body for all of us to bear witness to. I’m endlessly grateful.