Dear She,

I wish you could see the way your mother looks at you as you shuffle around the corner in your morning mess. She absolutely adores you and every part of you, and has loved your shapes as they matured from lumps to curves and everything that came in between. She will appreciate your body more than your girlfriends in the changing room, the punk who bypasses the clothes you wore for him to deliberately appreciate what he’ll barely notice underneath, the man you one day change from your red cocktail dress into a white flowing gown for. She will never admit to a more beautiful figure than the one she sacrificed her own for.
You break her heart when you stare longingly into the mirror, picking apart every bump you wish to make straight and slope you want to change. She longs for you to eat the saran – wrapped subs she makes for you every morning; she holds on to the days you’d come back with an empty lunch box. She’d be broken if she knew you’ve thrown away that lunch meat just like the meat on your bones you’ll allow any smooth talking jerk to feel up just to reassure yourself that somebody, anybody, desires to do it. She would be crippled if she only knew what you do when you slip away to “wash your hands” after dinner.
So do your creator a favor and stop doing this to yourself. You aren’t just another warm body, you’re an intricately woven collection of lipids, muscles, sugar, spice, and most importantly, beauty. Your shape is specific to you, so stop rearranging it to be someone else’s. Your bones may be weak, but your determination is still stronger than your fingers. Destroy your insecurity before it destroys you.
She may never know the truth about what you do, but this one time mother really does know best.

Love, Me

Age: 18