The Shape of Enough

“No one asked, but I grew anyway.”

— Anonymous Thought, Loudly Lived

“Do you ever look in the mirror and see a stranger staring back at you?”

I never thought I’d be that girl. You know, the one analyzing herself like a crime scene photo—zooming in on every perceived flaw like she's a detective of her own demise. But there I was, standing in front of my bathroom mirror under the worst lighting known to man, pinching at the soft parts of my stomach like they were foreign invaders.

It didn’t start with a tragic moment or a dramatic breakdown. No, it started with a few harmless Instagram likes—little dopamine sprinkles. Then came the follows. Fitness influencers with abs sharp enough to slice cheese. Models with skin smoother than freshly waxed marble. Celebrities who seemed genetically engineered in a lab called Perfection™. I fell down the rabbit hole. And unlike Alice, I didn’t find wonder—just self-loathing with good lighting.

Magazines didn’t offer a lifeline either. They screamed at me with headlines like, “Drop 10 Pounds in 10 Days!”—as if my body was an overdue Amazon package that needed to be returned ASAP. I started to believe that my value was inversely proportional to the number on the scale. Smaller number? Bigger worth. Simple math. Toxic math.

TV wasn’t any better. It was like every channel was sponsored by “Your Body is Wrong, Fix It Inc.” Reality shows, commercials, even cooking shows—because God forbid a woman just eats something without a side of guilt.

So I did what we all do when we feel like crap: I went full-in. Keto, Paleo, fasting, juice cleanses that tasted like regret blended with grass clippings. I became a calorie-counting cyborg with a gym membership and a death wish for carbs. I tracked every macro like it was national security.

And still… I didn’t feel “fixed.” I felt like a walking contradiction—thinner, but heavier with shame. Stronger, but weaker in spirit. It was never enough. I was never enough.

And then there was The Voice.

My voice.

Deep. Raspy. Unapologetically unfeminine. Like I swallowed gravel as a child and washed it down with whiskey. I used to say I sounded like Batman’s sister who got into slam poetry. I didn’t know a single girl who sounded like me. I felt like a lab experiment in femininity gone wrong.

And let’s talk body hair. I had enough to knit a small sweater—or maybe just a stylish leg-warmer collection. I used to joke that if I ever got lost in the woods, I could braid my leg hair into a survival rope. At least I’d be the warmest corpse in any survival movie.

But oh, the irony. I worked myself to exhaustion, lost the weight, achieved the “ideal” body. I became the before-and-after pic I once worshiped. And guess what?

Crickets.

The compliments stopped. The same guys who once showed interest now asked, “Are you okay?” or worse, “You looked better before.”

Seriously? After all that pain, sweat, and sacrifice, I was supposed to reverse it?

That’s when it hit me like a protein bar to the face:

Who the hell was I trying to impress?

The same society that tells you to shrink, then scolds you for disappearing?

The same men who fetishize curves but fear “too much confidence”?

It was a losing game, and I had bought a lifetime membership.

Looking back, I realize the universe had been trying to talk some sense into me long before I was ready to listen.

I remember being a kid—probably around eleven—sitting on the carpet in front of the TV, watching Hannah Montana. There was Miley Cyrus, wig on, glitter everywhere, belting out a song with that gravelly, unmistakably deep voice. And I remember thinking, Huh. She kinda sounds like me.

But that was it. No epiphany. No emotional breakthrough. Just a passing observation from a girl too caught up in wanting to sound like a Disney princess, not like the rockstar in cowboy boots. The seed was there, but it stayed buried. I didn’t know how to water it yet.

It wasn’t until I heard Tracy Chapman’s voice years later—rich, grounded, unapologetically deep—that something clicked. Then Maya Angelou’s poetry hit me like a gospel, and I felt seen in a way I’d never allowed myself to feel before.

And that’s when the memory of Miley came back, like a ghost whispering:

You could’ve known this sooner… if you’d just believed you were allowed to sound like yourself.

That was the turning point. I began detoxing—not just my body, but my feed, my mind, my life. I unfollowed every influencer who made me feel like a half-eaten sad sandwich. I ditched the magazines and started reading things that actually made me think, not shrink. I gave my TV remote the cold shoulder.

The voices in my head? Still there. Still rude. But quieter now, like they’re starting to question their own authority.

And I began to embrace my quirks.

My leg hair became my unsung superhero. I always knew when a bug landed on me—nature's alarm system.

My deep voice? Turns out it’s great for phone interviews, scaring telemarketers, and narrating my own life like I’m in a dramatic Netflix trailer:

“In a world… where she ran out of oat milk.”

I stopped trying to be someone else’s idea of “pretty” and started reclaiming mine.

Messy, hairy, raspy, sarcastic—me.

So if you’re out there, staring in the mirror, wondering why you can’t be “that girl,”

let me say this loud, deep, and clear:

You are not a problem to be fixed.

You are a person to be loved.

And in case you need a laugh?

Just remember: If civilization ever ends, I’ll be the last woman standing—warm, hairy, and using my leg-hair rope to pull everyone to safety.

🔍 For the search bar warriors:

Ever searched “how to stop comparing myself on Instagram” or “why don’t I feel beautiful even after losing weight?” Yeah. This post is for you.

If you’ve ever wondered how to embrace your body hair, felt weird about having a deep female voice, or spiraled after watching yet another perfect influencer eat one almond for lunch—welcome.

This isn’t a “fix yourself” post. It’s a “burn the shame and keep the leg hair” kind of moment.

We talk:

Recovering from toxic beauty standards

Body image struggles triggered by social media

What to do when your voice or vibe doesn’t fit the mold

How to feel confident in a body that doesn’t always feel accepted

Basically: how to be a person again after the internet made you forget.