When puberty began, I went from being a fragile flower into a tall strong tree. My mother was in awe of my "beauty" and told me I should be a model, something a thirteen-year-old girl would normally push to pursue. But I was a tomboy who was too interested in Baseball and Xbox to even consider the idea.
The older I got, the more in touch with my
feminine side I became. I let my hair grow long and discovered the magical art
of make-up. Photographers found something interesting about me that made them
want to work with me. Naturally I felt special and accepted their offer.
Together we created beautiful images. The
more I collaborated with different artists, the better the photographs would
become - telling stories through the art of photography. I also became more and
more comfortable in my own skin and learned to embrace the space when I was
before the camera.
My figure became curvy and womanly, my
skin wouldn't break out as bad and I developed my own sense of style.
When people saw the photos of me, I
started receiving comments online and on the street like,
"I know a model!"
"Are you a model? That's so
cool!"
"You should do it professionally, you
have the height!"
Wait.... what... a….model?
That foreign word bounced around in my
brain and made me sick to my stomach.
In the deepest darkest part of my mind,
that place we know but try not visit, where all our fears and insecurities live
and grow if we feed them, was festering. My self-esteem lowered quickly and my
thoughts grew dark.
Being associated with the term model made me feel queasy.
“Why?” Do
you ask? The modelling industry is so glamorous, expensive and high fashion.
Surely I’m as good as those gorgeous Victoria Secret models, right?
Wrong. In my mind, I was way too big to be
a model.
I’m a C-cup, my thighs jiggle, my upper
arms have excess fat and my stomach is definitely
not flat. Models don’t have these attributes; to us they are living dolls with
glowing skin, shiny moisturised hair and tidy nails.
I became cynical about it. Every time
someone asked me if I were a model, I would tell them the same thing,
“No I’m not. I just take photos for fun. I’m too big
to be a model. But it’s okay! That’s just how the fashion industry is!”
I thought by repeating these words, it
would help me accept myself for who I am, but it only crossed off something I
was undeniably passionate about. But I didn’t stop taking pictures.
When I was nineteen, that’s when the
plus-size model phenomenon began. Where women who are size 16 and over were
being recognized as beautiful, worthy figures. They are idolized for inspiring
women who do not fit the bracket under a size 8.
-- I’m not shunning plus size women. I too
think it’s inspiring seeing these extremely voluptuous bodies in Vogue magazine. Nor do I dislike women who are quite thin; in
fact, I think they are walking pieces of art.
Am I the only one who is going to say it?
What about the women stuck in between?
Not big or small. Not normal, because who the fuck gets to define the term normal anyway? I’m talking about those
who are stuck in-between. Women like me are put in this awkward position where
you either have to lose 15kg or put on 15kg in order to be a successful model.
As a matter of fact, I express my
confusion and anger on behalf of EVERY
woman who has ever felt uneasy with their body; feeling too big, too small or
despising themselves in general.
We are only starting to realise the harsh
effect the media has on our body image. They tell us we are all beautiful, but
how many times have the media put this into practise without categorising women
like different flavours of ice-cream? We are taught to believe that the things
that make us physically unique are flaws. We are conditioned to think accepting
ourselves is narcissistic and hating ourselves is the best option.
Obviously no one is literally saying this is how we should feel, but the under tone is
there.
Self-esteem issues are at an all time high
and I blame social media, because it perpetuates the thought that external validation
is the pursuit of happiness; that your happiness is measured and defined by the
size of your waist.
This is not going to change, so why should
we?
What needs to happen is the media needs to
stop patting themselves on the back every time they introduce a new inspirational woman to the world as if they
created it themselves. And we as a society need to stop buying into it.
I don’t want to be categorised I’m not
going let anyone categorise me or let the media trick me into categorising
myself.
I guess what I’m saying is, trust yourself, do what makes you happy and be who ever the fuck you want.
