Stop Telling Me I Look Skinny
Can you remember the last time you looked in the mirror and didn’t immediately scan for flaws?
I can’t.
For most of my life, I counted on my body to be my most redeemable quality, the thing that people (especially men) liked me for. I was convinced that the way a woman mattered in the world was through how she looked. Beauty wasn’t just an advantage; it felt like the entry price to opportunity, attention, belonging.
If you’re reading this, I imagine you know this feeling too.
The microscopic inventory of everything you wish you could shrink, smooth, hide, or fix.
The constant assessment of “How do I look?” before ever asking “How do I feel?”
The inherited ritual of self-surveillance so many of us never consciously agreed to, and yet somehow mastered anyway.
And then there’s the unavoidable greeting we all know too well:
A hug.
A smile.
Followed by: “It’s so great to see you, you look…” insert body comment here.
Said casually.
Said lovingly.
Said with little to no awareness of what those words validate, uphold, or awaken.
But still landing like both a compliment and a curse.
Because whether someone says “You look thin,” or “You look great” while eyeing you up and down, what we actually hear is:
“You’re doing something right. Whatever you did to get here, keep going. Don’t change.”
We’ve all been conditioned into this vicious cycle.
We’ve subscribed to what I call the ‘Skinny Quest’, loudly or quietly:
Feeling guilt after eating something “bad”
Crash dieting before big life events
Keeping old jeans as “motivation”
Labeling ourselves with cruel names
Spending far too much money on expensive supplements, injectables, cleanses
Making up for indulgent meals with workouts upon workouts
Believing a smaller version of us is a better version of us
I could go on and on.
My ‘Skinny Quest began’ quietly in high school. I don’t necessarily remember hating my body, but I do remember wanting to participate in the “skinny is always better” culture. Testing out crash diets (shout out, Special K diet), wanting to fit in with what the other girls were doing. It felt more like a trend I wanted to keep up with, but definitely not anything dangerous or obsessive.
When I got to college, skinny stopped being a preference, it became my full-time job. Suddenly I was clocking long gym hours, monitoring my body like a project I couldn’t afford to mess up, and scrutinizing every bite as if it carried consequences. It demanded overtime, perfection, and absolute commitment. No salary, no days off, just the illusion of achievement.
The thinner I became, the more impossible it was to satisfy, until one day it seemed like the only part of me that mattered was the part disappearing.
In a world full of so much uncertainty, my body became the one thing I knew I could control.
Back then I saw my body not as a partner, but as an object. Something to manage, manipulate, and monitor. Not something to love, celebrate, respect, or honor.
And society rewarded me for it. My initial hunch of how women are valued began to feel validated.
The comments came pouring in:
“You look so thin!”
“You look really great!”
“I’m impressed you didn’t gain the freshman 15.”
Every compliment reinforced the suffering it took for me to get there: the skipped meals, the obsessive thoughts, the fear-based discipline.
All becoming fuel for an inner voice powered by control, perfection, and comparison.
I didn’t recognize it then, but now I understand how damaging our collective belief system is, the one that trains us to shame, critique, and distrust the very thing that keeps us alive.
The system that encourages us to have no real relationship with ourselves, because that disconnect is where the profit is.
And when you don’t have a relationship with yourself, you outsource your worth. You rely on others to decide if you are enough, lovable, acceptable.
I didn’t know how to build a relationship with myself, but eventually the exhaustion of hating my own body became louder than the reward of being praised for it and I knew something had to shift.
That shift arrived in the form of yoga.
What I initially thought of as just another sweaty workout, became the turning point in my reclamation journey.
I didn’t have some big awakening. I simply started to notice how good I felt after a yoga practice.
Yoga taught me that my body wasn’t something to control, it was something to listen to.
Yoga taught me to feel instead of punish. To breathe with instead of brace for. To inhabit rather than audit.
Through yoga, and years of holistic healing, coaching, self-study, and spiritual work, I slowly stopped treating my body like a problem and began seeing it as something sacred.
I began to see my body as a wise partner. A source of answers. A perfectly designed machine that functions beyond logic. And the one and only place I get to live from start to finish.
While I’d love to say my eating disorder is totally gone, that wouldn’t be the truth.
It’s still alive inside me, it’s just not the decision-maker nor the narrator of my life.
Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it shouts. But I can happily say that it’s no longer my toxic boss.
And if I can get here, so can you.
Changing your belief system isn't a linear process.
Healing isn’t neat.
You don’t build a relationship with yourself through more willpower or control.
You heal through softening.
Through unlearning.
Through choosing yourself like never before.
Through rewriting the rules of how you relate to your own body, your own mind, your own worth.
So the next time you feel tempted to compliment someone’s body, try saying something that feeds their potential, not their disorder.
Tell them they’re glowing.
Tell them you love their energy.
Tell them you appreciate their presence.
Tell them they inspire you.
