We’re all told that we should love ourselves, but the media and society portray a huge spectrum of acceptance on this front. Thin is healthy! Fat is beautiful! This is just confusing messaging. To be perfectly honest, I don’t give a shit what other people are doing with their own bodies. You are all the managers of your own wonderful vessels. That said, I have found myself becoming a touch “fattist” over the past few months because I know how good I feel now compared to how I felt when I weighed an entire human more than I do now.

I digress. All of this messaging just lends itself to the following: If I am fat, I am not equal. How the fuck is it up to them?

I’m the mother of an incredible daughter. I wish I had even an ounce of her body confidence – she just thinks she’s the utterly magnificent when she’s running around the garden all bollocky Bill. I know in part this is because she lacks the cognisance and maturity to even be self conscious, but she’s also a truly splendid human who has the “Je ne sais quoi”. I hope she can retain some of this into adulthood. I want to her to love and respect her body. In a way that I perhaps haven’t ever done.

I think about all the plastic surgery that I want to have. Is this vanity? Well… Yes. It is vain AF. Is that body positive though? I mean sure, I’m going to look like a hot bitch, but is that because I’m confirming to societal norms of what a body should look like, or am I doing this for ME? I think I am. I want to have a flat stomach because it will make pilates easier. I want to be able to run up the stairs and my thighs don’t give me a around of applause. And If I waved and didn’t want to shout “BINGO” when my upper arm is undulating… Then that’s a bonus.

I have also had to accept that I am no longer the goddess of tits and wine. Well, maybe still the wine, because lets face it – White Burgundy is life. The tits… Well lets just say that there was a hilarious (if not somewhat close to the bone) conversation in a cocktail bar with my husband about the origin of the Coupe (Marie Antoinette’s tits, dontchaknow), and he may have inferred that if someone modelled them on mine they would be called the Spaniel instead. I gave him a dead arm.

Sometimes… I do not see a thinner person in the mirror. The imposter syndrome is real. Although am I hiding behind that fucking awful vague-ism, because I don’t really want to face up to what I’m intending to do to myself?