I often feel uncomfortable in my own skin, dressing in a way that would be considered more modest, or masculine, to some. I attribute these clothing choices to comfortability, but in reality it is mostly due to the anxiety I feel when wearing fewer or tighter clothes.

Growing up, my family pushed unrealistic beauty standards on me, perhaps without knowing the harm this caused, from stories about my grandmother weighing only 98 pounds at the time she got married to my own mother and aunts advising me not to “let myself go” as they struggle themselves to lose weight once they had gained it in their middle age. This regularly led to comments about my appearance at any family gathering, including praising my toned legs as young as eight years old telling me to “never lose that” to pinching the same thighs in my teenage years in order to tell me I was getting fat. While I am lucky to not have acquired disordered eating habits from this, I will admit to breaking down over noticing stretch marks on my buttocks and thighs, again the first time the scale surpassed 100 pounds, and again once I saw that scale hit 106 pounds. After that I vowed to myself I would never be so distraught over something like my weight again.

The same well-intentioned advice often included sayings like “dress sexy, not sleezy” when going out – telling me to put in padding to give me a more feminine figure since I am flat-chested, but not so much that I am showing cleavage – and that there is a difference between the two. I would be complimented even by strangers on my appearance when I had my hair dyed blonde, and even on something I can not control, like having blue eyes. While intended to be compliments, I couldn’t help but to feel disgusted. Such comments on my body were unwelcomed, and, frankly, racist.

I am grateful to my aunts for caring about my safety as a woman in this world and imparting wisdom from the time I was three years old about self defense and calling for help if ever an adult tried to abduct me, though it has caused me unnecessary anxiety for such a young age. As I grew older, the same advice would circle back to telling me to dress sexy but not sleezy, warning me that I might be targeted since I am short, blonde hair and blue eyed, and even my grandmother told me once that my shorts were too short, warning me that “there are certain men out there” alluding to the risk of being raped.

I toed the line of playing into this game of appearing feminine as expected, dressing pretty or sexy as needed to advance as a woman in this world, but not so much that I would be accused of being a slut or put myself in harm's way. Perhaps that just wasn’t me, or perhaps it was but I became sick of grooming myself to balance these expectations. I stopped wearing makeup every day and allowed my roots to grow out, leading to my mother to scold me telling me I should always “look my best” when presenting myself in public, as if my natural face is anything but my best. I chose to care less about my appearance and invested more time in living my life, including picking up a new hobby of rock climbing. Eventually, I decided to get a bob, for no reason other than I just wanted to change my hairstyle after a lifetime of having long hair. After all this, my mom wept asking me if I was trans. Of course, because a woman with a bare-face, short hair, and the smallest development of the trapezius from climbing must mean she is trying to be masculine.

I am much more comfortable with my appearance and who I am today, though I still will only wear shorts when at the pool or beach. I was always told that we are harsher on ourselves than we are on others, but I thought others were judging me since I had learned to look at the same traits in strangers. I judge myself at times when I notice my stretch marks or catch a glimpse of a bad reflection in the mirror. I still have fleeting thoughts judging the appearance of others. Even if I see another beautiful woman, I would become jealous and judge myself questioning why I can’t attain the same physique.

I only began to overcome this judgement when I realized what I was experiencing was attraction, not jealousy. I came to appreciate the beauty in the human form and the breadth of the human physique, becoming much less critical of myself and others. If anything, I came to admire the quirks among different people. Still, I felt reservations as it came to the female body. Some of these feelings may come from a lifetime of judging how women dress themselves and some may be projecting it back onto my own body.

I have noticed a trend in tv and film where if there is nudity, it is always the woman on display. While women are entitled to own their sexuality, I can’t help but to think of the directors choosing to position the actresses in a way that their body has become an object in the gaze of the viewers. I can’t say that I have seen male nudity in popular tv and film presented in this same way. Then I wonder if I think these actresses are being sexualized by other viewers because I, myself, am feeling attraction for and thus sexualizing them. I still don’t know how to reconcile these thoughts. Nevertheless, I still believe our society is far too comfortable objectifying women’s bodies and I fear that if we are looking at these characters that way, then I, too, am viewed this way simply for existing in this body as a woman. I have been told to “grow up” or that I am a prude if I can not tolerate nudity in media.

I don’t feel these same concerns in other works of art. In statues and paintings, nudity is used as a tool to tell a different story. In fact, nudity may not even be sexual at all. In these images, there are longing expressions, exploring connection, or just admiring the human form and functions. At one time, imagery of breastfeeding in ‘La Maternité’ was controversial, but now to me I can see in this statue, and in all of these, the embrace and being with those we love.

While the nude body can involve love and sex, it does not feel sexualized, and this brings me a sense of peace in my own body.