The man that once ejaculated into my mother looked at me and said no man would ever want a woman without “love handles.” Think about the sheer, insidious rot it takes for a father to measure his daughter’s worth by how much flesh a man can grab. What a sick, fucking creep.
He was wrong anyway. The man who truly worships me fell head over heels when I was in the abused human shell of myself, a size 00 with Double-A cups, wearing jeans that slid off a ghost of an ass.
From the time I was born, I have fought a quiet, violent war to put on weight. Tubs of ice cream and five pregnancies didn’t lend a hand.
Spring 2025 in Paris, France, altered my brain’s chemistry, and kickstarted a healing my body has been starved of. Thirty pounds later, I am fully occupying my own frame. I have been guilt free sculpting a sensuous ass and heavy, full C-cups that I love to hold, jiggle, and weigh in my own hands. I flaunt my cleavage without apology, because feeling hot in my own skin is a radical act.
I moved from a 00 to a 10/12. XXS to Mediums and Larges. I stripped my closet bare, purging every thread tied to my old life, the abused body. That was the body carved up, stolen, and scattered across the dark corners of the internet as revenge porn, a digital ghost I can never fully erase.
Let the internet keep those static images. I am no longer living in the wreck they left behind. I traded starvation for substance, abuse for healing, and I finally inhabit a body that belongs entirely to me.
I love this, my body did the opposite holding weight at all costs to become invisible, to become safe. One of my abusers picked me up while I was sleeping and carried me to another location, so my body responded by not being able to be picked up. Trying to convince your body that it's safe to be healthy is a monumental undertaking in healing and I am SO fucking happy you've made it. I have healed in many ways, but I am still trying to get my body to believe it, you give me hope that I can. ❤️