If a Woman Stands in a Forest and There Are No Men to See Her

When I was seven, Barbie was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. My grandmother used to tell me that it was easy to be slim at my age, but one day, my body would resist all my efforts. I would have to learn the discipline of starvation early, or I'd become one of those women who wore size 14 jeans and comfortable shoes. She began teaching me yoga before I'd learned how to write. Even as a child, I knew that bodily imperfection wasn't just a physiological crisis. It was a moral failing as well. Body shame was a tag I stitched to my psyche, and I've never found a pair of scissors sharp enough to cut it off.

One of the first lessons I ever learned was, “There’s no such thing as too thin.” The thighs I'd earned at gymnastics class weren't slim enough, so I started tumbling less and developed more self-hatred. That was when I was 13, when beauty was more important than fun and exercise.

At 16, I learned that, no matter how thin I became, I couldn't erase my womanhood. My curves flew in the face of everything I was expected to be, so I learned to diet. If I couldn’t find a pair of trousers small enough to fit me, I was a true achiever.

A hero.

In the Nineties, to be a woman was to suffer for your beauty. We were ornaments to be looked at, so the whole world felt justified to comment on our bodies.

If a woman stands around in a forest and there are no men to see her, does she still exist?

In those days, the answer was no.

If Barbie was a real woman, her waist would be too slim to hold her upright. She would have to crawl to get to the bathroom scale. How much health did I have to sacrifice? How much did I have to suffer to deserve the glances of men I'd never met?

Self-hatred became my ethos one uneaten meal at a time. And it worked. When I was light enough, I could almost eliminate my curves, and so what if I couldn't get to the bathroom scale? I was underweight, and that was the greatest achievement of my life.

There was no achievement greater than slimness. The models in Vogue insisted on that. Even on hospital drips, we were proud.

Generation Z is the best thing that's ever happened for my attitude to beauty. The body positivity I see in the streets has been worth a decade of therapy. The young adults of today are more interested in doctorates than diets. Countries have banned underweight models. Curvy Barbie has rolled off production lines. Music labels even accept musicians who lack The Tom Ford Aesthetic sometimes.

Yes, in the 21st century, talent is sometimes more important than weight. Not always, but at least it happens. This has been a powerful lesson for me. It's no cure, but it's a pretty good symptomatic treatment.

Still, in 2016, men crawled into my inbox to tell me I needed to smile in my avatar. They commented on my weight and told me how to wear my hair. One day, I said, “enough” and removed most of my pictures because if a woman stands in a forest and there are no men to see her, she still does not exist.