#Unsettled

I was standing in my closet today, staring at a sea of fabric, and for a moment, the walls felt like they were closing in. Nothing was working. Nothing fit “right.”

Living in the era of “The Shot,” in a world where it seems every woman is perpetually fit, thin, and filtered, I suddenly felt like a whale among minnows. I know we compare; it’s human nature and a tough cycle to break. I also know I’m not alone. Whether you’re a supermodel or her polar opposite, we all have that “mirror moment” where we hate the reflection. It is 100% mental, yet for most of us, we remain our own most brutal critics.

For me, the insecurity seed was planted early. My curves decided to sprout well before I knew how to handle them. I grew up in the world of arts and dance—a landscape of “skinny little waifs”—and there I was, a silhouette that simply didn’t fit the mold.

I remember my mother—bless her heart—not quite knowing how to navigate a daughter who wasn’t built like a waif. When she dressed me, the goal was always camouflage. “Make sure you cover your butt,” she’d say. I grew up self-conscious of my own architecture. When boys gave me attention, I didn’t know how to translate it. Was it mockery? Or did they actually like what they saw?

Later, as I raised two sons who are just as unfiltered as I am, the truth became clear: they liked what they saw. Men generally do. But the damage of the “cover-up” era had already been done.

Life didn’t exactly offer a “grace period” for my self-image as I got older. Entering the sports world and marrying a professional athlete put me under a permanent magnifying glass. And now, living in a beautiful community where the pressure is palpable, I still occasionally feel like “The Curvy One” among the sticks.

But then, I look at my daughter.

She inherited my curves. She also inherited her father’s height, and she is—if I do say so myself—breathtaking. She’s a dancer, too, standing right there among the waifs, but she doesn’t hide. She doesn’t drape herself in extra fabric (something I’m sure my husband wishes she did.) She puts it all out there. She embraces every inch of herself with a confidence that stops me in my tracks.

I like to think my influence—my daily struggle to stop worrying about the “minnows”—has rubbed off on her. Or maybe it’s just this new generation. On TikTok, they don’t hide the booty; they celebrate it. They’ve changed the dialogue while I was still trying to find the words.

Despite the “body positivity” movements, my mother’s voice still rings in the back of my mind when I’m getting dressed: “Make sure you cover your butt.” Now, I shove that thought away. I tell myself: I am going to embrace these curves. I am going to show them off. I am going to feel dominant in this body. Yes, as I get older, the curves get more pronounced. I’m pretty sure I gain five pounds just by walking past the ice cream aisle—I don’t even have to look at the carton! It’s a fact of life. But what we can do is stop the comparison game. We can stand in our closets, look at the array of clothing that “doesn’t fit,” and realize that the clothes are the problem—not our bodies.

We need to change the narrative in our heads. We are goddesses. It’s not an easy task to unlearn decades of inherited insecurity, but we can do it together.

Stop hiding. Start walking tall. Embrace the booty!