and self-acceptance.
selflovecampaign@gmail.com
My motto - Love yourself before anyone else can.xxx
- Camera: Samsung ES70 / VLUU ES70 / SL600
- Aperture: f/3.5
- Exposure: 1/45th
- Focal Length: 4mm
24th April 2012
Reblogged From curveappeal
Notes: 199
In history class, we are taught about the corset. The restricting, body contorting undergarment women wore in 1800’s to 1900’s to give themselves Barbie proportions to get a husband so they could pop out a few babies, get tuberculosis and die. Lovely.
We are also taught about foot binding, where in ancient China upper-class women (predominantly princesses and the elite) would wrap their feet during childhood in order to stunt their growth, because men found small feet attractive and desirable. These women were then unable to walk, and had to be carried around by gigantic men. I would include a picture, but I’m sure most of your teachers have pulled up some pictures of this during your World History Class. If you haven’t, quick, right now; open up a new tab and google dat shit. It’s nasty.
But today, we have nothing of the sort! We are liberated, we are free, we are women who are at peace with our role in society………..
…….wait, what the fuck is this?
Now you know, of course, that the brief history lesson I just gave is referring to women’s new best friend. That’s right, the bombshell, the wonderbra, or as Chris Rock calls it “The visual lie.”
All of us girls have rocked one of these of some point, whether it was for a dance, important date, or even a job interview. But let’s be real; are these things comfortable? No. Do they make your boobs look unreal? Yes. But have any of you think about what you’re doing to yourself when you get dressed in the morning and hoist those puppies up?
Two years ago in sophomore year, I lost a considerable amount of weight. But the thing was I was only 130 pounds to begin with! I constantly complained about my body, cried about my stretch marks and prayed for an answer. God, I was such an idiot.
I lost 20 pounds from the end of 2009 to the beginning of 2010, and the first thing to go was the twins. Goodbye c- cups, hello b- cups. And for some reason, instead of being satisfied with the body I had hoped for, I was even more depressed. I started drinking and doing speedy drugs heavily that summer, and did stupid things to make myself feel desirable.
I am, by no means whatsoever, a busty woman. I read so many posts from luscious, beautiful women on this website. I want to reach out to them and tell them how lucky they are for their curves, and not to take them for granted. For a long period of time I felt worthless because I didn’t feel like a real woman; I was a boobless freak, and despite what anybody said to me I wouldn’t listen.
I’ve done a lot of growing up within the past year, with the help of my boyfriend, friends, and pure maturity when it comes to how I treat my body. I stopped making myself take pills to keep down my weight; my fears of regaining baby fat and the fear of forever being a boobless freak no longer contradicted themselves.
And most importantly, I have stopped considering getting fake boobs as a result to my self-esteem problems!! Ladies here’s the truth; saying that you’ll be happy with yourself after losing those last 5 pounds is a flat out lie. Change needs to come from the inside out, and the most important part of self-acceptance is realizing that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you.
So here are a few womanly commandments I need to share with all of you reading this.
First off, to all us ladies who aren’t rocking double ds:
- Thou shall not think thou has small boobs. Thou shall not get fake boobs because they are an item made up by men for men, that fool women into thinking men only like that kind of girl. Guys ( and I know this for a fact) will love you for you, and by love I mean absolutely worship.
- Thou shall not wear push up bras, because they too were invented by men in order to make girls feel inadequate. By wearing these, thou art degrading themselves by saying “My boobs aren’t big enough in this tee shirt, therefore I need to push them in your face to feel better about myself.
And to all you ladies who don’t appreciate your curves:
- You and your body are absolutely stunning. Be grateful for that voluptuous, womanly body that God gave you, and don’t say bad things about it to Her. You are lucky in a way that you might never understand, but just know that you are beautiful, graceful, and feminine in a way that I might never feel.
I’m trying to start a movement here. The anti- push up bra, breast augmentation movement. One were us girls start to take back our bodies, stop hating ourselves, and stop wearing uncomfortable underwear because some stupid commercial says you should. Your boobs are your boobs, and no guy or girl should dictate what you do with them and how you look. Every time you feel ashamed of your breast size, you are being ashamed of every girl with that very same breast size. Push up bras jut make all us girls feel like we are never good enough, and we should be ashamed if we don’t have ginormous disproportionate boobs. It’s ridiculous! I know every girl needs her crutch, and I know a few girls who would never step foot out of their house without their miracle working bra. But this needs to stop or else we will never be happy with ourselves.
As I look into the future, I hope to see one where all girls know that double D or double A, we all know that boobs are boobs; and having boobs is totally awesome.
Viva La Vulva!
Dad was like, “Julia, you’re fat.”
And I was like, okay with it. Incredibly and awesomely and happily okay with it. You know, it’s okay if you think I’m fat. I still love my body, because there’s nothing wrong with being fat. There’s nothing wrong with being morbidly obese. There’s nothing wrong with being very underweight. There’s nothing wrong with me. But there IS something wrong with you if you believe my appearance affects in any way my character, or if I’m not worthy of love because of how many pounds the scale says I have.
So I went to the bathroom to take a long, extra-hot shower and instead took a long, extra-hard look at my body. And guess what, Dad? I loved what I saw, I love what I see, I love myself. I love every bit of fat there is in my thighs, in my arms, in my belly. I love how I look naked. I love who and how I am, and I’ll keep loving myself no matter what you or anyone else says, because your opinion on ME is like a grain of salt when compared to my own opinion on myself.
“This is me. This photo is one of the only ones I have of myself that I find pretty. I’ve had problems with my self-image since the fifth grade, after my parents divorced and my dad, who didn’t even take care of his own diabetes—and still doesn’t—fed me fast food every day for two years. I do not use the “big boned” excuse, but I was built to be smaller, and the weight gain from those years has covered my stomach, breasts, thighs, arms, and my entire back in stretch marks. I went from being called a toothpick to being called a cow in less than a year, and I hated myself for it. After my step-father died in 2005, I went into a deeper depression, and gained more weight. Since then, I have steadily gotten heavier and heavier, despite many attempts at fixing it. I’m a size 20 in Juniors clothes, and even though that’s really not that big, I weigh 210 pounds. My doctor said I should only weigh 130. But no matter what I do I can’t lose the weight. So I just continued hating myself. The self-hate only got worse with more family problems, social problems, and mental problems, along with the sadness and frustration that comes with not being able to find clothes that fit me. Slowly, though, I have come to terms with the way I am. The stretch marks will always be there, they will never really go away, and even though some find them hideous, my girlfriend says that they’re a map to my soul, and I’m starting to believe her. Every blemish, every flaw, whether mental or physical, is a beautiful thing, and no matter what, I’m going to try to love myself more. And that’s why I took this picture. To show myself and everyone else that I can be something more than what they perceive.
I love myself for these reasons:
1. I am an old soul.
2. I can cook well (and will continue cooking well).
3. I live through music.
4. I find beauty in everyone.
5. I know who I am and I will never change myself for anyone besides myself.
6. I take my credit when it’s due, and am humble when the time is right.
7. I never abandon the people who need me.
8. I want to change the world. But I know I can’t do it alone.
9. I love to love.
10. I love you. All of you. No matter who you are, and what you go through, I love you. I may never see you, speak to you, touch you, or hug you, but know that I love you and I always will.”
To send in your own Self-Love Submission, e-mail me at selflovecampaign@gmail.com
This is exactly what we are rebelling against. The idea that there is an “ideal.” When you close your eyes and you close out the rest of the world, and you look deep within yourself, you will see that you are a person, and that in itself is beautiful. Clean your mind from the brainwashing of your TVs, fashion magazines, and political nightmares. You are Alive and you are Beautiful. Instead of idolizing the photoshopped and the stitched up, focus on real women with real bodies. Tumblr is a great community full of fiesty women, chubby fashion, self-acceptance groups, etc. Search and you will find what you are looking for: a community that will embrace you and accept you as you, just as you should with yourself. A man does not justify your self-worth. A man does not justify your own beauty, your own confidence. Love yourself, and others will love you. -Alice
Done! -Alice
Great question! I want all our campaigners to think up an answer and send it in! -Alice
I would say to sit down with her and to tell her honestly and truthfully what it feels like for you, having had eating disorders and still hearing her say these things. You need to try to be mature and sensitive to let her know, and she will then be alot more likely to take your views seriously.
Good luck with telling her, and I hope you feel better soon!
x
Hey everyone! My name is Christine, otherwise known as Frosty by many of my peers.
Ever since I was a child, everything about me has been small. I’ve always felt I was “small.” That word has practically characterized my life. If you saw videos of me as a child, you most likely would not recognize me, and you would find that my personality was the one thing never defined by that word. I was a bouncy, cheerful child with no cares in the world.
Only when I grew up, of course, did I start doubting everything I did, liked and thought I had once had talent in, because to be honest, I’ve never felt overly insecure about my body or my body type or my weight. Like I said, I’ve always been small; perhaps that has always been my problem.
My height has always been a topic of, well, conversation, for lack of a better word. People, even now, tease me for being so short. (For anyone wondering, I’m 4 feet and 11 inches tall. Plus about ¾ of an inch. I’m that close to 5 feet.) I’ve always been told that my height is cute and is not a disadvantage, as I look younger than I really do and such. But what if I’m sick of being cute? All I ever wanted was for someone to say I was “beautiful.” But no. Cute was the only word I received. Because of this, I always loathed my cute, young face.
For years and years I was touchy about my height and, even if I am no longer so sensitive at this current point in time, it really hurt me back then. Worse was that I could never be free to talk to people about it. They would tell me to get over myself. “It’s a little thing. Why do you care so much?” And, really, the truth was that I felt so different from everyone else because of my height, and everyone thought it was so… funny. What was so funny about it? I never understood. I just knew I hated being so isolated and, yet, so well-known as “Hey, Shorty!” in the hallways.
By the time I got to middle school, my self-esteem really began to crumble. From 7th grade to 8th, I suffered through what I call a “severe bout of depression.” I felt so alone. My friend’s mother was having emotional problems and cut herself and was even sent to an asylum at some point, which added an undeniable degree of stress to our lives. I began to doubt everything I did, doubted how I looked, and fell deeply into horrible and unbreakable fits of sorrow. What hope was there for me?
Later, that was only broken even more by a friend of mine who, I guess, thought I was so desperate for someone that she bribed a boy to pretend to like me. And even worse, he accepted the offer. I liked this boy, so I was ecstatic when my friend told me he liked me back, because I had no knowledge of the bargain she made with him. For two weeks, the boy, Jesse, and I were in somewhat of a relationship, though it was nothing close to “official.” But I felt strongly for him, and I wanted for him to feel like that, too. Two weeks later, however, he avoided me and never spoke to me anymore. And then I began to question my own actions, “What did I do? Did I push him away? What could be so wrong with me that he would avoid me like this?” This was when I began to spiral downwards into sadness. Because of previous experiences in my life when I had been called ugly before, I suppose I was already predisposed to always calling myself ugly, always saying that I was good at nothing, and always saying that I was worth nothing. Jesse’s rejection only made that worse, followed by the realization that this friend, Lora, had made a deal with him to merely act like he liked me. At one point, I sat at home, took a knife into my hand, and just stared at it, contemplating. I wanted to end it all, I really did. But I couldn’t bear to.
9th grade wasn’t much better. I lost sight of myself. I didn’t know what I wanted, or who I was. Regrettably, that was when my first real relationship began, though it was with a woman. It just seemed so right for us to be together at that time, so we were. She asked me to be her official girlfriend later in the relationship, and I said “yes.”
I should never have said that. She ended up cheating on me with a man. So I couldn’t be in that relationship anymore. It was impossible; she broke me somehow with the knowledge or what she had done. And though I don’t like talking about this previous relationship merely because I am ashamed of it, because of how deeply she really hurt me, it feels like it’s time to let it go. There’s a time when something has to give.
At this point, I can hardly stand to be in a relationship. Every attempt for me ends in some kind of heartbreak, and an even deeper plunge in my self-esteem. The insults to myself and my looks just kept coming, battering what little of a ruined self-confidence that might have lingered inside of me. Betrayals, broken trust, and a broken heart butchered my willingness to get so close to people, especially in a romantic way. Even recently, someone asked me out, and I froze in my place in terror. Those relationships previously mentioned were four and two years ago.
Ever since 8th grade, when I met my friend Mariah, I realized something. I realized how special and wonderful I feel when I’m with her, one of my best and closest friends. She always knows how to make me happy. So does Rebecca who, even when her mother was suffering from mental breakdown in middle school, helped me through my own depression and ultimately saved me from what could have been a terrible fate. Both of these wonderful people I owe my life to. Both of these people have told me that I am beautiful, the word I had been striving to hear for so long.
It was then that I took to writing again, with Mariah’s help. I wrote to express myself, and it became a more prolific hobby than my drawing had. I finally found an outlet for my pent-up emotions, and I believe to this day that it has truly made me happier.
But today, even with all those things dwelling in my heart, I feel so much better. I feel more confident in myself. I have close friends that support me, and I have people by my side who will listen to me. I may have problems trusting other people, romantically involving myself, and being alone, but I have come to terms with the fact that I am who I am, and I can’t change that. I’ve come to actually like myself. And now I’m learning to try to love myself.
I believe that, now, I can list 10 things that I love about myself and my life:
1. My green eyes.
2. I know how to make others smile and laugh.
3. My amazing friends.
4. My supportive family.
5. The fact that I am still alive today.
6. My kind heart.
7. My compassion and service for others.
8. I am a talented artist and writer.
9. My determination. I never give up.
10. My differences from everyone else.
So, sure, the word “small” may still very nicely fit how I belong in life, and how my life has gone, but maybe being so small in this world isn’t a bad thing. I think that, for the first time, I’m okay with it.
Almost two years ago, I did the unthinkable, and I tried to kill myself.
Oh no, no, first things first- My name is Shanna. I am an actor, a writer, a poet, a fashionista, and a photographer.
In short, I am an artist.
And as many artists do, I, er, well we, suffer from mental disorders.
Not like retardation, just… Addictions, depression, anger issues, just anything like that.
I have been diagnosed as having bi-polar disorder. Rapid cycling. I am self destructive.
They have also suspected I am schizophrenic.
I haven’t really been okay with myself… well, ever.
But that is something that I am working on.
Every day is a little step.
Nearly two years ago,
I swallowed exactly fifty two extra strength Tylenol.
I was hospitalized for almost two weeks.
Detoxed, and the drugged back up to the point where I couldn’t see straight.
I used to stare into the mirror, and pick apart the girl staring back.
Chubby. Freckles, all over. Disgusting.
Too opinionated,
Hair is too short,
I am not bold.
I notice this girl- she hides behind a charade.
She dresses outlandishly, to hide the insecurities.
I looked in the mirror, and I hated this girl.
I wanted her to be gone.
I wanted someone in her place that I would love.
That other people could love.
So I tried to destroy her…
Blackout.
I woke up in a hospital bed.
Blackout.
Institutionalized.
Blackout.
And then I wake up back at home.
Terrified, and alone.
Every day since then I have fought to get back to happy.
Sometimes I worry I’ll never truly be there.
Some days I just want to give up,
But most days-
I wake up in the morning,
And I fight my hardest to regain the friends I’ve lost.
Fight hard to be my best,
And usually, I don’t see myself as beautiful.
Usually I don’t really love myself.
So I fight back against the urge to find my imperfections-
Instead I embrace them, and love them, take it with a grain of salt-
And then focus on the positive.
Fight so hard so that when I look in the mirror, I see a person I am proud to be.
Last Winter, I wrote and directed a play-
It was my story.
The story of my downfall, and my fight to get back to where I am now.
It felt impossible to share this story-
Raw and on stage for everyone to see,
But I did it, and the feeling was incredible.
So some days I take baby steps, and some days I take leaps.
It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, as long as I’m moving in the right direction.
And when I saw these pictures of myself,
I saw someone beautiful.
My name is Shanna.
And I am going to love myself.
I’m currently trying to learn to love myself again.
I remember about 3 years ago walking to a games lesson with one of my close friends, who had recently been diagnosed with a number of physical medical conditions, ranging from ME to life-threatening allergies. We were talking about this, and I remember making the remark that “the only medical condition I have is that I’m mentally insane!”, prompting a mad fit of laughter from the pair of us. I was happy then, full of a near-arrogant self-confidence, surrounnded by a happy group of friends and had a life in which I thought everything was going for me.
But as I began to get older, I became more interested in teen magazines and websites. I always loved to read the “real life” stories, to hear about these amazing people who had been through, or are going through so much and staying so strong, and every time I read them I always thought to myself that I could never be as brave as them. However one day an article caught my eye about a girl who had Asperger’s Syndrome. I’d always been a child who somewho never quite fitted in and was slightly awkward in social situations, but I thought nothing of it until I read this article. As I kept reading further down, every single one of this person’s symptoms seemed familiar to me. I asked my mother about it, who works with young children, and she said that she had always suspected I had it, but never told me. She agreed to take me for a diagnosis, but on that day I was not only told that yes, I did have Asperger’s, but also OCD, HPD and Mild Paranoia.
Gradually, over the next year, my self-esteem deteriorated gradually. I told a few people how I felt, but they had always known me as someone bright and confident and refused to take what I was saying seriously. My escapes were through performing - it seems strange for a person with low self-esteem, but when I acted or when I sang, I felt like a different person, in a character and not my own body. It became my release from myself.
I then got two other “bombshells”, as they were to me at the time: I was diagnosed with a skin condition called Lichen Simplex Chronicus, which, although isn’t dangerous, meant that I now have what is likely to be life scarring on both my legs. Even up to now, it hasn’t healed over, and I still have large cuts all over my lower legs. The second thing that happened was that I began to develop romantic feelings for one of my closest friends - also a girl. She had always been someone who I admired, a girl who was like a ray of sunlight and energy everywhere she went, but my feelings for her got stronger and stronger. After a year of this, I accepted that I was bisexual. That was two months ago, and I still haven’t told anyone.
During that year, I began to feel lonely and used self-harm as a release of my feelings. I was too scared to cut myself properly, too weak, so first I used a pin to prick the marks on my legs left by the LSC. The bleeding felt good to me, like a release of everything I was feeling and everything I hated about myself - appearance and personality, and I left no new marks, so no one had any idea about what I was doing, not even my parents. But this felt like not enough after a while, and I used the pins to prick myself and scrape myself, forming new cuts at the top of my legs where no one would usually see - the only time anyone ever did was for school swimming and I told them my cat scratched me, which they found a satisfactory answer. The cuts I made won’t scar me for life, but I still have the marks.
I don’t know what triggered me to do it, but I the way I was feeling couldn’t continue and I made up my mind to stop. I stopped the self harm, and instead used a pen and paper to simulate the pricking, the release of colour taking the place of a release of blood. I never drew anything properly, just stabbed and scribbled all over the paper when I felt tempted to harm, but it helped. I’m not over it yet, but I’m getting there, slowly, and with it my confidence is building again.
Maybe one day I’ll tell my friend what I still feel about her, and come out to everyone else, and I’ll come to terms with everything I have, everything that blemishes my body and my personality. The pictures are of all the body parts I hate - my legs, my stretchmarks, my cut marks, my tiny breasts, my face, except for the one of me in the purple top. That picture was taken four months ago, on one of the days when I felt at my absolute happiest in my “down peroid”, and soon I hope I’ll have an expression like that more often soon. But there are things I already love about myself. Here are ten of them:
1. The life I have, with all the amazing people.
2. My eyes.
3. My voice, especially when I sing.
4. My acting skills.
5. My height.
6. The fact I can love.
7. My writing.
8. My music.
9. The fact I want to know….things, everything.
10. I can accept people for who they are.
I have to say that I think everyone who has submitted to this page so far is beautiful. All of you are stunning and do not let anyone tell you otherwise.
I think that there is some kind of beauty in every person. All you have to do is to try and find that beauty in yourself.
If you want to tell me something, ask me something, or need to let something go, I’m always able to listen. Please don’t be scared to email me - rosiehodsdon@gmail.com, because I’m here for anyone who wants to say anything.
Cynthia Alejandra Ruiz
“Your time is limited; don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma, which is living the result of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinion drowned your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition, they somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.” – Steve Jobs
Ever since I was 11 years, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. This is a serious mental disorder that can be stabilized with antidepressants but not everyone can heal from depression. It’s not just being sad for a day or two, its being sad for years with constant suicidal thoughts and apathy for life. I believe that I had clinical depression before I was 11. As I explain some hardships in my life, you will see why I am who I am and why I am still struggling with depression and self-image today.
I was unwanted by my family the moment I was born. I am illegitimate and my family took that serious to the point that I am the FIRST and ONLY illegitimate child ever born. Ever since then my birth mother has abandoned me to her parents or in an empty apartment many times. My biological father, I never met until I was 13. At a young age I was told by my mother that I was property and that I had no rights in life as a child. Now that I am 18, I still struggle with the idea of being my own person and not a tool along with the fact that I actually do have rights.
In my first elementary school, there were very few Hispanics. I was called ‘Werewolf’ and ‘Bearded Girl’ because of the visible brown hair on my arms and face. I started shaving all parts of my body except my head and eye brows when I was 8 to prevent the teasing and bullying from my classmates. Only when I transferred to a magnet elementary school, I finally met other Hispanic girls my age with the same physical qualities. They’re proud of their visible hair and never plan to hide it. I do envy their passion to an extent but those years of teasing have made my decision to remain hiding those features.
In kindergarten, I started to notice the same sex rather than the opposite. When we would play “House” I would always want to be the husband so that I could be married to the girls. Even then the girls in the class would say “If only you were a boy…”. I did not think much on these thoughts and actions until I got into middle school. In the 6th grade I met a bisexual girl who called herself a “half lesbian”. Of course, I asked her what a lesbian was and then everything I’ve felt about women made sense. I came out as a bisexual in the 6th grade to see how some would react. I lost many friends and it made me think how much worse it would be if I was honest about being a homosexual rather than the created identity of a bisexual. Then I realized that I hated to hide my true self and came out wholly as a lesbian in the 8th grade. When I was 14 I came out to my mother. It was not a smart move. She was apathetic to homosexuality until I came out to her, now she hates all homosexuals. I was brutally abused physically and mentally for 3 years. I even went to the police after one of the most brutal beatings I had in my life. The police arrested me for being a “run away” even though I came to them for help covered in bruises. Then they repeated my mother’s words, “You have no rights” then he topped that day off with “and you deserved what happened to you”. After that I just gave up finding help to fight abuse against my mother. She kicked me out not long after that and I have been living with my grandparents ever since. I don’t struggle with my sexual orientation within myself, I struggle with other’s accepting it and fear of what other people will do to me if they knew. Who knew that love was so dangerous?
As I was typing this I have come to terms with myself. I know my life has been hard, but maybe I would not be the person I am today. I haven’t found someone out there who is just like me or even close to being like me. This brings me a new contentment knowing that I’m so unique. Yes there are good and bad things about being different but since I am already who I am then why not accept it and take pleasure in what I am as a person with different qualities.
10 things about myself
- I’m a Mexican American female and proud of it!
- I love being a lesbian; women are so strong, beautiful and amazing!
- I hate that I push and hurt good people away although I need them.
- I wish I was more extroverted but then I wouldn’t be me.
- I love dinosaurs!
- I love where my academic future is going.
- I hate that I have clinical depression and that I’m sure if I will be cured from it.
- I love my way of thinking, it’s so abstract.
- I hate my situation with my family and that I cannot do anything about it at the moment which scares me about the future.
- I will always have things I do and don’t like about myself but those qualities create who I am and I am learning to be proud of being me.
“Okay, I’m not sure how to start this exactly.
Those two pictures above are me. The first one was taken a few days ago. I think you can see a lot of my body in it. My large hips and though you cant see it my waist nips in quite a bit. My boobs are present as always. This is going to sound like word vomit by the way. I was never okay with my body as a kid. Like, I was skinny for so long tiny little thing and then when I got sick I blew out of proportion. I had yet to go through puberty and I put on a lot of wait. We know now that I have a whole lot of random disorders and genetic mutations. Side note I have multiple organs and technically I’m dead by all textbooks but its okay because I’m alive and healthy. I’m not going to use that as an excuse for my weight. Weight doesn’t matter at all. Excuses need to be discarded. I weight nearly 190lbs and I stand at 5’9. I’m overweight, no problem. I said it. No use hiding. There is nothing to hide as a matter of fact. You know, I never really on my own thought I was ugly it was my father and the teasing which got me so down on myself. Skinny does not equate beautiful and fat does not equate ugly. I wish I could obliterate this stupid destructive ideal which seems to have taken over everyones mind. I wish this flowed better but I have so much I want to say.
Here are my likes- I love my eyes, they are warm and I think very striking. Middle Eastern eyes what can I say. - I love my lips, they are full and naturally a lovely color. I think they’re one of my best features- I love how people can come and talk to me and feel safe in my arms. - I love how I’m a warm person, literally and metaphorically. People know me as the one who will give you a hand when you need it. - I love how I can go and talk to strangers- I love my openness- I love how I have a story to tell, I have gone through much and have become strong because of it- I love that I am dependable. - I love that I am learning to love myself. - I love that I care about everyone- I love how I might be able to break the mold
Oh, and I want to go into plus size modeling. “
