Chan

Can be better landscape on phones

For a long time, my body and I felt like two separate things, just coexisting because we had to. I used to hate it.

From a young age, I was flooded with other people’s opinions, a constant narrative telling me I didn’t fit into the socially acceptable boxes of beauty. I was always told I was too pale, too busty, too round; my belly too soft, too wobbly, and covered in too many stretch marks.

I wasn’t considered feminine enough, often called scruffy, and my clumsiness left me dotted with bruises and cuts.

A phrase I heard often was, “You’d be beautiful if you just…”

For years, I internalised those messages, trying to mould myself into other people’s ideals. It was exhausting, soul crushing really, to spend so much energy trying to be a mirror for other people’s expectations.

I would get through the day by avoiding mirrors, pretending I didn’t exist from the neck down, living in my head instead of my own skin.

There were times when I tried to disappear, eating as little as possible, living with hunger as if it might make me “better.”

At the time, it felt like control, but really, it was me trying to become someone I was never meant to be.

I was once described as having the figure of a fertility goddess.

At the time, I didn’t know how to take it. It felt like another way of saying I was too much, too big, too soft. But looking back now, I realise it might be one of the best compliments I have ever received.

It planted a quiet seed in me, a small reminder that my curves, my roundness, my softness were not flaws but symbols of life, warmth, and strength.

This body has never been a silent passenger. In my twenties, arthritis arrived like an uninvited guest, settling into my hands, wrists, and knees.

At first, it made me feel weak, defeated, and less capable than others. Some days it was just a dull ache, other days it felt like hot pokers under my skin.

When my hand would seize up completely, I jokingly called it my “crab hand,” but behind the joke there was frustration. Pain slowed me down in ways I did not choose, making it impossible to ignore my body.

In a strange way, that was the beginning of a truce between us.

Slowly, I started to soften towards myself. I began to see that this body, flawed, noisy, and imperfect, has carried me through everything, even when I did not treat it kindly.

It has endured hunger, pain, and relentless criticism, and still it shows up for me.

I am not going to lie and say I love it completely, but I do accept it. I nourish it now. I listen to its hunger, I feed it, I let it rest.

I am learning to see beauty in its details, the curve of my hips, the softness of my belly.

When I saw this project, I thought: Alright then, time to put my money where my mouth is. Time to live by my own words.

When we arrived at the Viaduct, I had such a mix of emotions. I felt sick, excited, nervous, proud for challenging myself, and shy all at once.

Phil was so calm and kind that it gave me confidence, and I let myself fully sink into the experience.

I felt the wind wrap around my bare skin, laughter escaping me at how rigid and tense my body’s natural state is, and I embraced that.

Even the sensation of bridge juice dripping the ceiling of the arch on me didn’t faze me. I had a moment when I thought, “Geez, you’re incredibly vain to do this,” but it wasn’t vanity. It was about giving homage to myself. I wasn’t ashamed to show this body, the one that has carried me through everything, in its raw, unfiltered reality.

I’m not going to lie, it was a very surreal experience, but would I do it again? Absolutely.

I am proud of myself for accepting my body from the neck down, for showing up as I am, and for letting myself feel the freedom and confidence I’ve been building. My beauty is in that roundness, in that softness. It is in my resilience too, the way I keep moving, keep showing up, even on the days when my body slows me down.

And I have learned that it is okay to be different, okay that my body does not always do what I want, and okay that I cannot move like everyone else.

Diversity is what makes beauty real, and we were never meant to all be the same.This is my body, and the only opinion about it that truly matters is mine. So, here I am, in my birthday suit, tender and real, for the world to see.

When I was thinking of my offering to this project, I decided that nothing was more fitting than a homage to Venus, the fertility goddess, and to the Venus of Willendorf, the small prehistoric figurine with rounded forms and abundant curves, whose quiet, ancient presence first sowed seeds of confidence and bodily acceptance into my subconscious. So, here is a poem I wrote for her:

I Wear Her Curves

Her weight settles gently within me
soft belly, full breasts, a pulse of life
Hips sway in rhythm with the earth
each step a quiet hymn to survival

Thighs hold the memory of generations
strong, fertile, unbroken
Her voice hums in my bones
power flows through arms, through the curve of my body

Breathing her, moving with her
Her energy rises and falls within me
A gentle, enduring presence
alive in every motion, every sigh

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