Everybody Has Something to Say About My Body🤦🏾♀️
The art of being 20 something…
The funny thing about growing up Nigerian is that nobody says hello before they assess your body.
The conversation usually goes something like this.
“Ah, you’ve lost weight.” Or “You’ve added weight o.”
No “How are you?”
No “How’s work?”
Just straight to the performance review.
I used to laugh it off though I’m clearly irritated
What else was I supposed to do?
When I was slimmer, everyone had advice.“Eat more.”
“Take another piece of meat.”
“You’re too tiny. Hope breeze won’t carry you” “put stone in your pocket so breeze won’t carry you …” “You need hips for childbirth so eat .”
I remember standing at parties with a full plate, eating because I was hungry, then eating some more because Aunty Busayo insisted I wasn’t full .
Maybe if I gain a little weight, the comments would stop. They didn’t. They haven’t stopped. My body changed—as bodies do.
Not because I was trying to become someone else(maybe a little)
Because I was growing up. Because stress exists. Because hormones exist.Because apparently your twenties come with a second puberty that nobody warns you about.
One day your jeans fit.
The next day they’re just… optimistic.
Some mornings your face is fuller.
Other mornings your waist comes back like nothing happened.
Your body keeps introducing new versions of itself, and you’re expected to pretend none of it is happening.
Then the comments changed too. “Hope you’re not planning to finish that food ?” “You’re getting bigger o hmm ” “Be careful.”“Men like slim girls.”
What is my business?
Then I went home. I stood in front of my mirror. I turned sideways. I sucked in my stomach. I looked again.
And that’s how it starts.
Not with hatred.With curiosity.Then doubt. Then obsession.
After a while, I couldn’t tell if I actually thought I’d gained weight… or if someone had simply told me I had.
The comments followed me everywhere.
If I was lighter… “You’re looking pale you’re not yellow again o .” “Use this cream.”
If I got darker after spending time in the sun…
“Ah, try Caro White.”
There was always something to fix.
Always something to improve.
Always another version of me that would apparently be better than the one standing in front of them.
I started noticing things I had never cared about before.
My arms.My stomach.My thighs.My face.
Not because they suddenly changed.
But because people kept pointing at them.
It’s strange how easily someone else’s voice becomes your inner voice.
One day you’re eating cake.
The next you’re calculating calories you never cared about.
One day you’re taking pictures with your friends.The next you’re zooming into your stomach. One day you’re living. The next you’re examining yourself like you’re a project that needs constant editing.
I don’t think people realize how dangerous casual comments can be.
They think they’re just talking.They don’t know that some of us carry those words home. We carry them into fitting rooms. Into mirrors.Into dressing up for dates. Into choosing what to eat. Into every photo we almost post.
Body dysmorphia doesn’t always begin with the mirror.
Sometimes it begins with a room full of people who have something to say.
People who think they’re helping.
People who think one little comment doesn’t matter.
But comments add up.
One becomes ten.Ten become a hundred.
Until one day, you don’t know if you’re looking at yourself anymore.
You’re looking at every opinion you’ve ever received. That’s the hardest part of being twenty-something for me.
Not that my body is changing. I actually think it’s beautiful that it is.
It’s becoming softer. Stronger. Older.
More like a woman than a girl.
What’s hard is trying to meet this new version of myself while everyone else keeps interrupting the introduction.
I’m still learning to separate my voice from theirs. To ask myself,
“Do I actually dislike my body today… or did somebody just remind me that they do?”
Some days I know the answer.
Some days I don’t.
Maybe that’s what healing is.
Looking in the mirror and, little by little, learning to see yourself before you hear everybody else.
My body is still changing.
Maybe it always will.
Maybe that’s what living is.
I just hope that one day, when I stand in front of a mirror, the first voice I hear isn’t an auntie’s…
Or a stranger’s…
Or society’s…
I hope it’s my own.
And I hope she’s kinder.
Like!! Can't you see something and mind your business? It can be very irritating mehn. Especially for people who do that a lot, you just know they are going to say something!
🙂❤️thank you so much. I start comparing myself to my mates.