I wish somebody had told me when I was growing up that being thin isn’t the answer. I think I was about 14 when I had this fantasy that if I lay really still in bed and traced my finger around my fat bits at exactly the right time, then I would wake up in the morning thin. And then everything would be ok.
Why was I so obsessed? What did I think being thin would mean? Well, in my head I was fat and that meant I didn’t really matter – I wasn’t important. People didn’t notice me and that meant I was nothing. So it follows, surely, that if I was thin, I would matter – I would be important. People would notice me and that would mean that I was somebody. I look back at this at the grand old age of 30 and think: how on earth could the world have taught me that? What sort of a world was I living in? And now that I have my own children I know that it cannot be that way. I cannot let my daughter (or my son for that matter) grow up thinking that self worth is invested in appearance.
The thing is, being thin makes absolutely no difference. None. Zero. It doesn’t make you happier. It doesn’t make you better. It’s not even relevant. What does matter is that you find out who you are, and you engage in it. You try to be more of you, every single day. You don’t try to be more like that pretty girl over here, or that cool boy over there. You try, as hard as you possibly can, to be the very best version of yourself. It’s not easy. But since when was anything worth doing easy? So, go to bed tonight and ask yourself, who am I? And when you wake up in the morning, go out there and be the very best you that you can possibly be. And then maybe, just maybe, the world will be that little bit better.