My earliest memory of a conscious awareness of my body – of the vessel with which I navigate the world – I was thirteen, late to school, humming on my way to the assembly ground. Nothing of note happened. The sky did not part in two, a large word was not thrown over my head, but I was walking toward my class row and it occurred to me that my thighs were rubbing together. It was the beginning of a new semester, and I had gained some weight over the summer. It was the first time I ever thought of myself as fat.

I come from a family of tall men and big women, with broad shoulders and long strides. I wear size 42-43 shoes. There have been times when I appreciated parts of my body. My small eyes, the long firmness of my fingers, the smooth expanse of my legs. My breasts hold a fine place in my heart. But I’ve never really liked my body, not in that wholesome, well-rounded, whole-package way, not until I met my partner T whose love for my body was so intoxicating and so contagious, I started to love my body too. And when we broke apart, I didn’t know how to unlearn his gaze and like my body for me.