Dear stretch marks,
Firstly, I’m sorry. For as long as I can remember you’ve been in my life and for most of that time I’ve hated you. You used to remind me of how much weight I put on going through puberty and how uncomfortable I was in my own body. I used to slather on cocoa butter and starve myself to try and get rid of you but nothing worked.
I always thought that if I lost loads of weight and turned myself into one of those willowy girls then you would disappear and I would look like a model. That’s how warped my brain was back then. Think about it: my brain was telling me that if I lost weight then I would magically have a body shape that was so far away from what I naturally might have. And then I would be happy. Um… really?
It’s taken a long time but I’m now realising that my body will only ever be the best that it can be. It will never be the best that someone else’s body can be. And realising that is like having a huge weight lifted off my shoulders because I can now just concentrate on being me and not anyone else.
Some people call you Tiger Stripes, some people call you stretchies but I just call you stretch marks because that’s what you are. You’re caused by sudden growth or weight gain causing the upper layers of skin break and allow the lower layers of skin to show through which is why they’re a different colour. Some are red, some are purple but mine are silver and I love you.
Here’s why. You are a testament to how much my body has gone through over the years, from being overweight to underweight to healthy and strong. You prove that I’m not ‘perfect’ (as judged by advertising billboards), I’m not airbrushed and I’m not ready to give up. I’ve worked hard to earn my stretch marks and I’m going to celebrate you while continuing to work to make my body the best that it can be.
Lots of love,