If I'd have seen this photo a year ago I would have been repulsed. I would have instantly zoomed in on the back fat, bare face, cellulite and saddlebags.
I would have torn my image into its imperfect pieces and scrutinised away the truth - that I am a whole being whose worth doesn't decrease with thigh dimples and tummy rolls.
I had no idea that the images of perfection we're told to emulate are lies, crafted to tear down our self esteem, take our money and leave us forever chasing an empty promise of happiness hiding in our bathroom scales.
Now I know that being happy isn't hitting a goal weight. It isn't having abs or buying a dress size smaller and it certainly isn't in torturing yourself to be a clone of a body in a magazine.
It is knowing that we are all just fine, beautiful in fact, just as we are. Every last dimple.