I Used to Hate My Body. Now, I Thank It.

As a teenager, I hated my body. Not in a passing, surface-level way, but in a deep, all-consuming way. I’d stare into mirrors and wish I could escape the reflection. I believed that if I could just be thinner, smaller, prettier, less — maybe then I’d finally be enough. Maybe then the world wouldn’t feel so heavy.

But underneath the obsession with food and image was something much darker: pain. Pain, I didn’t know how to name, let alone express. My eating disorder wasn’t about vanity. It was about control. About silencing the chaos in my mind by managing the only thing I thought I could, my body.It nearly cost me my life. I spent part of my adolescence in hospital for starving myself, punishing myself, chasing a version of perfection that never existed. What most people don’t understand is that eating disorders aren’t just about food. They’re about shame. About trauma. About worth. And what no one saw was how lonely it all was and how exhausting it was to fight your own reflection, let alone your own mind.

I couldn’t see the damage I was doing. I didn’t realise how hard my body was working just to keep me alive. It held me through everything. The sleepless nights, the shaking hands, the panic, the weight loss and gain. It never stopped fighting for me, even when I was fighting against it. It was always on my side even when I didn’t believe I deserved that kind of loyalty.

But the battle didn’t end there. At 19, after years of living with depression, PTSD and suicidal thoughts, I stepped in front of a train. I survived — but my life changed forever. I lost both of my legs below the knee. My spine was fractured. I underwent more than 30 surgeries. And doctors told me I would never walk again. And in that moment the moment I lost my legs I realised something heartbreaking: there was never anything wrong with them. In fact, there was never anything wrong with any part of my body.

It hit me — how deeply I had misunderstood its strength and how cruel I had been to the very thing that was always trying to save me. Despite everything I’d put it through, despite all the trauma and pain, my body stayed. It survived. It carried me forward when I couldn’t carry myself.

Learning to walk again with prosthetics was brutal not just physically, but emotionally. I had to rebuild more than muscle. I had to rebuild trust. My relationship with myself. Every painful step forced me to meet myself where I was — raw, uncertain, and cracked open. But something began to shift. Gratitude replaced resentment.Wonder softened the shame. I stopped seeing my body as something to sculpt into acceptability and started seeing it for what it truly was — sacred. A home that had been through hell and still chose to stay. My scars became stories of survival. My prosthetics became symbols of resilience. My curves, once a source of shame, became soft reminders that I am here and instead of trying to get rid of my curves, I now see them as a reminder of growth from the shell of the person I was previously.  

The love I have for my body now. It’s not solely tied to appearance. It’s fierce and unshakably strong but I love my body because it kept showing up through hospitals, heartbreak and healing. Even when I didn’t want to live in it, it fought to keep me here. Even when I begged for escape, it gave me another day. I used to believe self-love came after transformation — once I became some polished, perfected version of myself.

But now I know:Love isn’t the reward. It’s the revolution. Back then, I believed my body was the problem.But now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see something that needs to be fixed.I see strength. I see survival. This body has been through hell — and still found ways to grow flowers from the wreckage. It’s not perfect. But it’s mine. It’s not polished. But it’s powerful. I used to think my body was the reason I suffered. But now I know:It’s the reason I survived. 

I now choose to love it, the way it’s always loved me.