How A 6-Year-Old Taught Me to Love My "Cottage Cheese Thighs"

I work as a gymnastics coach for children ages three to thirteen. I love my job for many reasons, but one of the most rewarding perks is the talks I get to have with my girls about body image. These girls come to class every day in leotards and surround themselves with other girls of all shapes and sizes, without diminishing their self-esteem. However, every now and then, an issue presents itself, and I get to have a come to Jesus talk with them.

Most recently, a 6-year-old was discussing buying her first bikini, when her older and larger classmate said she wanted one, too. The 6-year-old, with a catty raised eyebrow, retorted, “No, only skinny people can wear bikinis.” That didn’t go over so well with me. We halted all stretches as I explained to the girls that every body is a bikini body, and people of all shapes, sizes, ages, and even genders can wear bikinis if it makes them happy. I like to think I sparked at least a tiny bit of body confidence that day.

I have also dealt with girls who openly compare themselves to the others; girls who are older, taller, with bigger hips. These are the girls I identify with. I started gymnastics way too late in the game as a preteen. With no previous experience, I was a level one, learning how to do somersaults with a class of 5-year-olds. Being the biggest girl in the class is hard, especially when the instructor can flip everyone around except you.

Thankfully, having that background taught me how to relate to those girls in my class. I know what it’s like to be the biggest girl in the class. I know how it feels to look at all the girls in tiny leotards while I pull soffee shorts up over mine. Being able to wipe tears from their faces and hearing them laugh as I explain how goofy I must have looked compared to my classmates is one of the best parts of my job.

 As much as I see these girls tackle body confidence every day, I still struggle. I love my body, and I’m comfortable in my own skin, but there will always be parts of me that I wish I could change. And that’s fine! I was given a skinny body with a high metabolism and I took it for granted. I’ve always eaten whatever I wanted, and one day that metabolism caught up with me. I like being a little thicker than I used to be, as frustrating as swimsuit or jean shopping is.

But one part of me that I have never, ever been comfortable with is my thighs. As soon as I put on my first pair of shorts for the summer, I’m immediately ready for snow to start falling. I have cellulite, and it's probably one of the most embarrassing features to have in today’s society. Celebrities have their beach vacation pictures blown up to emphasize the dimples on their thighs. College girls rush to Target to buy skin-firming creams and cellulite-reducing scrubs. It’s a sickness.

To help fight this hatred of my legs, and to instill a new sense of confidence, I collaborated with a local photographer to do a lingerie photo-shoot. And while it was great, and did exactly what it was designed to do in terms of confidence, I can’t take nearly naked pictures every day, and after a while my self-love battery needs a recharge.

Because I’m a gymnastics instructor, I work in a large gym with an entire wall of mirrors, and I’m surrounded by other instructors my age. Our uniforms are simple, just a staff t-shirt and athletic bottoms. It gets hot, and the desire to wear shorts is constant, but when I’m surrounded by my athletic-trainer, dance-major, and level-7-gymnast peers in shorts, and their perfectly sculpted legs, I decide that leggings are my best option.

But then one day in class, I noticed something strange. As I helped one of my younger girls fold into a backbend, I notice her legs dimpled up. I looked over and saw another girl sitting criss-cross applesauce; her legs had cellulite too. It was on every girl. These were 6-year-olds who have been in gymnastics for years. They were athletic, skinny, and growing more muscles every day—and they had the same cellulite that I had been killing myself over.

That’s when I realized how stupid it is to be embarrassed by it. Cellulite is a natural thing. From that point on, I noticed that every single person around me had it. Girls sitting in class, other gymnastics instructors, the girl next to me at the barre in ballet. It was so freeing to no longer worry about how I sit, or what angle to stand at while talking to someone. We’ve realized that fat is beautiful, we understand that stretch marks are stripes to be earned—why are we still treating cellulite like a deformity?  

I’m 21 and Having an Identity Crisis

Growing up, I was never really in one clique. I had friends who were athletes, mathletes, League of Legends champions, homebodies, and theater kids. It was nice being someone who got along with everyone. But then I realized that they all belonged to a group, and I never have. And at the age of 21, I found myself having an identity crisis.

As a young adult, every piece of media directed for you is divided into categories: fashion magazine articles want to label you as “glam”, “sweet”, or “tomboy”; TV shows like Glee want you to identify as the bitch cheerleader, the sweet church girl, or the stand-alone diva; movies want you to either root for the princess or the basket case to end up with Emilio Estevez. It’s inescapable. If you don’t have a category to fall into, you start to question yourself—what makes me special? Is it my athletic talent, my voice, my fashion sense, my intelligence—what am I?

I always fell somewhere in the middle of everyone else. I was smart enough to get good grades, but not smart enough to be in the honors program. I was head of my high school dance team, but couldn’t make it into the highly competitive company in college. I enjoyed show choir, but I was not nearly at the same level of talent as the others. I started to realize that just because I could make friends with many cliques, didn’t necessarily mean I belonged to any of them.

A few weeks ago, I watched an indie movie on Netflix focusing on the lives of a family of writers. This was it—this was going to be the movie that made me feel like a part of something. I was eager to find a character to connect to. Until there wasn’t one. The dad was a lonely, stalker divorcee—that certainly wasn’t me. The daughter was a soulless, all-black-everything, “I only hook up so don’t ask me out because I eat nice boys like you alive” kind of girl—that definitely wasn’t me. My only hope was the son, a horror fiction short story writer like myself. Until a sub plot of the movie revolved around him being a virgin with no life experience. Not quite me either.

I broke down. As embarrassing as it is, this movie made me sob uncontrollably for at least an hour, cursing myself for not having stuck to a sport, or not taking voice lessons, or not choosing a certain lifestyle that would have given me a “thing”. Singing is my best friend’s “thing”, comic books are my boyfriend’s “thing”, baseball is my guy friend’s “thing”. I wanted a thing to identify me from everyone else, while also giving me a sense of identity and belonging. I debated changing my look.

Maybe I could start the next school year with a closet full of to-the-knee sundresses and cardigans, playing the sweet, innocent girl. Except my sailor’s vocabulary and inability to sit with my legs crossed ruled that out. Maybe I’d be better off being the girl who wears black cherry colored lipstick daily and carries a copy of The Catcher in the Rye around and only speaks in witty jokes. Except I never understood the literary importance of that book and that much lipstick would probably chap my lips for eternity.

I even considered attempting to get back into ballet, and once again strive to end up en pointe. Even though I couldn’t be a team athlete kind of jock (no hand-eye coordination and a fear of things being thrown at me), I could still be a dancer and belong to a group of girls with tight topknots and footless pink tights. But then I painfully remembered how it felt to be a curvy girl with thick thighs and a butt eating the back of my leotard in a room full of tall, lean girls who weighed maybe a collective 150 pounds. I was already having an identity crisis; I didn’t need to ruin my self-esteem again too.

Probably the hardest part about going through this is the inability to verbalize it. It took me at least two weeks to find the right words to explain to my boyfriend why a charming movie made me cry for hours. But once I did, I found I wasn’t alone. Having a “thing” doesn’t make you belong, nor does it make you special. The thing itself isn’t your identity and neither is the group it categorizes you into. My friend may be an incredible singer, but she isn’t identified by just her voice. She is identified by her unmatchable humor, her rapid-fire sarcasm, and her big, bright blue eyes. My boyfriend’s “thing” may be comic books, but he was also an athlete, volunteers for victims of sexual violence, and is the number one person people go to when they need advice, support, or help.

I may not have one defined “thing”, but I have an identity. I’m the girl whose laugh is heard from a mile away. I’m the girl with a Spongebob or Family Guy reference for any situation. I’m the girl who reads Ralph Waldo Emerson and wears dark lipstick on some days and wears sundresses to a picnic in the park on others. I’m the girl who writes poetry and fiction and magazine articles and just because I’m a writer doesn’t mean I’m only a writer.

Dramatic Romantic Movie or Self-Deprecating Unhealthy Relationship?

He's sickeningly charming. He's totally wrong for you. He knows exactly how to push your buttons and does so without hesitation. He drives you absolutely crazy. So why do you keep going back?

Every woman experiences this guy at some point. He takes you on incredible adventures to abandoned parks and sky-high rooftops. He has a playlist for everything the two of you do together: driving, sex--he even has one specifically dedicated to how he feels about you. At first you think this is the Noah of your Nicholas-Sparks-created fantasy. But before long, you realize how much you can't stand him.

It all started with mind games. His gorgeous smile and boldly stated compliments made you feel confident enough to try your hand at hard-to-get. You entertained his flirting, but never reciprocated. You made plans late at night, only to show up with your textbooks in hand, making him a study date, not a hook up. You always kept him just close enough to know he had a shot, but just far enough to make it clear that you were in control.

Just as you were ready to make the first move, he swept in. One of his perfectly put-together playlists swelled over you and you drowned in a sea of indie artists you had never heard of. He kisses you with more force and passion than you have ever seen outside of a cinematic sex scene. Everything from this moment on becomes a blur and it isn't until you open your eyes with panting breaths that you fully take in what just happened.

You're entranced. Your every thought revolves around this guy and what thrilling roller coaster ride he's going to take you on next. But after a few weeks of forgiving unanswered texts or making rain checks, you realize he's now dragging you along. You build up the courage to stand up to him; you've spent an hour scripting an angry independent woman rant in your head about how you will not settle for less than you deserve. You show up at his house ready to explode and...

A playlist made in your name is melting through the speakers and he brings you a plate full of the first real, home-cooked food you've had in a month. While you're deciding between filling your mouth with the delicious rosemary chicken or emptying it of your scripted speech, he pours you a glass of wine and tells you how beautiful you are. And just like that, you're right back in. After an hour of witty banter so pretentious you could vomit, he pulls you in for a kiss. It's a matter of minutes before you're whisked away to his bed, thinking only of how you feel like Allie when Noah carries her in from the rain.

Until you decide that this isn't right.  You came here to end things with him, what the hell are you doing letting him undress you? You protest his hands fumbling over your zipper and are met with a stronger grip and the words "Why don't you trust me?" You fight against his hands for what feels like hours until he looks you in the eyes long enough to feel it in your spine, and walks silently out of the room.

You try to find the words to say but your speech is now a jumbled mess of angry thoughts. You decide to leave but are stopped by his towering body pressed against the door, begging you not to leave. Furious, you unleash every thing you've bottled up, how you don't and shouldn't trust him, how he drives you crazy, how you hate the way he ditches plans with you to see someone else, how you hate the way he plays your favorite song whenever you're upset with him, how you hate everything about him. And while you're yelling, you realize how much you love the drama. Here you are, a measly 5'8" girl standing on her toes to look up at a boy blocking her from the door. You're screaming and he's begging you to stay and his sex playlist is still on in the background and suddenly you're in the climax scene of a romantic movie and the only thing missing is a dramatic storm out. And that's exactly what you do.

And it continues. He takes you to look at the stars and listen to velvety smooth underground music, and you go back and forth with witty jokes that only the two of you understand. He showers you with poetic compliments and you bask in them while you run your fingers through his hair. He asks you, for the fiftieth time, why you refuse to be his girlfriend and you explain, for the fiftieth time, that you two are incompatible on every level except for how mad you drive each other. This leads to a heated argument followed by an intense make out session interrupted by a heated screaming match which blows up until one of you is forced to storm away.

Yet you go back, again. You are enticed by the drama. You are addicted to the adrenaline rush you get from yelling and screaming to grabbing each other and kissing. You hate the fighting but you love the passion. So you go back over and over and you tolerate everything going on behind the scenes because the scenes are holding you two together. Without the fighting and the sex there is no substance- no agreement on religion, politics, even basic human rights. Opposites may attract on the same planet but the two of you are in two different universes where the only thing you have in common is your passion.

And you're content, until you mistake that passion for something stronger. Until you're so desperate for something real in your romantic movie world that you try to fabricate it. In true love story fashion, you write a letter, saying simply that you are falling in love with them. You leave it on their table, coyly whispering in their ear to only read it after you've left. Fueled by the mystery, they pull you up around their waist and into the most powerful kiss you've ever felt. Fireworks explode and for a moment you actually believe that there was some truth in your writing. You guiltily decide you can't continue until you know that they feel the same, so you pull away. And all of a sudden you're back to that first night.

You're pushing and pulling to get away and their only concern is why you don't trust them. Angry and confused, you storm out the door a final time and wait. You spend several minutes fantasizing about them running out to stop you from leaving, kissing you and confessing their love for you. Nothing. The spotlights that have blinded you shut off and you suddenly realize that this isn't a performance, this is reality. Embarrassed and regretful, you leave and vow to never return.

Texts pop up on your phone. He's angry that you left. He's flattered by your letter. He's not in love with you. Of course he isn't! Because people don't act like that when they're in love. Someone who is in love with you will never keep you guessing. Someone who is worthy of your trust will never take "no" as an excuse to tighten their grip. Someone who wants to be with you won't turn a fight into a scene and a relationship into a performance.

This problem doesn't end here. The guy I kept going back to ended up writing me a love letter, which I politely rejected. He told the next guy I dated that we were still fooling around, so that I never got a second date (but I did get called a c*nt). He attempted to sabotage my first real relationship by fabricating text conversations and harassing my boyfriend. He later confessed to sleeping with five other girls while he was with me. He spread lies about our relationship to his coworkers who harassed me in public. He held on to the drama of it all and fought so hard to keep it going until I had to erase him from my life completely.

Romance movies are meant to stay fictional. Screaming matches that cause nasty public scenes should be as unrealistic as Noah dangling off a Ferris wheel in his underwear. Don't allow yourself to get caught up in the drama and mistake it for a relationship fantasy. It's harmful, unhealthy, and unsafe. You deserve better than someone who asks to be trusted while they are clawing at your zipper.

You're Not Where You Want to be--and that's Okay

When I came to college, I was bursting at the seams with ambition. My plan was to receive all A's and B's, be a part of at least two organizations, be a member of the dance team AND company, get an internship by sophomore year, and graduate in four years with a magazine job lined up in New York. That plan failed miserably. I had horrible grades my freshman year and by second semester of my sophomore year, I flunked out. Between working two jobs and being bedridden with depression, I had no time or energy to be a part of any organizations. The dancers at the school were so competitive that my auditions had me walking away with nothing but a record-low self-esteem. I was this close to giving up, finishing my degree at a community college, and settling for an entry-level position in my microscopic hometown in Kansas.

But then my ambition came back. If I was going to write for a major magazine in New York, I had to get my act together. I took a semester off from KU to raise my GPA with online classes through a community college. I joined KU's chapter of Her Campus, a national online magazine for college women. I was even fortunate enough to be asked to write a piece for Cosmopolitan.com. I started doing absolutely everything I had the power to in order to get myself where I wanted to be. I figured that with all my success and hard work, I was bound to get back on track with my original goals.

As it turns out, I hadn't recovered completely from my first two years of bad grades. When I met with my advisor to put together my senior year schedule, I came to the grueling realization that I am not going to graduate on time. I'll be set back anywhere from a summer to a semester--either way, not in the four years I was planning on. Not to be discouraged, I decided to make the most of it by applying for the summer internship of my dreams at Cosmopolitan. If I had to get summer credits, I might as well get them from a cats-and-abs-filled office in New York City. When I heard back that my application was too late, I was absolutely crushed. Girls around me were writing for Elite Daily, interning for Seventeen and Cosmo, reporting for local newspapers, being hired by Her Campus's national team--and here I was, sitting behind my laptop, scrolling through everyone else's success and feeling more inadequate than an Instagram post with less than ten likes.

Now that internship application season is over, and the pressure of scrambling to find a summer lease in New York City is off my shoulders, I'm finally beginning to realize that maybe this isn't the end of the world. Those girls working those dream jobs have connections that I don't. Everyone has their own network and I can't compare my experiences and professional networks to those of others. I was rejected by five internship programs, but I also threw my applications together last minute and did a half-ass job. I'm not in the same shoes as my peers because I'm not putting in the same effort to the same people that they are--and that's okay! I have a job that I love, I have raised my GPA from a 0.48 to a 3.00 (not an easy feat) and I am putting more passion and dedication into a new internship application process than I ever did for the others. I am exactly where I need to be, even if it's not necessarily where I want to be.

Because that goal, that burning desire to work for a #GirlBoss like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, is fueling my every move from now on. When I see girls my age tweeting pictures of themselves in front of the Cosmopolitan office with "First day of the internship!", I don't throw myself a pity party. I write more contribution pieces, I apply for more internships, I research as much as I can about potential future employers. Don't stress out because you're not where you thought you'd be five years ago. Don't give up because your peers are ahead of you. Let your competition be your motivation. They are where you want to be. The only thing stopping you from joining them is the idea you keep telling yourself that you're not as experienced, or not as talented. You are. You will end up exactly where you want to be as soon as you start working like you want to be there.