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I spent most of my teenage years and some of my adulthood beneath the shroud of oversized sweaters.

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Hiding my body. Concealing curves and cellulite and pale skin. I would pull a sweater over my head—the bigger the better—every morning, women my body away.

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Sometimes, I would even swim fully clothed, in a T-shirt and shorts, citing my false fear of potential sunburn. That girl was unwittingly feeding and feeding her shame. It had a boundless appetite.

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She could never have conceived that one day she would be standing naked in her living room, preparing for somebody to take photographs of her, preparing to put those photographs on the internet.

Rather, it was countless little moments, wedged between that girl hiding in the sweater and the twenty-nine-year-old woman I am now.

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Last year, the idea of my body was on my mind—a lot. I thought about it first when I woke up in the morning.

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I thought about it when I put my arms through university puffy sleeves of my winter jacket. I thought about bustypetiteteens on subway cars where I would watch other commuters—people who seemed, to me, europe nude pools be blissfully unaware of their bodies and how those bodies were perceived.

I thought about it when I would nude the silvery flash of my reflection in the mirror before I went to sleep.