my curves don't make me less worthy

it's ok to take up space

self portrait in my hotel room today

I was walking up the steps and out of a shop yesterday when a woman came up closely behind me, urgency in her step, to let me know I should probably rethink the length of my dress because she could “see up it.” She looked genuinely concerned for me—fear in her eyes as she waited for my embarrassment.

My first thought was: Don’t look up someone’s skirt if you don’t want to see a bit of upper thigh, maybe even a butt cheek. And my second thought was: I wonder if she’d have felt the need to say anything if I were thin.

The answer is probably no. Because if I was thin I would be more likely to not have cellulite and touching thighs and without those things she probably wouldn’t have noticed my hemline with any sense of negativity. And even if she was speaking on behalf of her conservative views alone, shorter skirts don’t tend to be as noticeable on thinner people.

Curves make it harder to hide. Your body stands out. You can’t help but see the curve of your hips, the size of your boobs, the width of your thighs through everything. Unless you’re wearing something exceptionally baggy, you feel exposed.

I’ve found that a difficult feeling to walk through the world with. Like you’re constantly being noticed—sexualised or judged, sometimes both. And it’s confusing. Because there are moments when being noticed feels good. When being looked at, desired makes you feel like you have this power at your disposal. But it can just as easily feel icky—like when you’re not feeling sexy, but people stare at your boobs anyway. Or when you put on a dress that looks effortlessly comfortable on someone else, but hugs your curves in a way that makes it look sexual, not comfortable. Suddenly, you’re in this situation where you don’t feel in control of your own sexiness. Like you have no choice but to lean into it—embrace this ‘womanly’ figure—even when you don’t want to be looked at, or touched, or noticed, or judged. Whether that judgment is silent… or said right to your face.

I remember this moment at my childhood best friend’s house. She’d bought this gorgeous vintage red silk mini dress, and we were trying it on. On her, it looked so chic in that Parisian kind of way. Like she’d just woken up from a night out but didn’t want to shower or get changed so she threw a jacket over the top of last night’s dress and she looked dishevelled and hot but not overtly sexual.

And then I put it on, and the entire dress changed. It went from being understated to being the main event, showcasing every part of my growing figure—my boobs, my butt, my hips, my waist. I felt like I was playing dress-ups. I felt ridiculous. Self-conscious. Annoyed that she could hide within the red silk structure, while I had no choice but to be on display.

I’ve often opted to lean into being sexy to match my curves, because it feels easier than trying to fight it. I love my body and feel comfortable in it when I’m alone, so I figure that embracing it out and about in the world is important. I’ll wear figure hugging dresses, flirt casually, let the cellulite show.

But recently, I’ve been finding it harder.

I’m tired of being watched. Watched by older women who feel free to approach me with shame-laced critiques. By men who ogle with the same sense of freedom (and audacity). By younger women who either admire my confidence despite my curves or quietly thank god they don’t have to carry them. I feel exhausted by the weight of carrying something that makes me different, that makes me noticeable. Sometimes, I just want to move through the world with ease. To blend into the background. To not be so visible.

And I can feel myself noticing it more. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the train window and zeroing in on the lumps and bumps, the roll of my lower stomach when I sit down, the waistband of my pants never quite feeling loose. The way my underarm fat folds differently when I wear a push-up bra. I can feel myself growing frustrated with my own body and the space it insists on taking up. Its refusal to be discreet.

I feel like I don’t want it to be so there. Somehow, it being there makes me feel less worthy. I feel silent but endless amounts of jealousy for the women who can walk through the world comfortably wearing high-waisted jeans to dinner, who can opt in and out of sexy attire, who can go without a bra and not attract a second glance.

Am I uncomfortable in my body because it demands to take up space? Is that why it makes other people uncomfortable, too?

Men don’t know what to do with themselves. They’re turned on and that’s how they make sense of it. Men see my body because it demands to be seen and then they exploit it, because that’s how they’ve been taught to take control. Don’t let a woman’s body overpower your mind, I’m sure some misogynist leader has said at some point. So they comment on it and touch it as though they’re well within their right to do so. They try to take ownership. Eat thy enemy, etc.

Women don’t know how to feel either. They don’t like that my body is in their face and it’s both different to theirs and the societal ideal and it’s attracting attention, detracting away from them. So they criticise. They point out the flaws they know I’m already aware of. That society has told us all. That the more space you take up as a woman, the less worthy you are. That the best women of all are the ones that wait to be chosen, that are silent unless spoken to. I’m not that kind of woman because it’s not how I was created and I’ve decided to—mostly—embrace the space my body takes up. But that doesn’t mean I’m not aware. That I’m not self-conscious. That I don’t fall prey to the patriarchal narratives that overpower us all, some days.

I’d like to always feel comfortable to take up the space I inhabit. But I don’t. Not today. Not yesterday, either. When that lady told me to buy a longer skirt, I was almost tempted. I’d love to—for a just a little while—not have to justify the space I take up.

But I always come back to the same thing. I shouldn’t have to be the one that shrinks. I shouldn’t have to cave into the pressure of being thinner, or if not thinner; more hidden—in order to be left alone. I shouldn’t have to wear longer hemlines, in order to not be salivated over. I shouldn’t have to eat less or exercise more, in order to be a palatable woman. I shouldn’t have to be the one that stops taking up space.

And so, I won’t.

Even on the days it feels hard—when the stares linger too long or the comments hit too close to home—I’ll remind myself that my curves aren’t a problem to be solved. They’re me. Healthy. Womanly. Full of life.

Some days I might stand a little taller. Other days I might wrap myself in something oversized and soft and take a break from being seen. Neither is right, neither is wrong. Either way, I’ll keep showing up. In every room. On every stairwell. In every hemline. In every version of myself.

Because my body’s space is my own. And I’m allowed to be here.

Curvaceous and beautiful.

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