It started with a swimsuit and a memory. One ordinary photo, ten years old, and a woman who refused to apologize for existing in her own skin. No makeover montage. No triumphant “after.” Just the quiet, radical act of saying: I was fine then, and I am worthy now. The floodgates opened—relief, tears, recognition. People whispering the same forbidden sentence: I’m tired of hating myself. Tired of shrinking. Tired of chasing a number that never feels like enou… Continues…
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