I'm Not Battling My Body...I'm Battling the Way I See It

I wear dresses almost every day.

If you know me, you've probably noticed. I have dresses for work, dresses for weekends, dresses for holidays and dresses for those days when I just want to feel a little more put together. People often tell me I always look nice, and I smile, say thank you and carry on.

What they don't know is that my dresses have never just been about fashion.

They've been about hiding.

That feels uncomfortable to admit because I genuinely do love wearing dresses. I love how easy they are to throw on, how feminine they make me feel and how they can brighten my mood. But if I'm completely honest with myself, there's another reason they've become my uniform. They feel safe.

I'm a size 14.

Writing those words shouldn't feel like such a big deal, but somehow it does. It's just a number stitched into a label, yet I've allowed that number to carry so much meaning. Somewhere along the way, I decided it said something about me. Not just about my clothes, but about my discipline, my confidence and, on my worst days, even my worth.

Looking back, I can't even tell you exactly when that happened. I wasn't born thinking a size 14 was something to apologise for. As little girls, we don't stand in front of mirrors pinching our stomachs or worrying about whether our arms look too big. We run around in whatever we've been dressed in, completely unaware that one day the world will start telling us our bodies need improving.

Those messages are subtle at first. Magazine covers promising the "perfect body". TV shows where the funny friend is always the bigger one. Compliments that seem harmless, "You've lost weight, you look amazing!", that quietly teach us smaller is always better. Before you know it, those messages stop coming from the outside and start coming from inside your own head.

Now, when I get dressed, I'm often not choosing what I love most. I'm choosing what makes me feel least exposed.

A dress skims over the parts of my body I worry about. It doesn't have a waistband digging into my stomach by lunchtime. It doesn't make me obsess over whether a top is clinging in the wrong place. It allows me to leave the house without feeling like I'm constantly adjusting myself or wondering what other people see when they look at me.

The funny thing is that I'm probably the only person thinking about any of this.

If I walk through the city, I don't spend my time judging other women's bodies. I don't look at someone who's a size 14 and think she should cover up or wear something more "flattering". More often than not, I notice her smile, her shoes, her confidence or her gorgeous dress. Sometimes I don't notice her size at all.

So why can't I extend that same generosity to myself?

It's a question I've been asking more and more lately, and I don't think the answer has anything to do with my body.

I think it has everything to do with the way I've been taught to see it.

For years, I've believed that confidence was something waiting for me on the other side of weight loss. That I'd buy the clothes I really wanted once I'd dropped a dress size. That I'd stop worrying about photographs once my stomach was flatter. That I'd feel comfortable in my own skin once I looked different.

But life has a habit of carrying on while we're waiting.

Birthdays happen. Holidays come and go. Friends get married. Family photos are taken. Ordinary Tuesdays become cherished memories before we even realise they're important. And I don't want to spend those moments half-present because I'm too busy wondering whether my dress is hiding enough of me.

I've started to realise that there is a huge difference between dressing because something makes you feel good and dressing because you're trying to disappear. One comes from joy. The other comes from fear. For so long, I convinced myself I was doing the first, when really I was doing a little of both.

I'm not pretending I've suddenly cracked the code to body confidence because I haven't. There are still mornings when I change my outfit three times before leaving the house. There are still mirrors I avoid and photographs I immediately zoom into, looking for flaws nobody else has noticed. I still have days where that critical voice is louder than I'd like.

But there are also days when another voice speaks up.

The one that reminds me my body has carried me through every chapter of my life. The one that reminds me my friends don't love me because of the number on the label inside my dress. The one that asks whether I'd ever speak to another woman the way I speak to myself.

The answer is always no.

So perhaps this isn't really a story about dresses at all.

Perhaps it's about learning that my body has never been the thing holding me back. The real battle has always been with the reflection I've created in my own mind.

I think I'll probably always love dresses. I hope I do.

I just hope that, one day, when I slip one on before leaving the house, it's because I love the colour, the fit or the way it swishes around my legs when I walk, not because I'm hoping it will hide me from the world.

Because I'm slowly learning that I don't need to hide.

I just need to see myself a little more kindly.