How the Modeling Industry Helped My Dysmorphia Recovery

Body dysmorphic disorder is defined as “an obsessive preoccupation that some aspect of one’s own appearance is severely flawed, warranting exceptional measures to hide or fix it.”

You’ve probably seen the heartbreaking videos of conventionally good-looking girls draw warped versions of how they think they look. Or maybe you’ve seen the shocking ads showing a bone-thin girl, running her hands through her hair, looking in the mirror to see a startlingly overweight version of herself sadly staring back.

For a very long time, I not only was one of these girls, but I wanted to be one. The way I saw it, my mental health going down the drain was a small price to pay for beauty. I watched teen TV dramas in which the sad, pretty girl was always “too skinny”. I was more than willing to throw away every ounce of innocent, childlike love I had for myself in order to coerce my figure into compliance.

I’ve always been tall and looked much larger than almost all my other classmates. From age 9-18 I felt this constant panic about taking up too much space.

My abdomen developed that small bump (which I now understand is very common and normal) around my pelvis when I was around twelve or thirteen. The rest of the girls my age were still three inches shorter than myself with thin frames and straight limbs. My thighs and calves curved and my shoulders were about twice the breadth as everyone else’s. I was confused about why it was happening—I danced competitively and restricted my eating. As far as I was concerned, I had no right to be the size I was. And my body had no excuse for ruining my life.

I’d spend hours in the mirror perfecting measured facial expressions, flattering arm movements, etc. to ensure that no one would know the truth. If I meticulously controlled everything from my laugh to the way I stood at my locker, maybe I could hide the horrifying offense that was my body.

Into high school, I developed an act to help me convince myself, and everyone else, that I was actually quite confident. And to some extent, I was! I was great in school, my friends loved me, and I had real faith in my creative ability. But I would have to buy my jeans a size too small so that I could sleep at night knowing that the tag inside the waistband read the same number as my friends’. I couldn’t get my clothes on fast enough after a shower and I could never look in the mirror naked without breaking down until adulthood.

Even after I graduated, I had my good days and bad days. On a good day, I could accept myself and reasonably understand that there was nothing inherently wrong with my body which urgently needed to be fixed. But then I’d see a photo of myself from a weird angle or not fit into a pair of denim shorts and think I’d somehow gained 50 pounds overnight.

I’ve looked like this the whole time! I knew it. I am disgusting. I can’t believe no one told me.

I had to learn to stomp on my own thoughts, to essentially slowly murder the part of me that had always wanted to destroy my own body.

Based on this history, my family members were understandably cautious when I decided to call up a local modeling agency. The industry doesn’t have the best reputation and they didn’t want me to have to start from scratch with my recovery.

What my family did not know was that I was ready to face this environment. There was nothing that any agent could tell me that I hadn’t heard in my own head when I was 10 years old. And at this point, criticism no longer meant confirmation.

It surprised both the photographer and myself how well I took to my first shoot. I realized somewhat sadly that my proclivity for posing probably came from all those panicked nights in the bathroom mirror, understanding my “angles” from a young age. What was more surprising, though, was how positive everyone was about my body. I received nothing but compliments from my first agent and photographer, who asked me after a few hours of shooting (while assuring me that this was not meant to offend me) if I had ever considered plus modeling).

My measurements were only a few inches off on either side, not quite fitting into the thin or plus category. I tried valiantly to close the gap to become a “normal” model, careful to not fall back into an unhealthy relationship with myself. But it only took a month of “clean” eating and exercise to realize that I simply could not get there in a healthy way. My measurements stayed basically the same, while my hips did gain in size slightly the more I worked out. I had to realize that this was simply what I looked like, diet or no.

This uncovered a great recovery strategy that I stole from modeling. Being able to mathematically see that there was no change in my appearance was groundbreaking. With my weight fluctuating my whole life, and my dysmorphia reigning over any logical thought; there was finally a reality that I could not ignore: this is how I look. And there’s nothing wrong with me.

Flipping through all 500 or so unedited frames from my first shoot, I saw the dimples on my thighs and rolls on my stomach and curves in my hips. I saw the shadows my brow bones cast over my eyes and the little purple veins visible on my neck. I looked at every inescapable flaw in raw light and little clothing. I choked down every negative thought trying to force its way to the surface and told myself: that girl is beautiful.
This revolutionary moment led me into the best relationship with myself to date. Confidence doesn’t feel like denial anymore. It feels like truth. And this truth has empowered me to declare I deserve to live happily, while learning a thing or two about comradery and support. (No one has your back like your fellow models.)

I’m still in recovery and I always will be. I’ll always need to correct my thoughts and the instinctive way my arm reaches to cover my stomach. The little voices that confirm big fears can pop up any moment without warning, shouting through a megaphone pressed to my ear that I’ve been kidding myself the whole time.

But I do understand that if not for my somewhat harebrained idea to start modeling for extra cash, I would not be as far along as I am now. My confidence has never been, nor will it ever be, carefree and effortless. It is however, pretty ironclad having been won from years of fighting. Love for myself did not come easy, but it is precisely for that reason that will make it so hard to kill.