I spent years fantasy photoshopping myself. I wanted to be tall and slim like Giselle, but my ankles were too thick. I was knock-kneed and short. My hair was brunette and my skin olive. I tried to wish away the dark fuzz on my forearms. I feared my face was ugly, spending hours studying blond classmates with cute turned up noses and wondering why I was so cursed. My rounded belly was the worst flaw of all.

Mirrors were tricky since my stomach could look blubbery depending on the angle. It didn’t help when others said I was thin or cute. I felt like the Michelin Man.

When I landed at Bard College, I was far away from my parents and felt drunk with freedom. Yet, loneliness plagued me while I studied the confident girls who wore bare midriff tops and tossed their heads back in flirty laughs. When their ringlets of hair bounced, the boys drooled.

Confiding my insecurities to a dorm-mate, she said, “If you act self-assured, you’ll be treated like you are.” I had an impromptu chance one afternoon when my figure-drawing instructor said, “We have to cancel class. The model didn’t show.”

“I’ll do it!” I said spontaneously.

Heads swirled towards me, eyes popped and eyebrows arched, yet instead of losing my nerve, I abandoned my easel and headed to the podium at the room’s nucleus. There was an absence of fear. Instead I was now excited about the room of 20 artists who’d render my body. It seemed like I’d taken a dare to go on a brave adventure.

The teacher told the class to take a five-minute break. When the room cleared he said, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” My heart quickened when I smelled his aftershave. I smiled and nodded and he said, “I’ll give you a minute to get comfortable.”

In the silence of the empty room, I pulled my black, crew-necked T-shirt over my head. Next I unhooked my bra. The pumping beat in my chest felt like conga drums until I unsnapped my pants. Suddenly I was overcome by an intrusive memory.

My mind drifted back to elementary school when I was nine and on a gymnastics team. “Everybody, line up,” Coach Tepper had said. “Today we’re going to add something new. It’s called a weekly weigh-in.” He held a clipboard as he explained a BMI index and the desired height and weight for a professional gymnast. Coach motioned to what looked like a nurse’s scale.

We all worshipped Coach and did what he said. When it was my turn to step on the scale, I had nothing on my mind but pleasing him. I climbed atop the wiggly scale platform. He checked my height, and wrote on his clipboard with a pencil while I studied his face. Next he moved the sliding metal piece and I awaited approval. Instead, Coach frowned. He muttered, “Hmmm,” like my dad did when displeased. “You’re too heavy, you have to lose five pounds,” Coach said.

I stood frozen, stunned, unable to move. “Step down,” Coach said as he scribbled on his chart. Then he called out, “Next.”

Now, in my college art class, I shook the shameful memory from my head and continued to pull off my jeans. A montage of near-naked, 5-feet-10-inch Victoria Secret models like Miranda Kerr haunted my brain. Thinking of their flat stomachs, I folded my pants and tossed my shorn undies to the pile of discarded clothes while I worried about my belly. It wasn’t flat like Keira Knightley’s or Gwen Stefani’s. Fighting to banish androgynous figures from my mind, I replaced those thoughts with images of voluptuous sirens like Meghan Trainor. My favorite meditation phrase came to mind: breathe in good, breathe out bad.

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