Nobody warns you about the quiet ways you will betray yourself. You check the mirror again. Not a casual glance, but a forensic scan. You pull at the skin on your stomach, you measure the space between your thighs, you turn to the side and suck in, just to see. You do this before you shower, after you shower, while you’re getting dressed, and in every reflective surface you pass during the day. It’s a secret, compulsive ritual. A quiet, desperate prayer that maybe, just maybe, this time you’ll see something different. Something acceptable. This isn’t vanity. Let’s call it what it is: a prison. A self-made cage built from a million tiny judgments, a thousand cutting comparisons, and a constant, humming soundtrack of “not good enough.” You organize your life around this feeling. You wear the baggy sweater on a warm day. You say no to the beach trip. You dim your own light in rooms full of people, hoping no one notices the body you’re so desperately trying to hide. You’ve been told to “love yourself,” to repeat affirmations in the mirror until you believe them. But the words feel like lies, don’t they? They’re like tissue paper