Shedding the Mirror: Navigating Body Dysmorphia in the Industry
Body, Change, and the Industry's Eye
Lately I have felt the need to discuss body dysmorphia and it’s impact on individuals in the industry, just a conversation I feel needs to be had. A conversation about the body, about change, about stepping out of one chapter and into another while still feeling the weight of past expectations.
I started in this industry young—modeling, sports, performance. My body was measured, critiqued, valued, and even commodified. In the world of modeling, and even in athletics, there’s this unspoken rule that your body is never fully yours. It belongs to the industry, to the standard, to the aesthetic. And for years, I complied. I fit into the mold. I worked tirelessly to maintain what was expected of me, sometimes at the expense of my own well-being.
MORE THAN A — MEASUREMENT
Getting measured constantly in the modeling industry feels like being reduced to numbers on a tape measure, as if your worth is determined by inches and centimeters rather than talent, presence, or individuality. It’s the unsettling experience of standing still while someone sizes you up—not just physically, but sometimes emotionally—turning your body into a statistic rather than an expression of who you are.
It’s knowing that a fraction of an inch can dictate opportunities, that a measurement can overshadow personality, work ethic, or the unique way you bring clothes to life. It can make you feel like a mannequin rather than a person—like you exist to fit into clothes rather than having the clothes fit you.
But beyond those numbers is something deeper. You are not just a measurement. You are movement, energy, and presence. You are someone who transforms fabric into art, who tells a story with every step, who brings depth to an industry that often forgets models are human first. And no tape measure can ever define that.
My eating disorder crept up on me quietly. It wasn’t dramatic at first. It wasn’t something I even recognized as a problem. It was disguised as discipline, as ‘staying in shape,’ as ‘being the best version of myself.’ But really, it was a slow erasure of my own autonomy over my body. Recovery was its own journey—a necessary one, but not a linear one. Even now, body dysmorphia lingers. Even now, as a 25-year-old woman, I find myself unlearning the hyperanalysis, the external validation, the pressure to remain unchanged in a body that is meant to evolve.
The transition from sport to modeling, and now to where I am—running Resilient, advocating for others, standing at the intersection of business and creative direction—has forced me to reckon with the shifting relationship I have with my own body. I’m no longer a teenager who can train endlessly and wake up feeling the same. I’m not the same 21-year-old walking into castings, being told I’m ‘perfect, but just a bit…’—and we all know how that sentence ends. I’m a woman now, and with that comes a different kind of strength. A different kind of presence. One that is mine, not something to be dictated by a tape measure.
Leaving the Table: Body, Food, and the Industry’s Gaze
Leaving home is often romanticized as a rite of passage, a step towards independence and self-discovery. But for me, moving out of my household also meant a rupture—a break from the cultural attachment to food, tradition, and the familiar rhythms of home. It was a shift that forced me to reassess not just my relationship with food but also my identity as I transitioned from modeling to university and into womanhood in my twenties.
Growing up, food was more than sustenance. It was a language of love, a gathering point, a cultural anchor. Family meals weren’t just about eating; they were moments of connection, of shared experiences, of an unspoken understanding of belonging. When I moved out, that structure collapsed. Suddenly, food became individualistic—a task, a function, a means to fuel a body that was still hyper-analyzed through the lens of modeling and societal expectations.
But it wasn’t just food. It was my body. Body dysmorphia doesn’t arrive with a loud entrance. It sneaks in, disguised as routine, discipline, and the idea of ‘bettering yourself.’ It starts with an innocent awareness—a comment from a casting director, a comparison to another model, a fixation on a measurement that you once thought was ‘fine’ but now feels like a problem. Slowly, the mirror becomes unreliable. What you see is no longer what others see, but you can’t convince yourself otherwise. It starts as a whisper: Maybe if I just toned up a little more… Maybe if I just cut this out… And before you know it, the whisper is a controlling voice that dictates what you eat, how you dress, how you carry yourself.
University added another layer of complexity. The freedom of living alone meant I could eat whenever and whatever I wanted, but it also meant navigating the remnants of an industry that had conditioned me to view food through a restrictive lens. It was a slow process of unlearning—of reconnecting with food as nourishment rather than an enemy, of allowing myself to eat without guilt, of rediscovering the joy in flavors, textures, and traditions outside of a performance-driven mindset.
Becoming a woman in my twenties meant coming to terms with bodily changes, shifting priorities, and a deeper understanding of self. Moving out was not just about leaving a physical space—it was about losing and reclaiming parts of my identity. It was about realizing that food, freedom, and cultural connection are intertwined, and that finding balance means embracing both the independence of adulthood and the deep-rooted traditions that shaped me.
Looking glass self in the modelling industry
In this industry, we are constantly being looked at, but very few people ask how we see ourselves. I still have days where I struggle, where the mirror distorts reality, where I feel like I need to prove something through my body. But I also have days where I feel powerful, where I see the changes as proof of growth, where I remind myself that my value was never in the numbers, the size, the symmetry. It was always in how I show up—in my work, in my vision, in the way I fight for a better industry.
This journey isn’t linear. Some days, I miss the comfort of home-cooked meals and the ease of cultural familiarity. Other days, I revel in the autonomy of choice, of building my own rituals, of defining what food and freedom mean to me now. Moving out didn’t just change where I lived—it changed how I lived, how I ate, and how I understood myself in the ever-evolving space between past and present. And through it all, I’m learning to make peace with my body as it continues to change, as it continues to carry me forward.
So if you’re listening to this and you’ve felt the weight of expectation on your body, know that you’re not alone. Know that recovery is ongoing, that body dysmorphia isn’t a sign of failure but a symptom of an industry and culture that still has so much work to do. And know that you are more than your reflection, more than the comments, more than the standards placed upon you.
I’m learning, unlearning, and growing. And I’ll keep showing up—however my body decides to show up with me.
