This summer, I will not wear a jacket.
Glow-ups, glow-downs, Chloe Ting ab workouts, Bridgerton, and the road to self-acceptance
CW: ED, negative body image
I.
Today, the world walks all over me. Everyone grows up, but I can’t seem to do it right. I wear my age awkwardly. At some point, I stopped being a little woman inside a big girl’s body and morphed into an open question with a knife pinned to my chest. Am I enough, now? I beg to be answered. I cut the very person who craves my acceptance.
Not yet.
I cried this morning. The wound is particularly sore today. I feel it on my ribs. I feel it in my ribs. It only burns when I think about you, and I think about you always.
— Baby Eve, taken by my Dad
I was born in the summer, a child of the sun’s long embrace. I crafted crowns from daisy chains and felt the whisper of grass against my skin. I let the sun mark my shoulders with scorching kisses. I guess I was a true summer child. My family used to spend days at Southerndown beach, the sensation of my father’s laughter rumbling beneath me as I clung to his back, the thrill of evading my mother amidst the rocks, ending the evening with a Magnum ice cream too grand to conquer alone.
I am an only child. It’s a quiet existence, one I’ve grown accustomed to. I’m close with my parents and I think I had a happy childhood, especially when I was younger – walks in parks, museum day trips, and the heady excitement of coach rides to the nearest zoo. I was a loud child, very excitable, often exasperating but always alive. I was creative, always dragging friends into spontaneous games born of my restless mind. In primary school, my eccentricities were a crown, not a burden. They say children are the harshest critics, but I don’t think that’s true. Honest, perhaps, but their words reflected curiosity rather than condemnation. In their complexity, adults (and teenagers) often wield judgement as a shield, with ignorance as a wilful barrier against understanding. I have never felt as comfortable, as authentic, as I did back then.
Secondary school was harder. My loudness was awkward now. Uncool. Caring about anything, let alone everything, is embarrassing once you turn eleven. I was always good at school, but my skill became a beacon for ridicule in a world that prized apathy. I genuinely enjoyed learning, but I also craved the validation of my teachers. The desire to please only grew with age. Each accolade I earned became a mark against me in the school arena. My classmates, fluent in some unspoken social code I had already fumbled through, saw me as an easy target for teasing. I’ve realised since that it was probably some undiagnosed neurodivergence which made social grace so elusive. My appearance did me no favours. I’d wear a nerdy tank top to school, an inadvertent homage to the annoying one from the Inbetweeners whose name I can’t quite remember. Acne scarred my face; my hair, defiant in its straightness, was tamed into a severe and unflattering ponytail; my nose, prominent with its proud bump, and my untamed eyebrows all conspired to solidify me as a perpetual outsider.
I think this was probably when I first started feeling lonely. I feel guilty talking about my childhood like that. I had friends, wonderful parents, yet there lingered an unshakeable sense of not quite fitting in. I didn’t feel like people got me, yearning to be seen for something more than my all-too-eager hand rising in class. The craving to be cool gnawed at me. It’s a desperate desire that feels foolish when laid bare, but it’s a universal longing. Deny it, and you’re only fooling yourself.
II.
You keep me company. You thread your fingers through mine as I stand before the mirror, dissecting the landscape of my body – each lump on my thighs, each line on my arms a testament to your silent occupation. You hug me tightly as I open the wardrobe doors, your approval guiding my hands towards the leather jacket — inappropriate for the humidity, but a necessary disguise. You press your lips to mine tenderly, a kiss as bitter as the black americano that replaces my breakfast, your affection seeping into my veins with each sip.
If you’ve ever known loneliness, a part of you remains tethered to that solitary landscape forever. A bottomless chasm, yawning wide in those tender years, defies all attempts to fill it. When you are denied words of affirmation, that lonely child wails: I knew it. We are wrong. There’s a primal quality to tethering it all to loneliness, perhaps in the very phonetics of the word – so plaintive, so vulnerable. Words like anorexia and depression carry weightier gravitas, their syllables heavy with the burden of profound suffering.
But loneliness strikes at the heart of the matter. My anorexia was nothing but a plea for acknowledgment. The harsh critique of my body is, at its core, an indictment of the self, blaming it for failing to garner attention, for its inability to secure acceptance. To be sick is to be seen.
III.
I don’t know when we first met. Maybe you’ve always been there, dormant, rearing your head when that girl’s mother commented on the shape of my thighs as I walked home from primary school. Or perhaps it was when that boy measured me against his insecurities, declaring me the right size to fuck – just enough to bolster his ego, but not so small as to highlight his own shortcomings. You are an indelible part of me now. Sometimes you’re loud. Screaming. Sometimes I can’t hear myself over your wails, a relentless storm battering my self-esteem. Other times, you whisper, a muted hiss of disapproval as I spread butter on my bread, your quiet contempt as palpable as the knife in my hand.
You were loudest four years ago. We were inseparable then. I didn’t see anyone other than you.
The first time someone commented on my altered appearance was probably Year 10. I’d just finished a course of Accutane, and the acne that once marred my face had vanished. My hair now bore honey-blonde highlights – a departure from the severe side parting of my past and slicked-back hair of my past. I’d discovered Dove’s gradual tan, trading my sickly pallor for a subtle bronze. My eyebrows, once unruly, were meticulously plucked. I began to curate my wardrobe with care, making regular trips to Urban Outfitters and spending excessive amounts on t-shirts that whispered of an effortless cool-girl charm, cryptically adorned with slogans of nonchalance – in hindsight, thirty quid for a t-shirt seemed anything but ‘effortless’.
Though still profoundly nerdy, I mastered the art of concealment. I began to weave myself into the social fabric of my peers, mingling with friends and their more fashionable circles. Unintentionally, I had lost a bit of weight – something that did not go unnoticed. I recall a boy, merely an acquaintance, admiring my weight loss. I basked in his words, cementing the association of thinness with beauty in my mind.
For the first time, I began to attract male attention. As someone who had been invisible for so long, this newfound visibility was intoxicating. It felt like I was finally being seen, finally fitting in, finally being appreciated. I never wanted that warmth of recognition to fade.
— iamthatwitch on Instagram
Then came the stillness of 2020. I, like so many others, decided to transform the time I would’ve spent studying for my GCSEs into a quest for self-improvement and fitness. By ‘getting fit,’ of course, I meant getting thin. I dabbled in intermittent fasting, something I’d briefly read about in an article touting its benefits for gut health. Each morning began with a Chloe Ting ab workout, followed by a cup of green tea and a walk. At first, it was pleasant — the routine of it. It became as predictable as the school bell between lessons: I knew when I’d work out, when I’d walk, when I’d eat, when I’d sleep.
Being the obsessive person I am, it’s no wonder these steps toward a supposed healthy lifestyle soon spiralled into an eating disorder. My days, once marked by the simple pleasure of routine, became a relentless pursuit of an ever-shifting ideal. The structure that once felt like a comforting school bell now bound me to a cycle of self-denial and hunger, each meal skipped a sacrifice on the altar of thinness. Bread and butter were laden with the weight of unrelenting expectation. Suddenly, you’re fifteen and crying over toast.
When we were finally allowed to meet friends again, en route to a sunlit picnic spot — one of those newfound hobbies we embraced when socialising was confined to the outdoors — I received the expected comments. "You’ve lost so much weight!" "You look amazing!" "You look unrecognisable." That last one is forever etched in my memory. Finally, the validation I had yearned for, a transformation so stark that my presence demanded attention, the kind drenched in admiration. People couldn't help but remark on my altered appearance.
As I grew thinner, the comments multiplied, their once-celebratory tones now tinged with fear and concern. But I didn’t care. All that mattered was the attention, the intoxicating recognition of my metamorphosis. I revelled in it, desperate to never let that light dim. I was well aware that I was probably slowly killing myself. I had no qualms about my self-hatred – my notes app brimming with ruminations on twentieth-century philosophy and the correlation between discipline, some form of atheistic piety and self-torture. I fancied myself a poor man’s Sylvia Plath, deluding myself that starvation was a form of poetic suffering, a tragic yet beautiful descent.
IV.
You rarely shout now, a ghostly echo I can mostly tune out. I eat breakfast most days, almost in peace, without your relentless commentary. But you’re still there, lurking. Every time my gaze lingers on my arms for too long, you resurface, like a spectre I can’t exorcise. I know you’re bad for me now. I know we aren’t friends, that you’re a poison I’ve ingested for far too long. But I still can’t seem to shake you.
I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of ‘glowing up’. There’s a certain magic in vanishing and reappearing as something new, something dazzling that catches the light and turns heads. I think I’ve been chasing that feeling my whole life – dyeing my hair in the hope that the world will see the shift within me, or purging my social media, emerging with a curated aura of reinvention. I am constantly seeking to erase myself and start anew, to have people see me not as I am, but as I feel I am.
That’s probably why I hate any photograph that doesn’t match the vision in my head – the ones where my eyes look uneven, where acne scars my skin, where the rolls of my stomach are unapologetically on display. I know it’s unhealthy. I know it’s narcissistic to believe that anyone would care enough about me to notice a slightly unflattering angle. But I can’t help it. Every social gathering is shadowed by the gnawing anxiety that someone will capture me in a way that betrays my carefully crafted façade. There’s this constant hum of fear, a low-frequency buzz that keeps me on edge, reminding me that the image I project is fragile. And yet, I keep chasing the glow, keep trying to shape myself into something that feels like it deserves to take up space.
This morning, my therapist asked: “Do you still struggle with anorexia?” The answer is no, so that’s what I said. But I hesitated. Just for a moment. Because, in that split second, I entertained the notion of responding with yes. I currently find myself the heaviest I have ever been. When I scroll though photos of myself from the depths of my eating disorder, the reflection staring back at me is foreign. Now, my body is littered with stretch marks and cellulite and scars. Admittedly, I shouldn’t look at any photos from back then, but sometimes I can’t resist. Sometimes it’s satisfying, the shame I feel when I scrutinise my digitised legs and see no stretch marks. I find a peculiar comfort in the photos where my ribs are clearly visible. The shame is invigorating. It’s a twisted pleasure, knowing the extent of harm you’re capable of inflicting upon yourself.
Despite this, the resounding answer remains unchanged: no. I’m not starving myself. I won’t ever again. I’ve moved beyond it. Logically, I can comprehend the depths of my depression during that period. I recall the physical toll it took. I know I couldn’t take a bath without fainting as I stood up. I know I’d say no to every event because I hated myself so much. I don’t want to go back to that life. But sometimes it feels like I’m still there. Sometimes I feel like the jacket I use to hide my arms in the summer sun is a plaster, just patching over these existing, dark thoughts, letting me avoid the subject.
It feels twisted, craving comments tinged with concern whenever I enter a room. I know they weren’t positive, but they affirmed my existence. Just being there demanded attention, a spotlight on my altered form. I miss that. I miss the recognition of my transformed identity. Now, in my recovered body, I don’t command attention; I simply occupy space. It’s a kind of invalidation, knowing that my darkest mental state garnered the most praise and attention. No wonder people relapse. No wonder my therapist asked if I had. Why would you ever abandon a life where your mere presence was an event, a spectacle that could not be ignored?
‘Glow-up’ culture also scratches this itch. A mere photograph of myself, carefully curated and filtered, can garner hundreds of likes and comments of praise. It’s intoxicating, the flood of validation, each notification a reminder that I am seen. Social media has become an addictive theatre, where the performance of my transformation is endlessly replayed for a hungry audience. In the digital arena, my existence is not just acknowledged but celebrated, each like and comment a testament to my worth. It's no wonder social media addiction thrives in this climate of constant affirmation, where the quest for attention becomes an insatiable hunger, each new post a bid to keep the spotlight fixed firmly on me.
When you’ve lived a life craving this feeling, the reality of what some might call a ‘glow-down’ is a bitter pill to swallow. My recovered body is not skinny; it is not slim. I didn’t just gain a little bit of weight. My acne has returned. I impulsively cut a fringe, only to despise it within a week, now enduring the awkward phase of growing it out. When my friends snap a candid photo of me and share it in the group chat the next day, I burst into tears. It’s like being thrust back into something I’ve spent my entire life trying to escape.
Whenever I choose an outfit, my first thought is how can I cover my arms? I hate them, always have. I don’t like the way they protrude at the top. I don’t like the way they look in those strappy tops that everyone wears, when you can see that sliver of skin that bunches up between arm and armpit. I don’t like the stretch marks that line the underside, lighter than my tattoos but somehow more impossible to ignore. I got the tattoos in the first place because I thought maybe they’d distract people from the fatness. That didn’t work, of course. Now I sport an orange slice on my arm, which I vaguely attribute to some poem I read once. That’s a lie.
If you catch me wearing a jacket in the 22-degree British sun, no, I am not cold. I am burning.
I feel a gnawing guilt in my desire to be thin. I don’t actually want to be thin. I understand the insidious grip of internalised fatphobia. This guilt is political; I see it as a necessity to dismantle conceptions of fatness and embrace body neutrality. I’d preach this at any opportunity. If I recognise that my actions are but a phalange of a system I despise, why can’t I stop perpetuating it?
Perhaps it’s cultural, or maybe it’s a product of my tangled internalities, but there seems to be a pervasive equation of thinness with brilliance. Like poets, so consumed by the divine urgency of their craft that they forsake mortal habits like food or sleep, folding their wiry legs beneath wooden tables, scribbling away as their eyes grow bigger and everything else withers. Actors, so committed to their roles, they’re willing to transform themselves physically. I know this is foolish. Brilliant people vary in size and shape. But still, that image persists.
The other day, I stumbled upon an article about the new season of Bridgerton, which centres Penelope Featherington (played by Nicola Coughlan) and her romance with childhood best friend Colin Bridgerton (played by Luke Newton). Zoe Strimpel began by discussing Bridgerton spotlighting oppressed voices and casting people of diverse backgrounds as the romantic leads. But soon, her words twisted into a fatphobic rant, attacking the female lead’s supposed lack of hotness.
But reader, she is not hot, and there is no escaping it, as I was reminded recently when she graced Harper’s Bazaar’s cover in a fabulous outfit that still did not change her not-hotness. Coughlan is an actress of great value, and might be adored, but she is simply not plausible as the friend who would catch the handsome rich aristocrat Colin Bridgerton’s eye in that way. She’s not shapely – which can work as sexy even in Hollywood; she’s fat. There’s nothing wrong with fat – it’s hardly a moral shortcoming – but a zest for equality and diversity (and in this case good acting) just isn’t enough to make a fat girl who wins the prince remotely plausible.
— ‘Bridgerton’s big fantasy’, Zoe Strimpel
I’d heard about this article before reading it, bracing myself for another wave of hopelessness about my own body, expecting it to exacerbate pre-existing insecurities, to make me feel even less loved. But it didn’t. Instead, reading the article had the opposite effect. It didn’t break me; it broke my heart for the author. I felt bad for her, clearly so entangled in her own self-loathing that she couldn’t see Nicola Coughlan’s undeniable allure. I felt a strange pity, not for myself, but for a woman so blinded by her own biases.
In the quiet aftermath of reading it, I realised my own ridiculousness. Nicola Coughlan is sexy, intelligent, and talented – and yes, she’s fat. That doesn’t diminish her beauty; it amplifies it. It made me see my own worth through a clearer lens, realising that I’ve been measuring myself with against distorted standards.
V.
I don’t want to know you anymore.
Talking about my issues with my body image in wordy prose doesn’t change the fact that I’m destroying myself. We’re not privileged to live in a world filmed in 35-millimetre film, directed by some A24 auteur, edited with a wistful vignette. The world is real. It’s sweaty and gross and sticky. I’m not some twentieth-century writer, retreating into isolation to craft some revolutionary manuscript. I need to stop intellectualising my suffering. I’m a nineteen-year-old girl, who works in a coffee shop and studies English. And that’s not any less significant than the life of the tortured poet — it’s probably a whole lot happier. But I’m robbing myself of living this life.
I’m so bored of scrutinising every photograph, hunting for traces of cellulite. I don’t want to break down in tears when I find them, my fears confirmed. I don’t want to hide my face when my friend pulls out her digital camera, capturing moments I should be living in. There’s something liberating about blending in, about embracing imperfection, about being delightfully unremarkable. I need to internalise that. I can’t keep chasing this elusive perfection because it will destroy me.
Every time I refuse to wear shorts because I think my knees are too squishy, I rob myself of getting grazes and bruises from running and falling on the grass after messing about with my friends; every time I swap a brownie for a Fibre One bar, I miss the chance to offer my best friend a bite and laugh as she gets chocolate all over her chin. Every time I reach for a leather jacket in the middle of a heatwave, I am one step closer to forgetting the feeling of the sun’s kiss on my skin.
This summer, I will not wear a jacket.
Strimpel, Zoe, ‘Bridgerton’s big fantasy’, The Spectator <https://www.spectator.co.uk/article/bridgertons-big-fantasy/> [accessed 29 May 2024]
thank you for reading. it’s been a long old road to self-acceptance, but that makes the destination all the more sweet i guess.
for anyone who may be struggling, it is always better to talk to someone, however difficult it may seem.
for those who may need it:
adult ed helpline: 0808 801 0677 (3pm – 10pm, 365 days a year)
youthline: 0808 801 0711 (3pm – 10pm, 365 days a year)
email: help@beateatingdisorders.org.uk
if you need emergency assistance, please contact your gp or call 999
thank you for writing and sharing this, it spoke straight to my heart. we can do this, we are not alone. joining the no-jacket team 🫶
This may be the best thing I’ve read on substack. Beautiful prose that doesn’t tie up your message for the sake of sophisticated writing