Curves Become Her turns 3 – a belated blogiversary edition 

My dear CBH Fam,

I hope you have been keeping well and that the year end is coming along nicely. It’s been quite a year hasn’t it? All I hope for everyday is respite for weary souls and a little more understanding between people. Be it 2015 or 2020.

It has been a while since the Halloween post! While the eerieness of those photographs was exactly what I was hoping to capture, it was a last minute decision in all honesty. Halloween and Diwali give me the annual ultimatum of Which festival will you dress for?? My answer to that for 2015 was Neither! Forgoing the usual route of an ethnic top or Punjabi suit, this time I rustled up a festive dress from my Dec 2014 shopping haul and made it work..

Diwali 2015


bardot sleeved dress – Pink Clove, maroon shrug – Marks & Spencer’s earrings – Ankara at Tekka Mall, Little India

My mother who has been doing rather poorly this year had yet another fall a few days after Diwali. She sustained a right hip bone fracture and underwent surgery for a steel placement where the fracture happened. Mom had one too many falls this year which slowed down her walking a fair bit and made her quite miserable with having to manage the pain. Thankfully she is a tough cookie and within two days of surgery she stood on her two feet with the walker but my little family unit was understandably distressed during this period. November passed by in the blink of an eye and I had other things to attend the blogiversary post just did not happen.

What has kept me so busy? For starters I have been writing weekly articles for US online magazine Wear Your Voice. The issues I tackle in those write-ups are diverse and are not limited to ones of a body positive nature. I have written articles from the perspective of being part of the South East Asian and South Asian diaspora. I have penned posts about the agency for body positivity in my region. It’s been a great platform to speak up and I could not ask for a better editor in chief and colleagues. They are so supportive of my pitches and ideas, they encourage me to be outspoken and to harness all that anguish I harbour into words. The team is so dynamic and they discuss topics ranging from politics LGBT issues to intersectional feminism to pop culture. You can check out my latest article pertaining to body image in Asia here.

It’s a learning curve; migrating from writing informally on the blog to penning articles with an air of professionalism. But it feels So Good. Okay I’ve said that already but yes it’s exciting for me 😀

Honestly I would not have made that leap had it not been for my editor-in-chief Ravneet. If she hadn’t reached out to ask me if I was interested in writing for WYV, I might have stayed in my rut. It’s difficult for me to self promote and I know that’s what we have to do in order to get ahead but loves I have not done anything of that sort in my life. It’s hard for me to see my strengths or capabilities like an outsider can, I’m sure some of you know the feeling.

2 weeks into my new post as weekly blogger for Wear Your Voice, I took another leap of faith. I reached out to Velvet D’Amour, whom many of you familiar with the plus size industry would know was The model who walked the runway for Jean-Paul Gaultier in 2007. She is an acclaimed fashion photographer and editor-in-chief of magazine Volup2. She was looking for weekly guest bloggers for her magazine and the chance to work with Velvet was too good to pass up on. I would have been kicking myself if I let my insecurities get to the better of me and let this go. To my surprise, she was enthusiastic about having me on board and you can read my latest article where I interview Corissa of the blog Fat Girl Flow here. I look forward to my weekly write-ups for both magazines and promise to share them here for your reading pleasure 🙂

So as you can see, there has been some settling in to do aside from my personal life. Which unfortunately left my blog unattended but it is a matter of time before I manage it all with more ease.

Before I launch into my Blogiversary Outfit of the Day look, there is another announcement I have to make. A lot of you must be well aware of who Tess Holliday is and her successful Eff Your Beauty Standards movement. (This is when I say, kindly leave your opinions of Tess out of my comments section because I know people are testy about her right now). She was enquiring for bloggers who would be interested in representing Asia along with the rest of the EYBS team. I thought I’d let her know that I would be keen, it is so important to rope Asia into the body positive movement..we have a lot of work ahead of us here. When she signed me on along with the wonderful Harnaam Kaur, it felt surreal that I was doing all these things I had not dared to venture into. Which also means, MORE effective time management!

I Cannot even think about forsaking my blog any longer than I have. I have missed my little nook and it’s just so comforting to write from this space. This is where it all began. What an adventure these 3 years have been!

Righto so Onwards (finally) with my belated blogiversary outfit of the day look that I shot over the weekend :

thats me screaming Happy Blogiversary to Meeee!!!


Can I just say after the weeks of sitting with bed head and my fingers typing away from the laptop, this was a welcome breath of fresh air! There should be a scent concocted that makes you feel exuberant as if you are dresses to the nines because it is a delectable feeling.

I am beginning to veer away from ‘fast fashion’ because of what I am learning about ethical fashion consumerism but I had to wince and get some items from Forever 21 Plus for Nov-Dec because my medical and dental bills were not going to get paid by a mysterious donor (I wish. Actually I don’t. Sounds creepy).

Plus Size Velvet Tonal Sequin Dress in 1X

Rubi black pump heels

Lovisa beaded green earrings

I was in the mood for a glitzy party dress and aside from this number on plus size store Jibri ‘s website that was just far too expensive for me, this mermaid-like number caught my eye.

Not wanting to take attention away from the dress, I opted not to accessorise as much (you must be quite accustomed to my accessocrazynes). But I did go for a bold lip from my LA Splash liquid liner collection. This was from the Hocus Pocussed bundle that was released during Halloween. The shade I am wearing is Til Midnight. Aptly named.

Hurrah! The blogiversary post is done! Ootd posts are just so much fun and I cannot wait to get more done in the near future.

Thank You for the love, the support, the well wishes through my meandering as a plus size woman rediscovering aspects of herself that were previously buried beneath self loathing and fear. I am constantly learning so much and although it can get challenging, I know I am right where I want to be.

Chat Soon 🙂                                          

All my love xxxo

Aarti Olivia


Tangerine Tango

Orange is a handy colour if you know the right shades of it that go with your skin. I’ve always been a fan of tangerine orange, it adds a glow to my naturally sun kissed skin tone.

Tangerine Tango was the official Pantone colour for the year 2012. I hadn’t found a pretty outfit in that shade then and the same goes for last year’s Radiant Orchid. So I was overjoyed when I found this dress! I didn’t even mull over it like I normally do. My heart was set on it, so I got it. I had a feeling it was going to look even better in person.

The Look


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strapless bodycon dress – Asos Curve – uk 18

choker necklace – Lovisa 

strappy sandals – Charles & Keith 

Naturally, I first cringed when I thought – oh god Aarti, your arms and upper back. Right after I did that however, I marvelled at how very pretty this dress was and how it hugged my silhouette. So, out went that niggling voice!

The dress is SO soft and plush. Despite it being strapless, I didn’t worry about having the dress slide down because its got a really good hold at the bust without being stifling. Having said that, I am not As busty so I would advise caution if my busty girlfriends would like to wear this!

I’ve realised that I don’t care for VBO (visible belly outline) anymore. Sure, people will remind you of its existence but the important thing is, I am no longer worried about sucking my tummy in. My once monthly PCOS tummy bloat is bound to happen, I do have a very fussy stomach when it comes to spicy food so it does tend to look like an overdue food baby. SO WHAT. Honestly, I love this dress so is THE nicest one I have gotten myself this year.

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Photo 16-5-15 5 56 26 pm

Photo 16-5-15 5 54 43 pm

Little Details 

Photo 17-5-15 2 14 11 pm

I’ve been having some trouble with my left eye, do you recall that swelling on my right eye that required surgery? Yes well there is a little growth on the left eye so I hardly apply makeup, it took some effort to do it up here because the eye was stinging but not to worry, its getting plenty of TLC.

Chokers are in and I cannot be happier because it means I get to indulge in 90’s styled accessories! In fact, this look is pretty 90s inspired. Dark purple lippie, choker, strapless dress and all..

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How GORGEOUS are the colours and prints on this dress??

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The perfect pair of footwear to go with the dress.

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By far, I would deem this my favourite fashion post to shoot. The Gabi Fresh Swim Sexy one piece being a close second.

I have so much to say, so much more to share with you, but that can wait in the upcoming post. I hope you’re having a fantabulous week! My lesson to you for this post: Do not shy away from bright colours, find the right shade for you and it is Your perception of your appearance that matters.

In the words of Bey and Nikki, I’m feeling myself ❤

Unconditional Body Beautiful : The Bust 

Hello folks 🙂 

It’s part two of this body positive collaboration headed by Rebequita Rose and it was supposed to get done by the 18th of Feb – obviously, I am super delayed. Will leave my explanation for a separate email. 

Just a forewarning. Some of the images in this post are NSFW so read this at your own discretion. 

I wasn’t very bothered with my female anatomy as a child because of the tomboyish nature of my growing up years. 

Breasts seemed like a hindrance – girls after a certain age couldn’t just take their shirts off when they were perspiring, they had to confine those lady lumps by wearing bras and if you didn’t, then you were in for way too much attention. 

So I wasn’t ecstatic when Mom bought me my first pair of training bras. I was athletic and this contraption made me itch when I was done with a few rounds on the basketball court. I think I was born with a hippie la di dah brain, because undergarments were just not my thing. I understood that they were a necessary evil but wearing clothes inside and outside just seemed like a waste of space. I liked being free of restrictions, in all manners of that term, lol!

I couldn’t be bothered listening to my girlfriends in secondary school comparing bra sizes. I wasn’t even aware of mine until I was 16. Mom bought my ‘under-thingies’ and she would take my measurements before shopping and then I would wear my new sets of bras. 

Wearing a bra at home wasn’t even an option. Since I had to wear them when I was outside, I felt no need to constrict them when I was in the comforts of my home. 

I was painfully shy when it came to changing in school after P.E, so while the rest of the changed nonchalantly in front of each other, I ran into a cubicle and wrestled with my outfit change. 

They didn’t seem to get in my way until I began to develop my curvature at 15. That’s when my girlfriends would poke fun at how everything jiggled when I ran. That annoyed me a fair bit because I did Not want that kind of attention. I was in the know with contemporary fashion but there was a modesty with the fashion choices I made. 

At 16, I did notice that my breasts were kind of odd. They were set pretty far apart, not with that natural dip in the middle seen so often. Was that normal, I wondered? They were gem shaped and sagged, so I didn’t like how they looked in revealing tops. It felt like I was trapped in a woman’s body for the longest time, until I began to appreciate my femininity..which happened a lot later in life. 

I think part of the reason why it took me so long to write this was because I am still (to a certain extent), not comfortable talking about this part of my female anatomy. I acknowledge its presence (how can I not?) but I don’t talk about it much. When a girlfriend complements me on how nice I look in a V neck top or low cut blouse, I don’t know what to say. 

As an Indian girl, I was so shy and embarrassed to show my body off. It has taken years to get over that anxiety and insecurity. When male attention was directed at my breasts, it made me very uncomfortable. It does not help that Indian men have a tendency to stare a little too much and too long at women. Since the average bust size in Asia isn’t very large, my rack was considered decent sized but it really was quite modest at a B cup in my adolescence. I only came into full bloom in that region in my 30s..I kid you not. 

Thankfully, my mother has always been very modern with her fashion choices and it rubbed off on me. When I used to complain in my adolescence about the lack of a well endowed bosom, she laughed and told me how lucky I was because there were so many clothing choices I could wear that busty girls could not. So that changed my mind a little about the inadequacy in that department. 

In my 20s, it felt odd looking at the beautifully well rounded Indian women in my midst and then staring at myself in the mirror. I felt like I had gotten cheated somehow. Why was my chest so flat in comparison to the rest of my curvaceous form? 

My mother once again came to my rescue and soothed my frustrations. “You have a swimmer’s body, a dancer’s body. Don’t fret over these things. The important thing is that you are healthy and happy. You are not any less of a lady. You have a voluptuous figure and it is beautiful”. 

The Hubster was also really sweet on this matter. I remember going shopping for bras and buying tons of push up ones..he would just shake his head and tell me I was beautiful in his eyes and there was nothing wrong with my breasts. He loved them, lol!

Shopping for the wedding was undoubtedly the highlight of the wedding year and I think it was during that year that I decided I was quite content with my bust. Women had much bigger problems with their bodies like breast cancer, ovarian cancer and I had witnessed a lady recovering post-double mastectomy during my hospital stay for the tonsillectomy. That was when I decided : My breasts do not make me any more or less of a woman. 

Breast Cancer Warriors

Life is nothing but ironic in my case. When I suspected being pregnant before the first miscarriage, my bosom swelled up and felt tender. I thought they would dissipate after the mishap. They did not. How odd. It happened again with the second pregnancy. That was a sure tell-tale sign for me of the possibility that I was with child. Once again, they did not reduce after miscarriage number two. 

So by age 30, I was saddled with DDcup breasts and then laughed at how right my mom was in the past! Bra shopping was limited to the boring or super lacy bra section, button down blouses were gap-happy and I had to be careful with my outfits’ neckline. 

In a body positive sense, how do I view matters of the bust? I’m comfortable with them now after years of discomfort. Their size, shape do not matter to me. I still have the same philosophy that I adopted in my mid-20s about them. Fashion does not have to be limiting. I am not bashful of their existence nor am I embarrassed. 

In this oversexualised world, women get so obsessed with their bodies and go under the knife to enhance their perceived inadequacies. Women who breastfeed in public are seen as brazen and yet a celebrity’s nip-slip makes for good entertainment news. 

I was made to feel so self conscious as a girl thanks to my traditional, messed up culture that is riddled with double standards. Women get raped because they are ‘asking for it’ when they dare to flaunt their bodies. This mindset is so wrong and needs to change. Flat chested women are not any less womanly and the body shaming there needs to stop. Larger chested women are not public property for the viewing pleasure of others. A man can bare his chest and show his nipples but all hell breaks loose if a woman tries to do the same. She is called derogatory names and slut shamed. 

Time to reclaim the female body, one body part at a time. Don’t you think?

My fellow bloggers for this group have written some entertaining, some compelling, really honest posts on this topic so be sure to read them. Check out their links Here: 

Rebequita Rose 
Olga Gonzales Ramos
Nefferth Bernadina 
Gaelle-Valencia Prudencio 
Maui Bigelow
Parker Simmons
Miz Liz 
Irene Medin
Shalon Dozier 
Kim McCarter 
Katie G 
Pepper Martin 
Natty Nikki 
Hollie B 
Mele Falala 
Marie Legette 
Josephine Josofabulous Lee 
Cassandra Westfall
Zadry Ferrer Geddess
Curvy Chrisandra
Chat soon, 
Sending you all my love ❤ 
xxxo Aarti Olivia 

Unconditional Body Beautiful : My Body and I from the Beginning : Part 3


Getting our union solemnised was a special moment. It was also a good indication of how things were going to pan out that year.

I was on a mission to silence my fat shamers for the impending temple wedding ceremony so I requested that the event be done 10 months later. During the period of foot injuries, moving out and gaining independence, the fat shaming was so bad. Which was ridiculous because if you look at the pictures at the end of part 2, I was nowhere near the word.
When I had gotten pretty skinny prior to the foot mishaps, the shamers still
taunted my size. Who were these shamers? Family friends, relatives, my in-laws, parents, acquaintances, friends, colleagues, complete strangers – You name it.

For the temple wedding, I consulted a renowned dietitian in a hospital. She suggested getting started on protein shakes from Herbalife. Apparently she owed her current svelte shape to the protein shakes and was still consuming them. I was given the contact of a Herbalife product distributor. She came over to my place to give me the products, check my weight and body fat percentage with an electronic weighing scale, take my measurements, share with me her personal story with consuming the products..showing me her Before and After pictures and sharing the benefits of getting started on this lifestyle change. She would visit me once monthly after this first appointment to check my weight and body fat percentage, which was frankly pretty stressful. Exercise was mandatory, as was watching food portions when consuming solid food.

Man was I hungry the entire year.
Breakfast was 2 slices of whole wheat bread with a cup of coffee. Lunch was the protein shakes and some papaya slices to fill me up. Dinner was the protein shake and a few bites of sushi.

I began to work very hard at the neighbourhood gym, frequenting it almost everyday and spending at least 2 hours on cardio and weight training. Three months later, the ante was upped by seeking the assistance of a personal trainer for weekly boot camp workout sessions at the gym or running track nearby. I allowed her to push me to the brink of nausea, blacking out, fainting spells, giddiness because if it felt like my body was going to give up..then I was working it hard enough. Such madness.

My naturally low metabolism makes
it much harder to trim off body mass. Bear in mind that with yo-yo weight cycles, your body gets very mixed signals so every weight loss attempt gets a little more arduous. Trying to overcome these setbacks turned me a full fledged fitness freak and oh how proud I was of it back then. *Shudder*

Appetite control was always an issue after the appetite inducers prescribed in childhood and the years of purging, binge-eating. Although the purging was not carried out regularly after 17, it did rear its ugly head until the late 20s. I was extremely attentive in my 20’s with watching my diet because the thought of eating too much (hence getting Fat) terrified me.

So you can see the irrational beliefs and expectations placed on my body and the beliefs imposed by people around me. I was hell bent on physical perfection. I would berate myself over missed workouts or when the temptation to eat more than allowed won me over (Oh the ‘horror’ of eating food instead of drinking it). Those months consisted of nothing but obsessing on the next workout or ingesting the next protein shake.

I was on edge all the time.
I would watch the Hubster and my friends eat and it was pure torture.
My dietician and trainer were so proud of me and called me a success story.


By the time the wedding came round, I almost passed out while walking the mandatory rounds around the fire to religiously solemnise our marriage. I looked pretty and put on a happy face but felt miserable. My in laws, family friends still called me Fat despite losing 25kg in that year.


The day after the wedding, a family friend of the In laws commented on how ‘prosperous’ my size was (not a compliment at all) while my mil looked on. Right before I was about to board the flight for the honeymoon to Melbourne, Hubster’s aunt shouted “Lose some weight during your holiday”. I wanted to curl up and die. At the Melbourne customs, I was made to dump the protein shakes because it contained dairy and it was strictly prohibited to be brought into Australia. I almost had a meltdown at the airport.

After a weekend stay at a Japanese spa in the mountains, the nerves eased up. I began to relish eating meals again and the hubster was very happy to see me return to my normal, jovial self. But I could not help worrying about the impending fat shaming upon the return to local shores. I wished
we didn’t have to return.

Upon returning to Singapore, I started working as a freelance special needs educator. Unfortunately I contracted chicken pox a few months into the job, thanks to a child I worked with. To my horror, my employer became enraged that I had contracted it at such ill timing instead of having it as a child. How was I supposed to control when to contract the pox?

My then-boss’ pissy attitude turned me off the job and I resigned. During that time the mil (mother in law) would call me up and ask me if I was working at getting pregnant. She was anxious for a grandchild. I was at a low and stopped exercising, choosing to withdraw from the social world and hide at home.

Side Note:
I was always a shy kid.
But as I grew older I realised that introversion was not appreciated so I worked at perfecting a gregarious, outgoing, confident persona. It would tire me so much that by the end of the day, all I craved was to crawl into bed and hide from the world. I did not want to smile and laugh All the time, I did not want to be the funny fat girl all the time, I did not want to party or be outgoing. This persona was a mask for the world; It was not the real me. But the mask did not last beyond a decade. There was only so much of that facade that I could tolerate.

I had a hard time working on being sociable as I grew up. It was tough to look people in the eye or make small talk. It was stressful to attend functions, gatherings and mingle with strangers. Aside from the hubster and my folks, people still have no idea how painfully shy I really am and how much happier I am within the confines of my safe space – the apartment, alone time, one on one outings, reading in a cafe. As such, it has been tough to foster and maintain friendships..many have not withstood the test of time or hardship. Admittedly, I developed a bad habit of cutting people off when I sniffed a hint of drama. I could not pick my family but I sure could pick my friends..I was and still am Very picky with friendships. Which does not make me very liked, understood or popular. I am what you would call an acquired taste.

Moving along.

Adult chicken pox is complicated and it tends to activate dormant infections or ailments. Bronchial asthma returned after a 13 year hiatus. I had 6 asthma attacks within a span of two months. I also had my first case of glandular fever, that lasted for close to half a year. To say my compromised immunity was a source of frustration was putting it mildly. I spent the entire year after marriage taking care of my ailing health.

It happened one night.
The only way to describe the pain was constant sharp stabs from the inside of the lower belly that woke me up in a sheen of cold sweat and overwhelming nausea. I huddled in pain in the bathroom and held my stomach; it felt like it was about to rip apart. I tried to flush whatever it was out of my system. After a hellish series of screams, something considerably large flushed out of the vagina. Those horrendous stabbing pains began to dull but I started bleeding heavily.

I lost a baby that night.
I spent hours crying by the side of the toilet bowl for days. In the meantime, friends around me were getting pregnant and delivering healthy babies. I wiped my tears and focused my energies on conceiving another child.

When the same pains started another night a few months later, I knew what it meant. The gynaecologist confirmed my fears. I was told that it was highly likely that I suffered from both miscarriages due to newly diagnosed endometriosis and Polycystic ovarian syndrome.

I fell into a catatonic state for 2 weeks.
How different life had turned out to be. Were the struggles never going to end?

The hubster was with me through it all but once again, how do you console the inconsolable? I was not meant to be here. I did not belong. I was not going to experience the joy of motherhood as easily as the women in my midst. Did everything in life have to come with a platter of complications?

I decided to end it all.
The hubster had a strange feeling that something was amiss with me that day. He excused himself from work earlier and came home to find me in an unconscious state. I had written a letter apologising to him and my family, saying my goodbyes.

This was the second time I was rushed to the hospital in my lifetime. Apparently while they tried to revive me in the ambulance, my heart flatlined for a few scary seconds. I did not wake up until they pumped the sleeping pills out of me and had overwhelming nausea for a week.

When I woke up, I cried at having survived. I cried for my lost babies. I cried for the lifetime of heartbreaks. I cried for shattered dreams. I cried at the thought of having to wake up to a new day. This life was too much to bear.

I forbade the hubster to contact family or friends as I rested back home. When they were told of the incident, a variety of reactions ensued – anger, fear, shock. After a month of rest, I decided to take a solo trip for 2 weeks to mend. That brought an outcry from people because how could I go away on my own and leave my husband? It wasn’t ‘safe’ for a lady. As if I cared what society had to say by then.

Before the trip, I randomly bought a book at the airport as I always do. I cried my eyes out reading Eat Pray Love in the hotel room, thinking about the resemblance her helplessness had with my own. The part where she lay her forehead on the cold bathroom tiles, crying and saying “Please please please tell me what to do”..oh that hit me hard. I had been there one too many times before.

Having been brought up in an orthodox Hindu family, religion was an important aspect of my existence..until I grew disillusioned by it at 18. I didn’t feel God’s presence in my life. I didn’t feel her/his divinity. I tried to hold onto my faith for as long as I could. I spent days meditating while on holiday, seated at temples in deep contemplation. But that divine presence did not envelope my sadness. Laps in the pool, reading, journaling and travelling dispelled the sadness.

I returned from the trip rejuvenated although there was much healing to be done. During this trying time my fitness and healthy eating habits were left at the back-burner. I was binge-eating and experiencing more trouble with social anxiety..trips to the gym were put on indefinite hold. The depressive episodes left me prone to malaise. Basic daily routines like taking a shower or having a meal felt like chores. I could not find it within myself to make or receive phone calls, let alone visit family or meet friends.

With a helpful nudge from the ever-supportive hubster, I began to seek the help of a therapist and it was making some headway until she migrated to another part of Asia. In a case of extreme irony, my father came to the rescue by suggesting that I pursue a Masters in Counselling since that was my forte in Psychology. Having nothing to lose, I agreed to it. It was a step in a good direction. I didn’t make lasting friendships but the coursework provided much needed purpose and was a helpful source of distraction. The social anxiety did cause me to limit my interactions but I got by lectures and examinations without incident.

Friends came and went, as was always the case. It was harder to make friends as the years rolled by. It is dull and tiring for me to have forced interactions or meaningless conversations. I enjoy conversations of substance, activities or interests that stimulate the mind and soul, jokes and laughter that come naturally. During the Masters, I began to learn more of who I really was and chipped away at the person I tried so hard to mould myself into becoming.

In 2009, Maa was diagnosed with cancer of the liver. If you recall my first instalment of this post, you will remember that Maa was the auntie that I considered a mother figure. Maa was a sturdy robust extroverted woman. This piece of news came as a shock but I was convinced that she would come out of this. She was one tough cookie.

6 months later.
Her condition had worsened considerably and we began to fear the worst.

A year after the diagnosis.
Doctors told us to prepare to say our goodbyes. It was a rough time on us – her kids, her husband, my father and sister. She passed away at home on a Saturday afternoon, among her loved ones.

At her funeral, hundreds of people came to pay their respect. She was a lady that gave a lot to her community. She was a doting mother, affectionate grandmother and good wife. I reckon she would have made an amazing career woman had she been given the chance.

Between the aftermath of the diagnosis and her passing, I was extremely disillusioned by people I considered close friends. I needed the collective moral support but it was not there. The only unwavering source of strength was the hubster. To this day, my cutting off from so-called friends during that period of time is still frowned upon. But I firmly stand by my reasons.

I spent the next year buried in course work, meeting acquaintances to take my mind off the grief and reconnecting with other friendships that I had lost during that period of depression after marriage. Social anxiety was still quite an issue; I was uncomfortable in unfamiliar social settings and did not step out unless accompanied by the hubster. The years had done a number on my self esteem and faith in people. I was also at my largest size, having led a sedentary lifestyle over the past few years. I felt painfully self conscious.


Over the months that followed, things were looking up. I looked forward to my 30th birthday. Upon discovering the plus size community online, it made me feel less isolated being my size. When I turned 30, I made the decision never to torture myself through extreme physical exertion or extreme slimming fads, diets ever again. I had irreversible physical injuries, numerous ailments that I needed to be mindful of.

I also began to change my outlook on fashion. Until then, my personal style was dependent on how I thought I deserved to dress according to my size. Having adored fashion from a young age and observed it around me, I decided it was time for me to treat myself better by choosing to look good at my present size. Social media was a great tool in helping me find my way; plus size bloggers provided so much inspiration.

When a friend suggested that I start a plus size fashion blog, I cheered for myself internally because it was something I had been considering for a year..and to have someone else validate that dream was pretty cool. Apparently the Indian Fashion Bloggers institute were looking for a plus size blogger and this excited me even more because I really wanted to connect with bloggers from the homeland. Unfortunately the institute never accepted my request to join their posse. I sent another request later on but once again did not receive a reply. So that left me quite lost. To date, they still do not acknowledge my presence. Which is fine by me.

During this time, I began to workout from home thanks to cardio machines purchased over the months. Although it was a good start to better the current lifestyle..old habits began to seep through. The obsessive nature of sticking to an exercise routine and not missing a single session began to make me edgy.


Over the course of the first year of blogging, the folly of that obsession became clear to me. I began to immerse myself into blogs that promoted body positivity and size acceptance, aside from the plus size fashion aspect of things. A massive paradigm shift within began to take place. I realised how unhelpful my internal dialogue was and how damaging the prejudiced stances people around me were for my wellbeing. It also made me want to take a stand and make a difference, even if in little ripples.

At the start of the second blogging year, I took part in an online body positivity collaborative workshop started by fellow plus size blogger Leah (which I have mentioned Numerous times on the blog!). Reading the other bloggers’ posts and looking back at my history forced me to question the way I viewed my body. Despite dressing myself better, was I rid of my inner demons? Despite not pressuring myself to lose insane amounts of weight and eat like a bird, was I still hard on myself? Had I really come clean with the personal perception of my body and myself?

I delved deep within the recesses of my back story and uncovered bitter truths. This shed light on my prejudices towards myself and others. These thought processes paved the way for self love and radical internal changes.

The second blogging year (2014) was also a series of personal triumphs and losses. It led me to uncover the introverted spirit that needed to be embraced, not shamed. The shyness that morphed into social anxiety was brought to my awareness. Friendships were addressed, the relationships with my folks and in laws were addressed.
The exercise regime was put on temporary hiatus because I experienced moments of emotional upheaval. Necessary evils.

At present, I can tell you that life is not a serene walk in the park. I am in a better place with my body but it is not ideal. I still struggle with the inner demons. Being born with compromised immunity continues to complicate my existence. Some friendships in my immediate environment are questionable. The ongoing struggle with social anxiety presents physically in the form of chest pains or panic attacks. Life is a constant work in progress.

On the flip side..
I have e-met so many amazing people, fellow bloggers from around the world and formed some pretty good friendships. I have begun to meet some genuine people in my midst who appreciate me as I am, quirks and all. I have had the pleasure of acquainting myself with some amazing bloggers and media personalities with hearts of gold. I have gotten to befriend fellow activists and am in constant awe of their dedication, courage, passion for the causes they fight for.

There has been healing. The relationships with my parents, In laws are on the mend. The depressive episodes come with less frequency and intensity. I may not believe in a God but in Humanism. I value contemplation, meditation, compassion. I value the ability to uplift others while enriching your own life with a positive attitude.

There has been success. I completed my Masters with no pomp or fanfare, just happy to have gone through with it. I have been appreciated and recognised by my peers for the dedication to my vocation. Fellow bloggers and readers value the body of work I am working at amassing.

There are simple joys and pleasures in my everyday life. I have 2 adorable cats and 3 hilarious dogs that make me very happy. The hubster and I will be celebrating 15 years of sticking it out as a duo and 8 years of matrimony. I am married to my best friend and the love of my life.

The global plus size and body positive community inspires and heartens my soul everyday. You, my dear reader, give me hope and joy.

There is still some way to go with my body and I. There is still some way to go with making peace within. I do still hope to be a mother someday. I hope to forge a place for myself in this world. I hope that I continue to find myself in a better place over the years. I hope that I can impart knowledge, strength for the soul and courage to take leaps of faith.


Before I sign off, here are the links to the fellow bloggers in Rebequita’s awesome collaboration

Rebequita Rose


Olga Gonzales Ramos

Nefferth Bernadina

Gaelle-Valencia Prudencio

Maui Bigelow

Parker Simmons

Miz Liz

Irene Medin

Shalon Dozier

Kim McCarter

Katie G

Pepper Martin

Natty Nikki

Hollie B

Mele Falala

Marie Legette

Marie Denee

Josephine Josofabulous Lee

Cassandra Westfall

Zadry Ferrer Geddess


Curvy Chrisandra

Will be posting again very soon so stay tuned! Sending you all my love ❤
Be Well xxxo





Unconditional Body Beautiful : a body positive collaborative effort : Part 1


Some of you will recall a monthly body positive workshop headed by my friend Leah, a blogger in the UK that I took part in last year. If you read the blog’s concluding posts to 2014, you will know that those posts created nothing short of an intense paradigm shift as far as personal body politics was concerned. It was a real shame that I did not end up completing the last few posts. Life had gotten in the way, taking up energy and headspace. I was not in the right frame of mind to delve deep within.

Close to the end of last year, my friend and blogger Rebecca of the blog Rebequita Rose invited me to join in a 2015 series of body positive posts where we would once again take a look at how we view our bodies. You can read Rebequita’s motivation for creating the collaboration Unconditional Body Beautiful right HERE.

This is the first post for the series.
It will take a look chronologically at the relationship I have had with my body over the years and some of you know this story well, so I apologise for the rehash. The thing is, it will never get old for me because this Is my story and it has led me down some enlightening pathways.

Right, so be prepared. This is going to be very long. I might end up dividing this into two parts if it looks too lengthy.

I have penned a synopsis of my life story before and you’d think it gets easier talking about it with time. It still hurts. But I write this to grow further and in the hopes of helping someone out there trying to reclaim her self, like I am.

December 29 1981

There was nothing remarkable about me as a baby but to my parents, my birth was a very special occasion. Having miscarried before conceiving me, mom made sure that she took great care in the process leading up to my birth. As her firstborn, I was pampered in utero with my mother reading me stories and singing lullabies. Which explains my deep love for literature and music to this day.

I was born into a modest household where my father worked full time
while studying part time to provide a better life for his family; better than the one he led. He came from very humble beginnings and as such, wanted us to achieve the very best we could academically and vocationally in order to avoid the hardships he had to endure. Mother was an accountant turned housewife upon my birth, she came from a more privileged but very authoritarian upbringing. So discipline, good manners, diligence are very important values my parents still hold on to.

For the first 3 years of my life, my little family unit lived with my father’s older brother, wife and children. My upbringing differed along the stages of my growing up years. During this period, I was loved and pampered by the extended family I lived with. I was a fussy eater from the start, with mom and my aunt whom I call Maa (because she was a mother to me) thinking up of ways to get me to eat. I was sickly but it did not faze me. There was plenty of playing and exploration to be done. With two older cousin brothers by my side most of those 3 years, I grew into toddlerhood as a tomboy. My appearance did not help matters; the pageboy haircut and reluctance to wear ‘girly’ clothes would confuse people when I was introduced as the firstborn daughter.

I was born with compromised immunity so mommy did spend a lot of time worrying about the sudden high fevers that made my lips turn blue. Daddy was a lot more nonchalant and he expected that I would grow out of it with age. That didn’t happen, but I don’t hold that against him! As if he would have known.


Nov 18 1985

I was turning 4 and my parents welcomed another baby girl into the world. By then, we were living in a simply furnished apartment of our own. Living with the in laws did not bode well on my mom so by the time she moved in to the new place, she was suffering from Depression. I daresay that she suffered from such bouts even while carrying me in her womb. There is a strong genetic link between a pregnant mother’s mental state of mind and the effect it has on her offspring. Mommy was not faring well and after Archana was born, she spiralled into a series of paranoia attacks, depressive episodes and tension headaches.

I was still a skinny, active tomboy at that age and having a sibling was not a welcome sight at first since I had enjoyed four years of adoration..but it did not take me long to start fawning over my beautiful baby sister. She was my living breathing baby doll – perfect in every way with her beautiful eyes that had lustrous lashes, rosy cheeks, deep dimples when she giggled and a beautiful head of silky blond-brown hair.

It was at that point that I learnt the difference of treatment when a person was perceived more aesthetically pleasing. I was a gangly, dull looking girl with an air of awkwardness about her who preferred smashing things like The Hulk than playing with dolls.
I guess you can say I have always been a keen observer of the world around me. I picked these little nuances and kept them in my head for further reference, until proven wrong or reaffirmed to be right.

Jan 3rd 1987
It was the first day of primary school and mom had arranged for the school bus to pick me up. I noticed that the Chinese girls would not smile at me or sit beside me. Maybe I smelt funny? I smelt myself and it was the scent soft baby talcum powder.

That was the day I learnt about race and being minority.

My parents come from the Northern region of India where the spoken language is Hindi. The majority of Indians in Singapore however hail from the South. To say that the North and South are different is putting it mildly. Same country, different worlds. As a result, the Indian school mates took an instant dislike to me. They cornered me before school or during recess, forcibly taking my pocket money and threats to beat me up. I was a very introverted, meek child so I shivered when I heard their voices nearing me. I did not know what I had done wrong. I was Indian too, except I learnt Malay because I picked it up easier during kindergarten.

The Malay kids didn’t mind me because they liked Bollywood but I was still considered an outsider..I was a Hindu and Malay was not my native language. The Chinese kids didn’t see any difference between me and the other Indians. The Eurasian kids got along with me because we were misfits..except they got treated better for having one Caucasian parent.

I was still pretty happy go lucky though. Your blogger was a dreamer, an imaginative mind led me down so many lofty daydreams. I could disappear in the worlds books created. I could listen to music and dance to the beat with joy. I could find myself in a movie when watching it, as if right beside the characters. Life was still pretty spectacular 🙂

There was an English teacher who like the Indian schoolmates took an immense dislike to me and showed it. It first started with a knock on the head or a harsh reprimand for being tardy – daydreamers have bad penmanship – but then she began to grow more hostile. I would get skin peeled off from the rapping of metallic rulers on the knuckles or knees. She would give me a few tight slaps in front of the entire classroom and bellow at me. She then started to beat me up proper with anything she could lay her hands on – rulers, pencil cases, feather dusters.

I think people with simple hearts tend to get roughed up the most. We are hated for being so immune to the problems of the world. That’s what I think anyway. And guess what, it worked. I no longer am the simpleton I was. Well basically I am messed up!

I was in a dilemma.
Did I tell my parents about this and incur the wrath of the teacher or Did I continue to allow her to use me as a punching bag? Not an easy question for a 7 year old. On one hand, there were my strict authoritarian ‘spare the rod spoil the child’ parents who would give my Tuition teachers permission to smack me if I erred in class. On the other hand, there was their fierce love and protectiveness to the point of smothering me.

Eventually, the bruises started to get out of hand and after fibbing about it to mom one too many times, I decided to come out with the truth. Naturally my parents were livid and stormed down to school to confront the teacher who denied the accusations without batting an eyelid. But when classmates started to come forward to ‘testify’ on my behalf, she panicked and made a truce with my parents.

The year Taylor Swift was born, I was 8 years old and seriously falling behind in schoolwork. Blame it on the adhd, the daydreamer. I was notoriously absentminded and tardy although my teachers and parents went on and on about how “She would be excelling with flying colours, if she would just stop dreaming and start concentrating”.

Just focus Aarti. Be a good girl.
Try a little harder. Your best is not enough. Why did you get 80 instead of 99 out of a 100? Why don’t you listen to what I keep telling you to do? Why are you so careless with your math problem solving? Why can’t you pay attention?

Try as I might, perfection eluded me.
It’s not as if I did not want to obey. I just wasn’t born of the same bark my mom or dad were. They were solid oak trees while I was a runaway dandelion.

It was around this time that my parents also began to worry about my skinny form. Academics were not my
thing but sports definitely was. But I just as sickly as I was during infancy.
My parents were advised to start me on an appetite-inducing treatment. Operation Make Aarti Robust.

Operation Aarti Robust went awry and morphed into Operation Aarti the Fat, Difficult, Non-academically inclined blimp. I myself was confused with the rate at which I grew out of my gangly frame. I huffed and puffed a lot more during P.E classes. I couldn’t fit into my clothes. I felt pudgy and now that I was also bespectacled, I looked like a stranger in the mirror.

Oh I was still daydreaming and keeping happy. But I was a lot more conscious of the need to perform well and please. I felt anxious when I saw the results of a class test, not knowing what storm would erupt at home because I delivered mediocrity. I felt bad that I couldn’t be as smart or as thin or as pretty as my parents would have liked me to be. They emphasised that prettiness was not important, but I saw the blatant difference in the treatment my beautiful younger sister got from people in our midst and the treatment I got.

I felt inadequate and afraid because I did not know what to do about it. It’s not as if school was a walk in the park, I didn’t have that many friends and got jeered so often for my clumsiness and size. I was called ugly, hippo, Fattie to my face so many times that I started to call myself that when I caught my own reflection. I began to hate mirrors.

Puberty struck early. At 12, I thought I was dying when my mom laughed and passed me a thing called a pad that made me waddle while I bled from where I only thought pee was supposed to exit from.

With puberty also emerged some vanity. I observed the pretty girls in school and noticed their diet talk. So I started to watch my food portions. I also observed how flirtatious they were with boys. That was not my forte so I just watched them bat eyelashes and smile coquettishly.

With puberty also came anger.
Along with the fear, anxiety and feelings of inadequacy came a lot of anger. Largely directed towards myself. Occasionally directed at my pillows. I did not understand why I was made so imperfect in every way. At least if I wasn’t pretty I could be smart.
At least if I wasn’t smart I could be athletic.

My curves began to slowly make an appearance and my constant page boy cuts were replaced with a longer, thicker head of wavy hair. Oh but I was far from being a desirable girl. I had huge soda pop glasses, vampire fang-like teeth at the side, I wasn’t growing taller (unfortunately that is when I stopped growing taller) and I was such a klutz.

I didn’t like looking like my dad or being told that I was almost identical to him. Dad was a tanned, muscular, tall, well dressed and bespectacled (by then he had obtained his MBA and landed a very high flying position in an MNC). I wanted to look like mom – fair skinned, no glasses, pretty head of hair and wear nice outfits with nice jewellery. Oh and makeup. I wanted to wear makeup like mom! Especially her signature deep red lipstick. I loved her fashion sense and how she carried herself.

The end of that year was the end of an era. Primary school was over, it was time to tackle secondary school and a whole new world of possibilities. Or so I thought.

Hello teenage life, Bye awkward childhood! There was so much excitement to grow older and be a cool kid.Everyone looked hilarious on their first day of secondary school but three months later, the metamorphosis was complete. I had ditched those hideous glasses for cooler metallic ones, I grew my hair longer and styled it like the girls in Beverly Hills 90210 (I LOVED Brenda), I was watching my diet like a hawk and exercised furiously at home and during P.E lessons.

If you think I did all of the above to get a boyfriend, you are so far from the truth. I wanted to finally fit in with the girls. So I moulded myself into a standard cookie cutter teenager of the 90’s. Boys were still considered platonic friends whom I could joke around with.

As with primary school, my Indian schoolmates regarded me disdain..well the girls did. The boys adored me and I had absolutely no idea why, which irritated me because it irritated the girls. Was I ever going to make friends with other Indian girls?
And just like primary school, I spent a lot of my time hanging out with my fellow misfits – other northern indians and Eurasians.

While I was busy getting up to speed with my new social standing and teenage life, I struggled with the curriculum. How did everyone manage so many subjects every term? How was it suddenly all so alien and a hundred times tougher? Clearly I was stupid, that was my thought. Clearly it couldn’t be that having adhd and mild Asperger’s would make me an ideal candidate for having trouble with adapting to change and attaining new learning skills.

Note to reader : By 15, I had suspicions that I was clearly not like the other kids in terms of learning but I didn’t know for sure until I was diagnosed at the age of 20. By then, I had found ways to cope with academia.

Within three months of secondary school so much had changed within and on the outside. Tragedy struck the family in March when Nani (maternal grandmother) had a stroke and slipped into a two month long coma.

I do not mention relatives or family friends much because they are not important but Nani is an exception. Nani was an affectionate, funny lady who really cared about me. She loved all her grandkids but I do know she quite loved the mischief and spells of Luna Lovegood-ness that I was prone to. She would chide me for playing under the sun, because “who will marry a dark skinned girl and that too a tomboy?”. She had a hearty laugh for when I retorted with eye rolls.

Those nail-biting months of sitting beside her in the ICU ward, praying that she would wake up bore down heavily on us all. She did miraculously wake up 2 months later and how we rejoiced, how we enjoyed hearing her speak and laugh again. Sadly, she slipped back into a coma a week later and it went downhill from there. A month after she slipped back we decided to let her off the life-support machine. We were keeping her body alive but her brain was dead and she had left us long before we decided to come to grips with that fact.

What a way to turn 13.
My grades slipped to abysmal proportions and with the stress of nani plus his new lost his patience with me. All he ever wanted was for his children to excel in school, why was it so hard for me to do so? Why was I giving him such a hard time?

Our family is known for possessing scary tempers. Until this point, getting caned or ‘feather dustered’ or slapped several times was the mode of punishment. Something in him snapped that year and I was no innocent party, but I did end up bearing the brunt of his rage for a few years.

There can be so many arguments made against his ways. He could have been a lot more empathic. He could have tried to understand why my grades were spiralling. But I didn’t know why I was so tardy and absentminded so how could I explain it to him? I honestly believed that it was because I was just so messed up in the head, so unbelievably stupid. So I did not resist the beatings.

By the end of that year, I turned 13.
I lost my grandmother, my innocence and my inner joy. I stopped daydreaming.

At 14, I was hell bent on making sure I would right the wrongs from 13 so I worked my butt off to excel in class.
Which to my surprise, I actually did.
Hmph, maybe Im not so stupid after all. By then, I had also enjoyed the childlike innocence of puppy love and been devastated by the breakup. It was a defining experience to say the least. I was also fitting in with the girls a lot more.

Somehow it felt like I was losing myself. But I so badly wanted to belong. So I kept watching my diet and furiously exercising. I worked at trying to be perfect in every way.

At 15, we underwent a shift of classes from generic subjects to being shuttled to the Science, Sub-Science or Arts classes. My parents chuckled at my desperate need to join the sub science class and thus the need not to score too high so that I wouldn’t get sent to Science. Sub-science meant that I could continue to study Literature and History, do away with Geography. Major hurrah when I made it to the class of my fancy!

As usual, this shift did not bode well for my internal learning system that takes more time than usual to get cracking on learning. So I started to struggle with my grades once again. I also began to rebel. I was tired of being the boring goody-two shoes. I needed to be Cool. So I skipped school, forged my mother’s signature on the monthly progress report card and refused to give a shit about it. I started to enjoy movies, music and books again.

But it was a short lived period of bliss. When the midterm results came in, my dad was confused over how he had never once seen my grades for tests. Soon he put two and two together, then got a reluctant confession out of his juvenile delinquent daughter (in his words). Oh the beating I got for that was so bad.

This perfection business began to get annoying. Friends only liked me if I was a certain way, my parents only liked me if I was another way. I was not a mute soft toy that was immune to insults and punishments. Why did I have to be slim to be accepted? Why did I have to have the perfect grades to be considered accomplished? Why did I have to cut classes to be called fun?

Life began to feel like it was being lived on autopilot. I would breathing ragged breaths before entering home, anxious for the day’s punishment. It was saddening when friends would exclude me from their private chats because I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere but school and back, thus I would not understand their cool ‘adventures’. An emptiness gnawed within.

The year I turned 16 was the darkest year of life as I knew it. I had lost all my friends because I had grown tired of people pleasing. Troubles at home were far from over because I could not find it in me to concentrate on studying. All I seemed to want to do was curl up in bed and sleep. Sleep was a luxurious form of escape. Many prohibitions were created : not being allowed to read books aside from textbooks, not being allowed to listen to music. So that this oaf would quit being distracted and start studying.

I only had control over myself thus my body. So the binge-eating began to fill the emptiness within. Three burgers at a go, followed by intense guilt and then purging. It started as a one off thing but gradually became a daily need. Either that or sleep. There was not much energy to do anything else. I was listless and unable to concentrate in classes.

One day of rage led to cutting my hair with the kitchen scissors and when I went to school the next day, the few teachers that actually cared about my welfare sat up and took notice. They noticed the occasional limping and reluctance to rest my back on the seat, they noticed the tired eyes and fake smiles. My parents were horrified with this sudden about turn in my ways – it was bad enough that she wasn’t excelling in school, why was she looking so awful? Teachers began to pry into family life and eventually I broke down one afternoon, but begged them not to do anything lest the home situation worsened due to their interference.

I then realised that I was denying myself of pleasure by purging so I just binge ate to my heart’s content and by the end of secondary school..I was at my then-biggest size. Fantasies of being run over by a car, cutting myself in different places to feel pain because there was a deafening numbness to my existence. While my father caned, hit, threw things at me…I hit myself and hurled myself against walls, slapped myself for being stupid, clawed at my face for being hideous, stabbed at my body for being imperfect.

After discovering that not only had my ‘friends’ been studying while feigning indifference to their grades..I realised that I was in the pits of hell because I had messed up the chances of a proper tertiary education. That meant more hell at home.

Upon realising how naive I was for even trying to please those school mates, I decided to start anew with studying. Secondary school was done, it was time to create a more solid academic foundation. Physically, I was at my largest and the self loathing was venomous. It wasn’t as if I disliked physical activity, it was just that my body’s ability to curb hunger pangs was non-existent and no matter how much I ate, I did not feel full. The more I ate, the more comfortable it felt not to move around too much and be physically active. Plus, there was nothing remarkable about my appearance or personality so why bother slimming down?

While I got busy trying to get my academic life back on track, I began to gain some confidence by working part-time. By this time my father had washed his hands off me so he focused his attention on the younger sister instead. Also, I began to display stubbornness and refused to get bullied into staying at home and studying, instead making it my mission to experience work-life. I started to speak up and speak back. Naturally that had its repercussions but this time I fought back.

When I made friends at this point of my life, it dawned on me that they liked me regardless of my appearance or academic success. They liked me as I was and it made me wonder if maybe, there was hope yet for me. Life was so lonesome because keeping friends around was so difficult while having to live with parental rules. People eventually grew tired and walked away. But I couldn’t walk away from that existence even if I wanted to.

The violence at home was not as frequent but it was still present. The unpredictability of these sudden flare-ups at home gave me anxiety attacks on the way from school. It felt like I was getting nowhere by tolerating the emotional, psychological and physical beatings. Changes were stirring within that scared and yet excited me.

By the end of my 17th year, I started to make some headway with figuring out the course of my life academically. Having been observant to the nuances of human behaviour from a young age filled me with curiosity. What made us tick? Why do we react in certain ways?
Just how crazy am I? Or is it my parents that need a lift to Crazy Town?

I needed answers.
The curious thing with my father relinquishing his stronghold on my life was that I began to thrive. With that newfound lease on life, I was not going to make the same mistakes from before. This was when I began to view my body as an instrument to keep me lithe and clear headed, so I started to go for jogs. It felt good, but there was a vicious voice inside that berated me for being so Fat and Ugly beyond repair. I needed to whip myself into shape. I wanted to be fit so that the next time be hit me, I would hit back. Hard.

So the next few years, I focused on whipping myself into shape. The beatings stopped when I finally lost my temper one day after being punched in the face. He had caused the metal glasses to sink into my cheek. I saw red; smashed a chair over his back and chased him with the largest knife I could find while hurling all the obscenities I knew. My mistake after this incident was assuming that respect and assent could be attained through acts of anger. So I kept myself angry. I was angry when running because I wanted to show all those haters how far I had come. I was angry when I started my degree in psychology because I wanted to show my parents and extended family that contrary to their opinions, an accomplished woman did not have to be pretty. Also I had a point to make to my father – you underestimated me and judged me. Now watch me fight back.

Then something completely unexpected happened while I wasn’t looking.

I fell in love.

Note to Reader: oof looks like this might take more than one post and it has been emotionally Exhausting typing this out so I will stop here and resume with a continuation tomorrow.

Told you it’d be a long tale.
And I am getting there with how this ties up to the
Unconditional Body Beautiful initiative. Bear with me. I might divide the next post into two but don’t you worry…it will not be boring. Life has definitely made sure of that as far as I am concerned..