If there’s one thing that pisses me off, it’s that women’s bodies are still treated as ornaments.

That women look in the mirror and grimace at what they see.

That women endure abdominal wall surgeries because they think their post-natal scars are ugly and disgusting.

That women are sold diets that don’t nourish them. Exercise regimens that don’t nourish them. Lifestyles that don’t nourish them.

And they smile and accept those things that aren’t aligned with what their bodies need at all.

Because you won’t “get a man” otherwise.

You won’t look “attractive”.

“Why aren’t you hard and tight and rigid? Why are you so soft and wobbly?”

Well, maybe it’s because I have organs? They need space. My uterus needs to breathe.

It doesn’t want me to force it flat all day, sucking in my belly to look thinner.

My insides need space.

All women’s insides need space. They deserve to take up space. They were created to take up space.

I invite you to take a deep belly breath. Deeper. A bit more. Yes, like that. Expand the air into your depths. And only then you can fully exhale every molecule of CO2.

Do your belly a favour and let it hang, at least for the remainder of this article. Good?

Great.

Personally, I never bought into the whole “thin, thinner, thinnest” movement most of us grew up with.

On one hand, my family wasn’t as obsessed with the topic. My body and weight weren’t under constant scrutiny.

On the other hand, I innately saw bodies— all bodies — as instruments. Where others saw slender legs, I saw a capable femur and muscles. Where others saw skin, I saw cells and texture and oils.

A pouch wasn’t a sign of laziness. It was a protective layer of fat for peoples’ viscera.

My body is beautiful. It is also disgusting. Describing her with those two adjectives makes perfect sense to me.

Every organism is inherently both. Humans just chose to prefer certain biological processes.

The red flush of exertion is attractive while the stench of sweat is not. The blood from my thumb is an unfortunate kitchen accident while the blood from my uterus is untouchable. The fat on my ass is sexy while the fat on my belly is gross. My biceps mean strength while my armpits are taboo.

The list is endless.

Really, all those things are just facts. Having a preference for one doesn’t give me the right to pathologize the other.

Bodies are messy and incredible and smelly and hairy. They create pus and vomit and piss and shit.

And their faces split apart into laughter when they’re happy. A mixture of water, salts and proteins flow from their eyes when they’re sad or overjoyed. Their eyes shine with life when they feel safe and accepted, and they dull when they’re bored or disengaged.

And they store every memory we’ve forgotten. Every unprocessed emotions is stuck in our fascia until we allow yourself to release it.

In any way it needs.

It won’t be your idea of pretty.

Or dignified.

But your body doesn’t care. Your belly doesn’t care.

We either accept ourselves in our entirety— warts and farts and all— or we don’t.

My life is too short to demand my body be anything other than it is.

What about yours?