06/25/2026
Angela’s Story:
For as long as I can remember, my body was something other people had an opinion about.
Growing up in a tiny Nebraska village, standing out wasn’t easy. I was always the tall girl. At first I was just a little taller than everyone else, but it was enough for people to notice and comment. I constantly heard things like, “What are they feeding you?” or “Maybe we should put a brick on your head.” They were jokes, but when you hear them over and over as a child, you start to believe being different is something you should hide.
So I did.
I slouched. I shrank myself. I tried to take up less space.
As I got older, my body changed. I’d gain weight, then grow taller, then gain weight again. By sixth grade, I weighed over 200 pounds. I still remember the fitness tests in PE where they weighed us, measured us, and announced the numbers out loud. I remember hearing my weight and BMI and feeling completely humiliated. Looking back now, I realize that was the moment I started seeing my body as a problem to solve instead of a home to live in.
What makes me sad is that I spent so many years being ashamed of the very things that made me strong. I wish I could go back and tell that young girl that her tall, muscular, powerful body would carry her through challenges she couldn’t even imagine yet.
I was an athlete for most of my life. Volleyball, basketball, softball—I loved moving my body and seeing what it could do. Then an undiagnosed disability changed everything. The sports stopped. The workouts stopped. Fear took over. I was afraid of getting hurt, and over time my weight continued to increase.
Throughout my life, my body has changed more times than I can count. I’ve been skinny. I’ve been in the 300s. I’ve lost over 100 pounds. I’ve had surgeries, setbacks, recoveries, and moments where I felt like I was starting all over again. After my last baby, I had a hysterectomy and experienced rapid weight gain. Later, I worked hard through diet and exercise and lost more than 100 pounds, only to face another foot surgery that left me unable to walk normally for months.
For years, I measured my worth by what my body looked like.
Then something changed.
About six years ago, I bought a swimsuit and went to the pool with my daughters. It sounds small, but for me it was huge. I had spent so much time hiding my body that I almost missed moments with the people I loved most. The excitement and support my girls showed that day opened my eyes. I realized they were watching me. They were learning from me. And what I wanted them to learn wasn’t shame, embarrassment, or hiding. I wanted them to learn self-love.
That moment helped me begin seeing my body differently.
Today, I’m not “perfect.” My body doesn’t look like it did when I was younger, and it doesn’t look like what society tells us it should. I still have goals. I still have struggles. But I am healthy, I am strong, and I genuinely love the body that has carried me through every challenge, every surgery, every setback, every victory, and every day of living with a disability.
This body has never given up on me.
So why should I give up on it?
My hope with this project is to show what real life looks like. Real bodies. Real stories. Real people. We all look different, and that’s exactly the point. Bodies come in countless shapes, sizes, abilities, and stages of life. Every one of them tells a story. Every one of them deserves respect.
“Perfect” doesn’t exist.
But kindness can.
If seeing my body makes someone uncomfortable, I encourage them to ask themselves why. My body has nothing to do with their worth, their happiness, or their life. The same is true for every person they meet.
The truth is simple: another person’s body is not your business.
We never know what someone has survived, overcome, or learned to love about themselves. So instead of judging, choose kindness. Instead of commenting, choose compassion.
The world doesn’t need more perfect bodies.
It needs more people willing to exist unapologetically in the bodies they have.
And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
