part two.

you know what’s so wild?
I talk a lot about body positivity and inclusivity.
I’m the first one to shout at my friends if they begin
to talk about themselves negatively.
I beg customers to try on those “risqué” pieces.
But it’s all shit, man.

I’ve become really comfortable showing off parts of my body that I like. I’ve never feared showing my arms, which too, are large and in charge.  My thighs have never bothered me and these are some clappers, my friends.  There are more chins in this bed currently, than there are girls named Kristen.
And I don’t really give a fuck about any of that.

And with showing off these parts of my body, I’ve been told that it’s inspirational. That people have seen my size 26 body in a bralette and skirt in public and were “moved.” And that’s dope, truly it is.

I’ll whip a tit out in a second. Sorry, mom and dad. But when you find something about yourself appealing, it’s pretty normal to show it off. I’ve learned to love my hips, so I’ll wear more structured pieces that flatter them, because goddamn they’ve been through some shit and deserve some love too.

But there’s parts that I hate. Despite everything. I hate my stomach. And what I call, my cutlets, aka my under arm side boob waterfall of chub.

shocker here, but if you didn’t know, I work in a clothing store and have studied and worked retail since I was 16. A wee child, ya know. And where I work now makes me feel so confident. I wear things I love because I fucking can, and there’s nothing but support. I help style and dress all types of people, and have for a while, in many different jobs.

I’m learning to embrace myself day by day, and that includes my stomach. Styling clothes on others is easy. I’ll wear a crop top in a heartbeat, but there was always something about wearing high waisted jeans that terrified me. The other day I literally woke up thinking of this outfit that would be so cute, and almost immediately changed my mind, because in my head, my shirt would be tucked in, and that was a no from me fam.

But I did it. And no one laughed. No one said anything. No one pointed. Buildings didn’t fall and children didn’t run away in fear. A mind fuck, indeed.

I chose a paid of distressed high waisted old navy rockstar skinnies (which, quick note to the big bitches reading this, are so so good) with an off the shoulder cotton swing top from torrid, some gold hoops and sling back pointed toe ballet flats. I felt like a bad bitch, let me tell ya.

I know this is ramble-y, but it’s so freeing doing something that scares the shit out of you. Wear a print or a neon for God’s sake. You won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but be your own, add some sugar, and call it a day. It’s lovely.

So I conquered the stomach fear, kind of maybe, a little.
And maybe you’ll pick a piece that makes you nervous, and love it too.

Wear what makes you happy, even if society is telling you something different.
And just embrace it.


All my love,
K.