Little did @SweetGeorgia_77 know that her tweet would go viral. Lol #ValidateMe pic.twitter.com/pkod4upwpG
— Billifer ?? (@billifer1973) November 13, 2021
Warning: well-deserved salty language ahead!
Last week, a woman on Twitter tweeted that people who post selfies, especially those who show cleavage, are lacking confidence, seeking validation, and need help.
The tweet gained a lot of traction, but not because people agreed with it.
It blew up because she struck a nerve for many, including me. This woman sought to tear people down for the something many of them had worked so long to build up: their self-esteem.
I don’t think there is a person walking around this earth who doesn’t have some insecurities, and fighting against them is an ongoing battle for most. Apparently, this isn’t an issue for Georgia. Though one might suggest that she was seeking validation herself by attacking others. Misery sure does love company, doesn’t it?
For the rest of us, we are just out here trying to conquer the voice inside our heads that tells us we’re not good enough. The amount of people posting their selfies in defiance of the tweet was a beautiful, impressive message to the world.
Unfortunately, there are too many people like Georgia out there. But they don’t know our story. So, here’s a little bit of mine.
As an early developer, I was already sporting a size D cup in seventh grade. This came along with a lot of unfortunate consequences. I was teased and ridiculed by my peers for something beyond my control.
It also garnered me attention from older boys that I was not equipped to handle. Imagine being called a “slut” before you even knew what the term meant—simply because of your body type. Or being called into the office for showing too much skin when you’re wearing the exact same shirt as your small-chested friend. Now, I had the same boyfriend off and on from age 13 to 20, and our relationship was completely “on” for all four years of high school, so I was far from a “slut.”
As far as clothing went, I was expected not to wear the cute, trendy tops or dresses that the other girls were allowed to wear. I was told I should cover up and wear shapeless garments to hide my body. Tank tops and form-fitting outfits were only for the girls without curves.
Even then, I found myself wondering why I should have to wear baggy, high-neck shirts to make other people more comfortable. I fought against it then, I’m fighting against it now, and when I’m a grandmother, I guarantee I will feel the same way.
Society did women a great disservice during our formative years. The images in Seventeen Magazine showed us that being tall and stick-thin was the only way to be beautiful. Whereas I’d see voluptuous women gracing the cover of my dad’s Playboys and be fascinated because they looked like me. But the women in those magazines were considered dirty and shameful, and looking at them was a secret that needed to be hidden and kept under the bed. So, at an early age, those of us with large breasts were taught that our body shape was wrong and needed to be kept covered.
Then, as an adult, I found myself in a relationship with a man who reinforced those same societal values in any way he could. He made me get rid of all my cute, fun clothing and preferred me to dress in a fashion that was the opposite of my style. He was constantly on me about my figure, even going so far as to weigh me so that he could then shame me for it. He tore me down and called me names, breaking me down mentally, emotionally, and psychologically.
I became a shell of the woman I once was. He even talked me into getting a breast reduction, but it didn’t work because they just grew back. When I finally walked away from that relationship, I had no idea who I was anymore.
Over the last 10 years, I’ve worked so goddamn hard to get to a place where I know who I am and I’m fucking proud of it. So, I will say what I want, do as I please, and wear whatever the fuck I want to wear.
And I’ll be damned if I let anyone ever make me feel like that’s wrong, ever again.
I will post my selfies without cropping my cleavage out of them, because it’s not my job to make sure other people are comfortable with how I look. It’s my responsibility to be comfortable in my own skin.
It took me 36 years to love myself, and I know that there is someone else who needs to see that. There are people out there who are lost and broken, and I’m here to show them that they can put their pieces back together—even better than they were before. That it’s possible to step into the power of being exactly who you are and own the fuck out of it.
If that person is you, ignore the Georgias of the world and remember: you’ve got this baby!
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