Dear body,

We need to talk. For as long as I can remember, it’s felt like we’ve been at odds. More like reluctant roommates than anything else. I’ve spent years resenting you, wishing you were different and focusing on everything you couldn’t be rather than everything you are. And, honestly, it’s not fair to either of us.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when things started to go wrong between us, but I remember one moment vividly: I was about eight years old, sitting on the beach on holiday with my dad, when a woman came up to him and asked if I was pregnant. Pregnant. At eight years old. It was the first time someone else noticed my SMA (spinal muscular atrophy) belly. At 30, I see how wildly inappropriate that person was, and I’ve been self-conscious about it ever since. It pushes outward because of the way my spine is curved, which is a result of muscles I don’t have and will never develop. 

Over the years, I’ve learned to see how impossible society’s standards of beauty are for everyone, disabled or not. They’re a set of contradictory rules no one can ever fully satisfy. Society’s beauty standards are impossible for everyone, but even more so for disabled people. No diet or exercise routine is going to make my SMA belly disappear. No amount of skipped meals or self-loathing is going to change the way my body looks. Yet, I’ve noticed glimmers of progress in the fashion industry, even if it’s far from perfect. Brands like Primark are using disabled models and collaborating with incredible designers like Victoria Jenkins. It’s a step forward, but the industry has a long way to go.

I’ll be honest with you, body. When I think about you, my first feelings are resentment and anger. I’m angry that there are things about you I’ll never be able to change. I’m angry that I avoid looking in mirrors. 

Because here’s the thing: you’ve carried me through so much. You’ve been with me through every hospital admission, through the childhood chest infections that landed me in hospital and through the hell that was swine flu. I never appreciated that my body and I worked incredibly hard to survive and recover from that. We both fought like hell, and while it feels like we lost some of the battles, we did sort of win the war. In some ways, we did recover, and in others, we didn’t. I never regained some of the abilities I had before swine flu, and I’ve hated that every single day. But even then, you didn’t give up. You kept going, and I’ve never given you the credit you deserve for that.

I’ve been working through all of this in therapy since I was 15. Yes, body, people pay me to deliver policy and campaign strategies, but even I need a professional to help untangle the mess in my head. Therapy has been that space for me, helping me process the resentment and work toward something I’ve learned to call neutrality.

Neutrality is about finding a middle ground. It’s not about loving my body or even liking it; it’s about recognising that you’re here, body, and you’re doing your job. It’s about seeing you as something more than the flaws I’ve obsessed over and trying to stop treating you like an enemy. If I can look at you and think, You’re OK, that’s a win. Neutrality gives me permission to stop chasing the impossible and instead focus on small victories – like the other day when I did my hair and make-up for work calls and actually thought I looked OK. (Dare I say nice-ish?) That’s so rare for me that I had to notice it. Writing this letter feels like another small victory. By putting all of this into words, I’m making myself accountable to change how I think about you. It’s a step toward reframing how we coexist.

Posting those photos on social media sometimes feels like an obligation, a way to remind the community that disabled people are beautiful, that we share similar challenges. But if I’m honest, I often feel like a fraud. That’s part of why I’m writing this letter: to correct the narrative. Because if I’m working on neutrality, maybe someone else can too. Maybe someone else can find a little relief in knowing that they don’t have to leap straight to self-love. Sometimes neutrality is enough.

To other disabled people reading this: if you struggle with your body, I see you. If you’ve tried to love yourself and it feels impossible, I’m right there with you. If you’re just aiming for a place where you don’t hate yourself, let’s aim for that together. Because self-love isn’t the only destination. Sometimes acceptance, even tentative acceptance, is more than enough. And you deserve that.

Here’s to finding peace, one day at a time. As our lord and saviour, Taylor Swift, says in her song This Is Me Trying, I’m doing my best. And if it’s good enough for Taylor, it’s good enough for me.

Yours (begrudgingly, but working on it),

Emma

Images: courtesy of Emma Vogelmann