wait... she actually said that? 😳

, if you’ve been reading this newsletter for any length of time, you need no disclaimer.

But if you’re new here, just know—

This is, unfortunately, a 100% true story.

And no, I don’t have a vendetta against history teachers.
Just one in particular.
The kind who treated backhanded body commentary like it was part of the AP curriculum—right between war crimes and overhead projector chaos.

I feel like I need to lead with that today because the most common response I get when I tell stories like this is:

“Wait, WHAT? That really happened?!”

Yes. It did.
To me.
In a public high school classroom.
At the absolute peak of low-rise denim and body dysmorphia disguised as Seventeen Magazine “health” tips.

And no, I’m not exaggerating for entertainment value (though if this wellness thing ever tanks, stand-up comedy might be Plan B).

To be clear, I’ve been called a lot of things in my life—
Type A.
High-achieving with a splash of ✨control issues✨.
Corporate baddie.
Just another pretty face.
😑😑😑

But this one?

This was so bizarre, so wildly unfiltered, it’s still parked in my nervous system rent-free with no intention of moving out.

So, here you go.
Perhaps my most unhinged high school moment of all time.

Please read with generosity and tell me I'm not alone in... whatever the heck this was.

I was sixteen.
Sitting in my third-period history class, probably wearing Hollister jeans, three layered polos (yes, with all the collars popped), smelling like Warm Vanilla Sugar, and still stewing over being left out of someone’s Top 8 on MySpace. As one does.

Ms. Renshaw*—early thirties, permanently overcaffeinated and five years too comfortable around teenagers—was doing her usual: pacing the aisles with a whiteboard marker and a tendency to overshare where literally no one asked.

(*name has been changed to protect the guilty.)

We were maybe fifteen minutes into class when she paused, turned directly to me, and said—out loud, in front of everyone.

“You have the perfect body… but live in a society with ghetto booty.”

I’ll give you a second.

…

Because yes—she said that.
OUT LOUD.

Like… what in the actual f*ck?! ☠️☠️☠️☠️

There was no lead-up.
No “speaking of…”
Just a verbal grenade tossed directly at my sixteen-year-old self-esteem in front of 27 hormonal witnesses.

I half-expected Regina George to walk in and hand me a Burn Book.

And listen—I laughed.
What else do you do when the person grading your future decides to give your body a performance review?

But inside?
Something shifted.

Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Just… a quiet recalibration.
Like my confidence dial turned one click to the left—and stayed there.

Because what she really meant was:
“You used to have the ideal body. But the world doesn’t want that anymore.”

And to be fair… she wasn’t wrong.

This was peak J.Lo in the green Versace dress era.
Beyoncé had just made ‘Bootylicious’ a global anthem.
The vibe had officially pivoted—from heroin chic to hourglass goddess.

And I?
100 pounds soaking wet, built like a breadstick, still trying to understand the rules of a game I didn’t know I was playing…

Had apparently missed the memo.

So no, it wasn’t just an offhand comment.
It was a message.
A quiet, coded broadcast that hit its mark before I had the language to name what it was really saying.

I wasn’t what the world wanted anymore.
Not curvy enough to be desirable.
Not flat enough to be aspirational.
Just... in between.

And I carried that.
Not dramatically. Not publicly.
Just in subtle ways—like tugging my shirt down a little lower when I walked past a group.
Or laughing at jokes that made me feel small, just to stay likable.
A subtle rewiring of how I showed up in my own skin.

And maybe you’ve felt it too, .
That invisible expectation to present your body in a way that calms the room before you even speak.

Smile, suck in, smooth it over.
Hide the part that jiggles.
Adjust the waistband. Re-cross the legs.
Say thank you when someone says you look “good”—even when they say it like they’re surprised.

We shape-shift. We minimize.
We try to be the version of ourselves that won’t cause a stir.

It’s weird, isn’t it?
The way we collect these offhanded comments like cursed souvenirs?
Half compliment, half insult.
Wrapped in a bow of “just trying to help.”

Sometimes they’re from strangers on Instagram.
Sometimes they come from people we love.
And sometimes—from people who should’ve known better.

But no matter where they come from—
they root themselves in the quietest parts of us.
Not loud. Just… permanent.

Because the message is always the same:

You’re almost right.
But not quite.

I spent so many years trying to close that gap.

Trying to earn the second half of the compliment.

Shrinking. Toning. Contouring.
Biohacking. Dry brushing.
Buying the jeans, the collagen, the SPF 50 lip gloss that promises to keep you “youthful” but still somehow kissable.
(And if it plumps your lips? Even better.)

Trying to be effortless but optimized.
Curvy but not too curvy.
Soft, but only in the socially approved locations.
Feminine—but make it digestible.

I kept chasing the formula.
The perfect ratio of “sexy” and “safe.”
The Goldilocks zone of womanhood.

And when I finally nailed it?
Then I’d be allowed to relax.
To rest without guilt.
To eat the pasta and hold eye contact without flinching.
To take up space in a room without mentally calculating how much of it I deserved.

But that day never came.
Because the bar kept moving.
And I finally realized—maybe it was never meant to be reached.

Every time I thought I’d “figured it out,” there was something else to fix.
A new standard to meet.
A new trend to chase—high-protein this, low-fat that, collagen in your coffee or else.

(Shoutout to low-rise jeans. May they rot in the trend graveyard where they belong.)

Eventually, I got tired.
Not just tired-tired.
Soul tired.
The kind of tired that 8 hours of sleep and a green juice can’t touch.
The kind where even silence feels heavy—and your body doesn’t feel like home.

And that’s when it hit me:

What if my body isn’t broken?
What if it’s a protest?

A soft, sacred protest against a culture that feeds on our insecurities.
That teaches us to hate ourselves just enough to keep spending.
That packages our pain into products—then markets them back to us as the cure.

I wish I had some tidy conclusion for you.
Some glow-up reel or “this one trick changed my life” moment.

But I don’t.

I still have days where I second-guess an outfit.
Still turn sideways in photos.
Still hear that teacher’s voice echoing like a bad pop lyric from the early 2000s. 🎶

But I also have days—more and more of them—
where I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, hair a mess, sweatshirt stained with spaghetti sauce, and think:

She’s art.
Not “she’s almost.”
Not “she’s getting there.”
Just: she’s art. 🎨

And you, ?
You’re art too.
Even on the days when you don’t feel like it.
Even when you’re still learning how to believe it.

Your body isn’t here to be explained.
It’s here to be inhabited.
Loved. Lived in.
Painted in stretch marks, sunspots, softness, and strength.

Your body is not a before photo.
It’s not a negotiation.
Not a project. Not a plea.

It’s a whole damn masterpiece.

Soft.
Sacred.
Enough.

Maybe today, you look in the mirror and think:
She’s art.
And if not today… maybe tomorrow.

To the masterpiece in the mirror—

—Genta 🎨

P.S. This month inside The Glow Social Club, we’re peeling back the layers—reclaiming our rhythms, our rituals, and the relationship we have with our bodies. No pressure. No “fix it” energy. Just softness, truth, and real tools that meet you where you are.

If this resonated… I think you’ll love it in there. ✨
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