The First Time I Hated My Body, I Was Six
Why shame is keeping you from the sex and intimacy you crave — and how to come home to your body.
Before We Begin: This article primarily speaks to heteronormative couples and cis-gendered individuals, but the principles here apply to anyone who can identifies with body shame.
A few years ago, I was lying in bed with a man I was dating.
It was early morning — warm light filtering through the curtains, my bare skin tucked lazily beneath the sheet. One of those rare, tender moments where I actually felt good in my body.
Soft. Radiant. Unarmoured.
And then he said it: “I don’t really believe in complimenting women on how they look. I think it just feeds their ego.”
At first, I thought I’d misheard him.
But no — that was the whole sentence.
There I was — naked, vulnerable, showing up with my whole tender self — and this man decided that praising a woman’s body was... egotistical?
And in that moment, something in me clenched. I felt like I’d been yanked out of my own skin.
You see, I’m a woman — shocking, I know — which means I’ve spent my entire life being told that my worth is tethered to my appearance. I’ve been trained, from the moment I took that first damn breath, to believe that my body was either the golden ticket to love — or the reason I’d never be good enough to deserve it.
So when someone I cared about decided not to see me — to withhold admiration, as if it were some precious resource and not a basic human need — it hit every wound I’d ever learned to cover with fake confidence and “I’m fine” smiles.
It mirrored every unspoken belief I’d already been carrying for decades.
This isn’t a vanity story. It’s a survival story.
From the outside, I probably looked like I had it together. But inside? I was at war with myself.
A quiet, relentless battle between the woman I longed to be — free, radiant, sexually alive — and the parts of me that had learned to shrink, apologise, and hide.
I’ve hated my body more times than I can count.
Not just the way it looked… but the way it bailed on me when I needed it most.
How it shut down during intimacy.
How it froze when I longed to feel alive.
How it shook in rooms I’d clawed my way into.
How my voice trembled anytime I tried to speak my truth.
How sometimes, I left my body entirely — like a ghost hovering above the scene — just to feel safe.
Even now, after years of deep work, there are still moments I catch my reflection and hear the whisper: “You’re not enough. You’re not desirable. No man will want you.”
But here’s what I know now:
That voice? It isn’t mine.
And it never was.
The shame starts early (and runs deep)
I remember standing in front of the mirror at six years old, poking at my stomach and thinking, “If only I were lucky. If only I were pretty. If only I wasn’t fat.”
Six!
I was SIX YEARS OLD - What-the-actual-freaken-fuck!
That’s how young I was when I first learned to be ashamed of the body I lived in. That’s how early the shame gets in.
Not gently — no no.
It lands with a force. Sewn into our minds by the media, culture, the occasional comment from a well-meaning (read: wildly unhelpful) adult, and the deeply entrenched belief that a woman’s worth lives in the symmetry of her face and the size of her waistline.
By sixteen, I was convinced my body was the reason I was unlovable.
By twenty-two, bulimia had become my secret coping mechanism.
By my mid-twenties, I was a master of bedroom performance — smiling, moaning, arching my back just right — while silently praying the person beside me wouldn’t really look.
Because if they saw the softness, the cellulite, the stretch marks, the sacred, messy realness? Surely, they’d see the truth of my unlovability.
And that story — that brutal, exhausting, soul-shrivelling tale — is one so many of us inherit like a cursed family heirloom.
We never asked for it. But we’re handed it anyway.
A story crafted by systems that need us to feel broken. Industries that profit off our shame. Cultures that keep women small, self-doubting, distracted, and forever hungry — for approval, for perfection, for something we were never meant to chase in the first place.
It shows up in the way we hold our breath when the lights come on. The way we suck in our stomachs, convinced that if we really let go, we’ll be seen — and in being seen, we’ll be judged. Criticised. Rejected.
We are taught — overtly, subtly, constantly — that our bodies are a problem to solve.
That if we can just tone enough, shrink enough, starve enough, silence enough… Then maybe, maybe, we’ll be worthy.
Worthy of love. Of desire. Of pleasure. Of being adored exactly as we are.
So if you’ve ever had that thought “Something’s wrong with me…” Let me say this clearly, with love, rage, and absolute certainty:
It’s not you. It’s them.
It’s entirely them.
What happens when we internalise that shame?
We leave our bodies.
Not physically, obviously — we’re not floating heads — but energetically, emotionally, sensually, somatically, experientially.
We check out. We climb up into the safety of our minds — where it’s logical, controlled, where no one can see the soft, shamed, sacred parts.
Why? Because the body no longer feels safe to live in.
And here’s where the nervous system comes in…
Hello, science section. But I’ll make it sexy…ish.
Your Body Has One Job: KEEP YOU SAFE.
Enter the autonomic nervous system — the part of your body that constantly scans for threat and makes decisions before your thinking brain gets a say.
When the body perceives danger (and yes, emotional shame, judgement, and rejection all count as danger), it flips into survival mode.
Here’s what that looks like:
Sympathetic state (fight/flight): racing thoughts, clenched jaw, tight chest, maybe you suddenly really need to tidy the kitchen instead of having sex.
Dorsal vagal state (freeze/shutdown): numbness, disconnection, no sensation, no arousal, just the overwhelming urge to hide under the covers and never be touched again.
If your body has learned that intimacy = exposure = danger, it will not let you surrender.
And surrender is the key to pleasure.
Simply put: You can’t orgasm in a war zone.
And for many of us, our bodies are the war zone.
So what do we do?
We come home.
Not by bulldozing our way back. Not by chanting affirmations in front of the mirror while secretly wishing we could Photoshop ourselves in real time.
We come home somatically. Gently. In small, delicious doses.
We stop treating the body like a project to fix, and start treating her like a partner to honour.
We listen.
We breathe.
We let her move — clumsy, wobbly, unfiltered.
We touch her without rushing toward orgasm, without needing her to perform.
We learn to be with her — all of her. The softness. The stretch marks. The rage. The numbness. The spark. The power. The boundries.
Because your body is not a before-and-after photo.
She is a fucking temple. A thunderstorm. A walking miracle.
She doesn’t need to be smaller. She needs to be witnessed.
Let’s Talk About Sex Baby - After all isn’t that what you’re here for.
Because body image doesn’t stay in front of the mirror — it follows us into bed.
If you’ve ever:
Avoided sex because you felt “gross”
Faked it because you didn’t want them to see you jiggle
Kept your bra on, your belly covered, or the lights off
Zoned out halfway through because all you could think about was how your thighs looked in that position…
Then you already know: body shame is the biggest pleasure killer on the planet.
Why? Because pleasure lives in the body.
But the nervous system won’t let you access pleasure if it’s too busy scanning your environment for danger — even if that danger is a little inner gremlin going, “You’re disgusting.” (P.S. My inner gremlins never feel little or cute like those ones in that 80’s movie - they’re full on rubbish wankers….)
You can’t feel that wild, mind-bending holy-effing-lord-above-if-there-even-is-one kind of pleasure when your brain is wondering if your partner is secretly grossed out by your cellulite.
And again: this isn’t your fault.
You didn’t fail pleasure — the system failed you.
And to the lovers, partners, and romantically entangled sweethearts…
This part is for you.
If your partner struggles with being seen — if she tenses when you reach for her belly, hides under oversized T-shirts, or goes quiet when you compliment her — please don’t take it personally.
She’s not rejecting you. She’s likely fighting a war she didn’t start.
You don’t need to fix her - as if anyone needs “fixing”. But you can help her feel safe.
Here’s how:
Tell her she’s beautiful — and mean it. Not just when she’s dressed up. But when she’s undone, dishevelled, bloated, crying, half-asleep. When that knot in the back of her hair has gotten so large it’s formed it’s own personality.
Go slow. Slower than you think. And then slower than that. Really let her settle into your touch, your warm embrace. Let her body realise you’re not going anywhere. You’re not rejecting her. You’re not repulsed. That you’re sticking around.
Ask what feels good. Ask if she wants more. Ask if she wants less. Ask if she wants nothing at all.
Let your desire be a gift, not a demand.
Praise the parts she hides. Prasie the parts she doesn’t. Praise all the things about her you tryly enjoy, desire and hunger for.
Let her body lead the dance — even if it means you only stay in the “warm-up zone” (which in my opinion is sex!).
When a woman feels safe in your presence — when she trusts that she can be soft, messy, powerful, loud, weepy, quiet, clumsy, real — that’s when she begins to bloom.
And once she blooms?
Let’s just say… you’ll want to cancel your plans for the weekend.
And maybe the week ahead too!
Final words — or perhaps, a blessing
If you’ve ever felt ashamed of your body — I want you to know:
It’s not your shame to carry. It never was.
You were never broken.
You were never too much, or not enough, or behind, or ugly, or unworthy.
You were simply born into a world that forgot how to worship women’s bodies instead of commodify them.
But you get to remember. You get to come home. To sensation. To slowness. To pleasure that doesn’t need to be earned. To a version of you that was never anything less than holy.
Your body isn’t the thing holding you back.
She’s the key.
And when you learn to hold her — with reverence, with rage, with love — She’ll hold you right back.
With so much love,
Alexa Xx
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I love you and I love this piece so much! More stories like this, more creating the space to share your magic and your work and your heart.
I loved this! I think all women can relate to this at some point in their lives. Thanks for sharing!