I was raised to be modest and to take up as little space as possible. I was told to cross my legs and suck in my stomach. 

We went swimming down at the lake. I had just gotten a new bathing suit. It was a one piece polka dot bathing suit. I loved the way it hugged my belly and made me feel sleek in the water. 

“Girls, fudgiscles!” my friend’s mom yelled to us across the lake. My favorite, I thought. I swam fast across the lake and dried myself off. 

“Here you go, Hannah,” as she handed me the fudgsicle, already dripping down the stick from the heat. 

I closed my eyes and tasted its sweet, chocolatey goodness. I tried to lick it all up before it melted all over my hands. It was gone in seconds. 

“Mrs. Brewster, could I please have another?” I said politely, remembering my mother’s expectations and lessons on manners. 

She reached into the cooler and was pulling one out, when my mother swiped it from her grip. 

“Hannah, that is enough. That suit barely fits you as it is.” 

I was crestfallen. My new one piece, polka dot bathing suit was no longer like a second skin, but more like a sausage casing. With my mother’s words, I no longer felt beautiful in my body. People assume that body weight is a sign of health. Since that day on the beach, my body has become a commentary on my health and my social status. I don’t want to reiterate that in my own daughter’s life. I want her to love her body: the curves, the rolls, her birthmark. Our bodies may only be on loan, but they are our bodies in this lifetime and they are beautiful.