I remember the first time I felt fat and ugly.

I was four, standing in front of that mirrored wall, surrounded by dancers that were smaller and prettier than I was.

I remember the first time an adult made me uncomfortable by calling me sexy.

I was six, wearing my brand new, cheetah print, bikini bathing suit.

I remember the first time my heart got broken.

I was eight when some girls I thought were my friends told me that the guy I had a crush on liked me back. When I told him how I felt, they all laughed at me.

I remember the first time a grown man grabbed my ass.

I was ten, standing in line at a convenience store. I went home and cried to my mom.

I remember the first time I cut myself.

I was twelve. The kids at camp forced me to show them my wrists, screaming “emo freak” at me.

I remember my first time I lost a best friend.

I was fourteen and she spent the entire summer stealing from me until I gathered enough courage to confront her. Even though we were practically sisters since birth, she decided she hated me and started telling everyone that I was “a fat bitch.” I still love her and miss her.

I remember my first kiss, my first time falling in love.

I was sixteen and completely blind to the fact that I was being used and cheated on. The same trend has followed with every relationship since.

I remember my first time begging “no, please don’t. please stop.”

I was seventeen and drunk when three adult men took advantage of me in the worst way. I lied about it because I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I blamed myself. I wanted to die, and I tried to. Multiple times.

I remember the first time I learned to love myself.

I was twenty when I started to see the beauty in my flaws and my scars. I promised myself from that day forward, I would protect my happiness for the rest of my life.