But, I did it. I walked out onto the dimly lit patio, naked, in public, for the first time in my adult life. To my dismay, it wasn't an "every-body" kind of spa. Instead, I was surrounded by the types of people you'd expect to see in an advanced yoga class in LA. As I walked through the center of them, I felt incredibly self-conscious.

When I'm uncomfortable, I make faces — big, mugging, obvious faces. Walking toward one of the group baths, a kiddie pool sardined with the beautiful people, I instantly reverted to my middle school self, rolling my eyes at the hot women. To cheer myself up, I invented a song, which I sang in my head as I passed people: You got that super-fly body; I got that octo-mom body.

My boyfriend had never seen me behave like this, and asked if I was okay. I just scowled, acting like a sullen teenager. After about 10 minutes, I couldn't take it anymore and excused myself to one of the solo baths. I sunk down in the tub, letting the water hide me like a blanket. Everything was covered except for the perfect, white circle of my knee poking out of the water.

I don't have very many memories of my body when I was big. I actively never looked at it. When I looked in the mirror, I only ever saw my face. Freshman year of high school, I got so big that when I took a bath, I could no longer cover myself completely with the water. I remember the first time this happened: My whole body was covered except for a circle of white — my stomach, bobbing out of the water. I looked at it and decided it was not a part of me. I called it an island. Then, I took a mini shampoo and conditioner and pretended they were a boy and a girl meeting on the island and falling in love. I played in the bathtub like a toddler. It's not a sad memory. But, it does remind me of what it felt like to be a big girl — like I was an island.

I've joined the world of average-sized people now. But, it doesn't mean I'm fixed. Sitting in that tub at the "spa," I thought about all the things I've done to my body: hating it, hiding it, starving it. Cutting it open. Hurting. Healing. Promising myself that every time I looked at that scar, I'd feel grateful for my body — and then forgetting that promise.

How am I still struggling with this? I thought. How am I back at the very beginning, just trying to have a relationship with my body?