So I did what white women tend to do when we show up late to a movement: I took up space, eager to relay the recent revelations that had changed my life. Online, I evangelized my new knowledge through the noble pursuit of posting progressive memes. Yet behind the screen I hadn’t made nearly enough progress—I still spent exorbitant chunks of my salary on skincare products, felt naked without my lash extensions, and scooped out my bagels while pretending that wasn’t fatphobic as hell. For as much as I’d learned about the emptiness of beauty’s ideals, I still felt terrified that I’d fall short of
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