There is no turning point, no clear moment when I started feeling good in my body. I know that when I started dating people who are not cis men, I learned to revel in queer bodies and the endless and inventive ways we crease into ourselves. When I desired these bodies and the people who inhabit them, I began to see how my own body could be desired, not just by others but also by me. Years later, in a wry twist of queerness, when I begin to wish my chest and hips were smaller, my old hatred burbles back to the surface at a different slant. This time the wish feels tacky, because I know an
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