I envy my ten year old her freedom, being unaware of the scrutiny of the male’s gaze, untethered by his expectation. Still able to be inside her body and enjoy it for what it is; a remarkable instrument, not the weight of it, the height of it, or the size of its limbs. Free from her body's measurements, her eyes not yet trained to criticise and fault it, not yet made aware of how to compare herself to pictures in magazines, to peers, or to a past self. I envy her the lightness of her existence, not yet pressed by ideals of beauty, not yet pulled down by the heavy anchor of self-worth. A full, complete soul without a hole in it. A perfect being, not seeking validation or approval, not yet riddled or trampled by cultural foolishness, social norms or opinions.
I was once like that, I can’t remember what it felt like, but I know I was once just as tremendous.