A NYFW Note to Curvy Girls: Love Yourself

Amina Akhtar

Covered up and a bag to block — typical.

Photo: Benjamin Lozovsky/

I have a secret to admit that’s not so secret if you know me: I’m not that thin. If you’re in fashion, that’s rather sacrilegious. But even when I was a size 6, I was never actually thin; I’m a curvy woman, and have almost always been.

It’s in the last few years that my rather hefty décolletage and the rest of me are now a bit more proportional thanks to a 30-pound gain in the last year and a half. I admit it, it happened. Life was rough, and stress took over. (A family illness took its toll on all of us.) Since then, I’ve done my best to either diet religiously (how I miss carbs) or work out nonstop, but without much change — or fun. “Adrenal fatigue!” and “definitely thyroid”are usually spouted. Whatever the cause, I drape myself in looser clothes, lots of Spanx and jackets. Oh, how I adore a good blazer.

Now all of this would be fine if it weren’t 90 degrees during this Fashion Week. It’s hot, humid and disgusting. There’s nothing anyone can wear without devolving into a pool of sweat. So, my usual method of covering up and ignoring the body I despise isn’t working. So, I opted for a sleeveless tank and a long pencil skirt. And I was miserable.

I had every intention of writing about being larger-sized at Fashion Week, but it dawned on me — no one but me seems to care. Because the only person who has issues with my body is me. It doesn’t matter if you feel you need to lose 30 pounds or gain 20, be more athletic or less; we all seem to dislike parts of our bodies. And it’s keeping me from really enjoying my life. Would I want you readers to live like that? Absolutely not. So, this is something I challenge myself and you to now: Love what you look like. If those size 6 or 8 or 10 jeans don’t fit, buy a bigger size. It’s just a number. I’m not looking at my scale anymore, I’m only focusing on being healthy and less stressed. Will it be easy? Of course not, bad habits tend to die slowly. But the next time one of my relatives makes a comment on my weight (or pokes my stomach and tells me to “reduce” — thanks auntie!), I’ll let them know just what I think of that.

And tomorrow, when it hits 94 degrees, you better believe I’m not wearing a blazer.


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