Learning to Like My Own Body

Chloe, Graduate Student, Next Gen, London, UK

Chloe’s story tenderly explores the complicated relationship many ABC youth have with exercise, self-image, and cultural expectations. Through small, everyday acts of care, she discovers gentleness toward herself for the first time. This story is soft, healing, and profoundly relatable.

If you grow up ABC, you grow up around excellence.

Perfect grades.
Perfect piano recitals.
Perfect cousins in perfect photos.
Perfection everywhere - except me.

I was not athletic.
Not toned.
Not the kid who looked confident in gym shorts.

In PE class, I became a professional “shoe-tier.”
Whenever team captains started choosing players, I suddenly developed a complicated knot that needed urgent attention.

At pool parties, I stayed wrapped in a towel like a spring roll.
My friends jumped in; I hovered near the snacks.

By the time I reached college, I thought exercise was for “fit people,” not people like me.

Then graduate school in London happened - a city full of rain, people who walk fast, and the kind of loneliness that sits in your chest like a heavy coat.

One day, while scrolling through local events, I saw a flyer:

“Beginner’s Running Group - All Paces Welcome.”

I don’t know why I joined.
Maybe because I needed movement.
Maybe because I needed people.
Maybe because I wanted to stop hiding from myself.

The first run was awful.

My lungs felt like broken accordions.
My legs shook like overcooked noodles.
Everyone seemed faster, lighter, naturally athletic.

I wanted to disappear.

But afterward, as I bent over gasping, someone tapped my shoulder and said:

“Good run today.”

Two words.
No comparison.
No judgment.
Just kindness.

So I went back.

Week after week.

By month three, I realized something shocking:

I didn’t hate running.
I hated being watched.

Growing up, physical activity always came with commentary:

“Aiyo, you run so slow.”
“Careful - don’t get darker.”
“Exercise won’t help unless you lose weight too.”

Sports weren’t fun.
Sports were performance under fluorescent lights.

But in London, running became mine — not something to win, just something to feel.

Now I run twice a week.

Not to shrink.
Not to impress.
Not to chase an ideal version of myself.

I run because my body finally feels like a place I live in, not a place I apologize for.

And if you’re an ABC kid who never felt “athletic enough,” here’s what I want you to know:

You’re not broken.
You’re not late.
You’re not alone.

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t moving your body —
It’s unlearning everyone else’s opinions about it.

Your body isn’t your enemy.
It’s the home where your whole life happens.

Treat it gently.
Treat it bravely.
Treat it like it belongs to you —
because it always has.