2018 Love Your Body

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2018.01.03 NOW Magazine

What does it mean to “love your body” in 2018? Surely it’s more than just celebrating curves, stretch marks and body hair.

The body positivity movement has made significant gains. Racial and size diversity on major fashion magazines is growing and celebrated, and representation in Hollywood and on screens can no longer be ignored.

Social media makes it possible for images of every race, age, gender, ability, size and shape to permeate our lives. The Oxford Dictionary named “youthquake” as 2017’s word of the year, but terms like “self-care” and “self-love” were more relevant to many.

When NOW created the Love Your Body issue four years ago, it was to counter the onslaught of body-shaming headlines every January. “Lose weight! Diet! New year, new you!” They’re as pathetic as they are predictable.

By featuring dozens of inspiring Torontonians willing to bare all and tell their stories of transformation, reclamation and acceptance, we hoped to shift the discussion from self-criticism to self-love.

But what does it mean to “love your body” in 2018? Surely it’s more than just celebrating curves, stretch marks and body hair. To love your body is an act of resistance and power, so it’s crucial to acknowledge that some bodies are privileged.

Plus-size models that make it into magazines and runways are still predominantly white. Transgender models including Andreja Pejic and Hari Nef are starring in mainstream beauty campaigns, but non-binary folks are still underrepresented.

Models with disabilities are practically non-existent. And while older women like Meryl, Hillary and Donatella appeared on magazine covers in 2017, the anti-aging industry shows no sign of slowing down.

Let’s not forget people who are struggling to love their bodies and reclaim the skin they’re in. In late 2017, the #MeToo campaign and a plethora of high-profile sexual assault cases cracked open the discussion on consent and sexual violence in an unprecedented way. Those of us who are able to talk about our bodies and have our experiences acknowledged hold space in a world that is not welcoming to everyone.

In the following pages, you’ll meet 10 Torontonians with photos and stories that inspire.

May they encourage you to accept yourself and others who are different. May they be a reminder that you are enough and deserving of love.

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Talli Osborne: motivational speaker, musician

"So many people don’t like the things that make them stand out, but I think we really need to embrace those differences and make them sparkle."

My mom says I was born with a ton of confidence, but when I started going to school, I began feeling pressure to be more like the other kids. All of a sudden, I was fitted with prosthetic arms and legs. It was kind of hard to like a body that didn’t feel like my own.

A turning point came when I went away to university. I’d always worn prosthetics to school, although I’d skip them when I was hanging out with friends. One day I ran into one of my new friends, who had only ever seen me without them. He said, “Why are you wearing those? It’s weird!” Something hit me: “You’re right! I don’t have to wear them!”

At the time, I didn’t have cute clothes that fit my real, 3-foot-5 body – those were all for “tall Talli,” who was 5 feet. So I went downtown and bought new clothes that were hugging my body and showing my curves. I gained so much confidence, and people could feel that confidence.

The other body image stuff others deal with, I deal with, too. I turned 30 and I put on a bunch of weight and I’m learning to love my body again. The no-arms-and-short-legs thing – I was over that like 20 years ago. But taking nude photos with a belly was a big deal for me!

People see me and they focus on what I don’t have. Their automatic reaction is pity. But before I tell you about the challenges in my life, let me tell you how awesome my life is. We all have our shit, and mine’s just laid out for you when you see me on the street.

I feel like so many people don’t like the things that make them stand out – a big nose, a big butt, whatever. I think we really need to embrace those differences and make them sparkle, you know? I show off my big hips and boobs. I wear tank tops almost all year round to show my arms off. I got my scooter custom-painted, and it’s pink and covered in skulls. I love it. It shows the world that I’m confident. My strongest memory as a kid was wanting to fit in, wanting to be included. Now I do everything I can to stand out.

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William Webster: actor in Amadeus

I had open-heart surgery in July, and obviously the doctors had to crack me open to do it, so I have this great big beautiful scar on my chest. It’s about seven inches long and runs vertically from just below my Adam’s apple to above my diaphragm. I show the scar to everyone. I’m sure people are tired of seeing it by now.

I hadn’t had a physical in a few years and decided to get one. The X-ray technician noticed a spot on my heart. I thought: “Oh, here we go… the big C.” My GP sent me for an EKG, and they found I had an aneurysm in my aorta. Then they scheduled the surgery. I was supposed to go down to New York City with Soulpepper, but the doctor (everyone at Toronto General Hospital was fantastic) told me there was no way I could go.

I’m 75. When I walk down the street, I sometimes compare myself to people I see who I know are substantially younger than me. I have little aches and pains, but I don’t have a walker or cane. I’m doing okay.

I’m fine with nudity. I feel comfortable about my body. And this is about my scar, not the size of my penis. We’re born naked, and that’s how we’ll die, too. Why not celebrate it in between?

I did a play in the early 70s by Michael Hollingsworth called Clear Light in which there was a lot of nudity, and we were closed down by the morality squad. Things have changed. Also, when I was in my late 20s to early 30s, I did some life study modelling.

I did King Lear a decade ago, and I’ll always remember this wonderful line in the play: “Poor naked wretches, whereso’er you are, that bide the pelting of this pitiless storm.”

This photo is about my scar, but it’s also to acknowledge the poor naked wretches out there who don’t have the good fortune I’ve had. The addicts, the drunks (I’m seven years sober), the impoverished. There’s so much to be grateful for.

This is a new adventure for me. Before the operation, I stood in front of a mirror looking at my chest, and I thought, “It’s never going to be the same again, is it? There’s going to be a scar here.” Then I thought, “That’s good. Because it’s going to save your life and give you a new valuation of your life. And so you’ll carry this around.”

I love my scar. It’s more authentic than a tattoo.

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Quinn Rockliff: visual artist

"As a survivor of sexual assault – that’s very much tied into my art practice – every time I draw my body I’m reclaiming it."

My art practice is about nudity, self-love and female empowerment. My online project started after I began dating this guy in second year of university and when we broke up, he threatened to leak my nudes to my parents. I realized my own body could be used as a threat against me, and there was shame attached to the fact that I took naked photos of myself. It was so absurd, but also very real and terrifying.

At first I was embarrassed, but upon talking to other women I realized it was a common experience. We all take these photos, are asked for these photos and are expected to take these photos, but then they are so quickly turned around on us.

So I asked a bunch of women I knew and didn’t know to send me naked photos so I could paint them and share them online to show everyone we think our bodies are beautiful. To show that you don’t have the power to use my body as a weapon against me, because it’s my weapon to use.

At first I made the commissioned paintings super-realistic, but as time went on I stylistically pulled back. Now I do simple line drawings with watercolour backgrounds. As an artist I still struggle with the tendency to draw all bodies as the same body – the body I’ve been taught my body should look like. Receiving [images of] all different shapes and sizes of bodies has taught me a lot of things about myself, but also that I have to be representative of all bodies.

For my fine art practice and my thesis for OCAD University’s Digital Futures program, I’m drawing myself. Jennifer Lawrence famously said that every time you look at and download her leaked nude photo, you’re violating her consent. People feel a disconnect with people they don’t know. For that reason, I’m really interested in dealing with my own body more in the future, which is scary. It’s a harder thing for me to think about because it’s tied up in a lifetime of body issues.

As a survivor of sexual assault – that’s very much tied into my art practice – every time I draw my body I’m reclaiming it, and to do that for other women is really important. It feels radical to shamelessly love my body as a woman, and political to share it online.

If you’re aware of your entitlement to other people’s bodies – from having an opinion on the way women dress to violating their consent in a physical setting – we can call out the larger issues of rape culture through day-to-day actions.

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Hann Peliowski: cinema studies student, U of T

"People need to know that breast cancer doesn’t only happen to women or older people."

I was diagnosed with breast cancer last year when I was 24 and I quit school for a year. Treatment was four months of being unable to feel at peace with my own body. I had the time to think about it and realized I’m genderqueer – I’m not a woman. I decided I didn’t want to feel uncomfortable in my body any more.

I don’t have nipples, just a reconstructed breast. They put in tissue expanders and they’re really uncomfortable and stiff. I’m supposed to have surgery again soon. I told my surgeon that I identify as genderqueer and that I want to have a flatter chest. I thought she’d be like, “What are you talking about? You just had this other surgery,” but she understood right away.

I came out of the closet as gay once, and then again when I had cancer, and now, being genderqueer, I have to do it again. It’s draining, having to explain everything – but coming out of any closet is like that.

Before, I didn’t hate my body but I felt a lot of pressure to perform femininity – to wear short skirts, show cleavage and have longer hair. Sometimes I would do things like cut my hair short and it would feel really nice. But because I’m gay, I also worried that by doing that, I would be stereotyped. I started getting tattoos around five years ago and that helped me feel more comfortable.

The whole narrative of breast cancer is centred around women – which is for a reason: one in eight women get breast cancer. But at the hospital, the information they gave me would be aimed at women in their 50s and 60s. Everything’s pink, and there are programs that will get you wigs or makeup. But that’s not what everyone wants or needs. My doctors would always assume I had a male partner, or that I was going to have kids. People need to know that breast cancer doesn’t only happen to women or older people.

I was really inspired by Ericka Hart, a sex educator and queer Black woman who also had breast cancer. She showed me that I could feel comfortable in my own skin, and that feeling escalated into all of this: coming out as genderqueer, and even doing this shoot.

Right now, I’m still recovering. I’m still really tired. And I’m like, “When am I gonna be able to enjoy myself as I am?” But I’m starting to feel much more confident.

I may appear to have a female body, but that does not define my gender – and just because I’ll eventually have reduction surgery on my chest, it doesn’t means I don’t love my body right now. I just want to feel comfortable in my own skin. I want to have a good relationship with myself.

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Vivia Kieswetter: lay minister

"When i looked in the mirror any tiny flaw was all I could see. I tied up a lot of my self-worth in that instead of thinking of myself as a divine creature."

My relationship with my body has had twists and turns. I have a chronic pain condition. Most of the time, I’m invisibly disabled, but I carry a cane when I’m particularly wobbly. I’ve had migraines and seizures since I was a child and I was only diagnosed with arthritis seven years ago. I got a lot of “It’s all in your head.” Women with chronic pain are often treated that way.

I thought I could muscle my way out of pain, so I worked out between three and four hours a day. I tracked everything I ate and went to the gym and calculated that I burned exactly that many calories. I did that for five or six years. I felt crazy. I would look in the mirror and any tiny little flaw was all I could see. I tied up a lot of my self-worth in that instead of thinking of myself as a divine creature that deserves pleasure in the midst of all this pain

My diagnosis was a big part of breaking that cycle. In 2010, I had a complex migraine, which mimics the symptoms of a stroke. I went to the emergency room and saw everybody around me panicking. I sat there very calmly thinking I was dying. After that experience, I realized my conditions were real. I use the phrase “mind over matter” and I realized that the matter mattered.

So I went out and got my first tattoo. It was a skull with wings, which is an old Christian symbol for immortal life and mortality, and in Latin it says “Remember this body is mortal.” It was a reminder that I’m just flesh.

I got it on the fleshy part of my inner right arm because I was constantly getting blood work and I wanted it to be there when they were putting needles in my arm. When they took blood, I wanted a reminder that I was okay. But it was also a reminder of the sense of urgency to love myself and to love others.

I couldn’t stop at one. I’m now pretty much covered. I was always a rock ’n’ roll child at heart but I presented as a “good girl.” I decided to let the exterior match the interior a lot more.

Every day I wake up in a different body. My energy and pain levels are different. My level of physicality is different. Having the diagnosis is validating but it’s still difficult to not be ableist toward myself – to not think of my disability as weakness or laziness.

I work at a church at Avenue and Dupont where I run an outreach café that is a not-for-profit space. I hope people will let go of the notion that all people who do Christian ministry are prudish. God made me this way. I used to fight the idea that my body was aging – a lot – and I feel pretty bangin’ at 46 in a way that I didn’t feel, even though my body may have been more conventionally attractive, at 26. I critiqued it all the time instead of loving its juiciness in the way that I do now.

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Yami Msosa: anti-violence educator and activist

I’m a dark-skinned, Black, full-figured femme. For many years growing up, I hated myself. I did not look in the mirror for a very long time because I did not like what I saw. Internalized racism, homophobia and sexism – all of those things play a part in how we view ourselves. Even the most critical, social-justice-orientated people constantly struggle with their bodies.

Last January, I started the journey to become a yoga teacher. During the six months of training, I broke down every other weekend. A lot surfaced but I was committed to working through my body issues. If the guru I was working with asked me to get into a pose and I couldn’t because my tits or belly were in the way, I would, by default, think about the ways I could correct my body as opposed to accepting where my body was.

It was a huge shift when I came to recognize yoga as a spiritual practice. It wasn’t about fixing my body it was about connecting with it and with others. I developed classes called Bodyfull Yoga for full-figured people, and I’ve also been able to use yoga to support survivors of sexual violence by leading classes that empower bodies.

As someone who does activist work, I often ask what it means to hold space and to centre love for ourselves. It means being honest with the trauma we’ve experienced, and that it’s okay not to be okay. I think that’s particularly hard for Black women. We carry this internal narrative that says we always have to have our shit together, and it doesn’t really allow us to take care of ourselves.

I want to hold space for little Black girls. My niece passed away before she was born in September. I think she would be proud to see her aunt putting herself out there in a way that’s spreading body positivity. My other nieces are 12 and four and have experienced racism and sexism.

They don’t have to go through what I’ve gone through. The world is going to make them believe that something’s wrong with them because of the colour of their skin or because they don’t fit an ideal, but I want them to know they’re not alone in how they’re feeling. I want them to live in a world where they can truly appreciate Black girl magic.

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Devon O’Reilly: musician in Eyes Violet

"Every time I had a panic attack, cutting was a daily thing. Some scars have healed and are barely noticeable, but there are ones that will be there forever."

It started when I was in university and missed three classes in a row. I remember going back to my dorm room and thinking, “You’re worthless.” I felt mentally numb and I didn’t know what else to do. Self-injury was a way to punish myself.

For the past seven years, I’ve been through two hospital programs and now I go to therapy. I had a panic attack disorder, and every time I had a panic attack, cutting was a daily thing. It was a coping mechanism and I couldn’t get a release from anything else. Some scars have healed and are barely noticeable, but there are ones I didn’t take care of so they’re there forever.

I started to tattoo flowers on some of the more marked parts of my body in order to turn bad memories into something beautiful. I first got a tulip on the inside of my right arm because it’s a sign of forgiveness and I was forgiving myself for things I had done to my body. I had scars I was really ashamed of on the top of my arm, so I got poppies, which remind me of my father. The bouquet on my thigh is the biggest one, and it’s to remind myself “It’s okay, you are beautiful.” The tattoo took eight hours and after, I cried. It felt like closure to me.

When I was doing promo shots for my band, Eyes Violet, the photographer discretely pointed to the scars on my arm and whispered, “Would you like me to Photoshop these out?” I said yes, but I can’t get that moment out of my head. I don’t want it to be a whisper any more. I want to deal with the discomfort head on.

Now that my mind feels better, I look at my body and I’m very proud of what I’ve done. Those scars don’t define me and I’m not ashamed. The struggle will never go away, but I’m teaching myself to deal with it so it doesn’t affect how I see myself. I want people who’ve gone through this or are going through this to know it’s okay. As shameful as it is, you’re not alone.

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Tracy Wai de Boer: writer, researcher and facilitator

"My hair plays a big role in my Chinese identity. It’s thick, wiry and dark, much like my mother’s. I feel like my hair pushes against my whiteness."

The question I always get is, “Where are you from?” I’ll say, “I’m from here” or “I’m from Canada,” but I know they’re just dancing around the question they really want to ask: “What’s your ethnic background?” I don’t find these kinds of questions offensive though. In fact, they give me the opportunity to talk about a part of my identity that’s very important to me.

My mom is from Hong Kong and my dad is Dutch. I grew up in Calgary and I’ve lived all over Canada in the past six years. When I was studying in London, Ontario, I felt very whitewashed. People would assume I was just a tanned white person. When I tell people I’m half Chinese, they sometimes say, “Oh, you don’t look Chinese.” I understand what they mean – I don’t have the fair skin or the almond-shaped eyes – but on some level I do take it personally.

So much of my identity is connected to my mother, so when I’m away from her it feels like there’s a side of me missing. Growing up, everyone in the neighbourhood knew my mom, and people would know my sister and I were of Chinese descent. But when I moved away from home, I felt like I had to prove my Asian heritage without having her there.

Yet as I get older, I notice I’m starting to reflect my mother more. The shape of my face has become rounder. At first I thought I was just gaining weight, but then when I’d go home to Calgary and see my mom, I noticed her face is round, too.

My hair also plays a big role in my Chinese identity. It’s thick, wiry and dark, much like my mother’s. She often calls it “horse hair” or “wild weed” because of its thickness and how fast it grows. I feel like my hair pushes against my whiteness. I thought hair was such a trivial thing, but it’s often what people will comment on – “You have such thick hair!” – which sometimes leads me to explain where I get it from, if I feel like having that conversation.

My Chinese features will continue to reveal themselves over time, and in that sense, I feel like I am continually discovering my Asian heritage.

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Danika Loren: opera singer

I remember the day I saw the call on Instagram about taking part in this feature. I was feeling very.

In opera, our body is our instrument. Its hard not to be hyper-critical of every element youre putting out there.

I think opera is trying to keep up with other entertainment industries in being hyper-focused on the body and putting forth a certain kind of look. Hopefully the music and the voice still come first. But its competitive, so its easy to start obsessing about the way you look.

I think Ive grown into my body in the last five years. I wasnt very comfortable as a teenager. I grew up in a pretty small town, and most of the girls my age were very athletic. I was musical and a bit of a nerd I played video games. I wasnt bullied, but I wasnt asked to join a lot of things.

When puberty came, it hit me like a brick in the face. Suddenly I had a very womanly body, and I didnt know how to deal with that. Its taken me years to feel like the woman Im displaying to the world.

Ive also had to get used to seeing photos of myself. As a performer, people will take photos of me and most of them are of me mid-singing, and the faces you make as a singer can be horrendous, not super-photogenic.

Im learning to come to terms with that. My body looks how it looks because of what I want and need to do with it. Now when I look at a picture, I think: I liked myself when that picture was taken. The picture is more than about me having to look good.

Every woman and some men who eat a cheeseburger feel weird guilt about it. How will it affect my body? How will it affect how I look? How will people treat me? Ive come to a point where I forgive myself for feeling guilty and just eat the damn cheeseburger.

I would love to send the message to people that nudity doesnt equal shame. Your body is and can be so many different things. And you should be the person who decides what it means. Dont rely on other peoples perceptions for that.

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William Lavinia: performer and model

"The most offensive thing would be for someone to assume I’m a cis man. I want people to see my chest and know I’m not."

My body is now beyond the binary. If you looked in an anatomy textbook today, you wouldn’t see my body because I don’t have breasts but I still have a vulva. A lot of people are confused by trans folks. They assume that they hate everything about their body. But for me, changing my bottom half never factored into my transition. Even as I become more masculine-presenting as the testosterone does its job, my pussy isn’t going anywhere. In my generation, my body is still going to be new for most folks, but I think for the kids coming up, they’re going to be like, “Whatever, grandpa has a vagina.”

My relationship with my body has always been a dichotomy. I like drag so when I would put my femme body into an hourglass dress with very high heels, I thought, “This is great. I look nice.” But then when I got home and I took my clothes off but I couldn’t take my boobs off, that’s when I would feel dysphoric. The day before I had surgery, I shaved my head. I felt like my hair, which for several years was a highly styled curly pompadour, was holding me back. I wanted something that would visually mark the end of a femme presentation.

I’m learning how to relate to my body again and other people’s perception of me. I’m mourning the loss of being a safe space for femmes. The day is going to come when people aren’t going to think to ask me for a tampon and that bums me out because there’s a sisterhood in that. I run in queer circles where people are guarded around white men and I don’t want to cut conversations short when I enter a space. I’m always going to be a small, unthreatening dude, but I’m going to be a dude and it’s different. The most offensive thing would be for someone to assume I’m a cis man. I remember asking my surgeon, “I want my scars to heal well, but will they still be there?” I want people to see my chest and know I’m not cis.

I have the privilege of being openly trans and being very loud about it. I think it’s really important for trans bodies to be out there, especially as a performer whose body is my business. When people see my photo, I want them to understand there are any number of options for beauty and anyone can be a model. I want them to remember that your parts are not your gender.