I never liked mirrors. They were brutal judges, reflecting back a version of myself that seemed to disappoint everyone – myself included. My body was a battlefield, and for years, I was losing the war against my own reflection.
Growing up in Lagos wasn't easy. Nigerian families have a way of speaking their minds, and mine was no exception. I was the big girl, the one who stood out – and not in the way I wanted. My father, a retired civil servant, would often compare me to my younger sister, Sarah. "Look at Sarah," he'd say, "so slim and graceful." The comparisons were never subtle, never kind.
My mother tried to soften the blows. She'd cook my favorite meals, then look at me with a mix of love and concern. "You have such a beautiful face," she'd say, echoing every aunty who had ever commented on my body. The unspoken message was clear: everything else could be improved.
On the 5th of October, everything changed – or rather, everything became more painful. It was my cousin's wedding, and I was supposed to be one of the bridesmaids. The dress was a nightmare. The designer looked at me with barely hidden disappointment, taking measurements and muttering under her breath. I heard snippets – "we'll need extra fabric" and "might need to adjust the design." Each word was a needle, puncturing what little confidence I had.
The wedding photos told a story I didn't want to hear. While other bridesmaids looked elegant and poised, I looked like an afterthought. Positioned at the edge, trying to make myself smaller, disappear. My cousin's husband-to-be made a joke – loud enough for everyone to hear – about how I might break the chair if I wasn't careful. The laughter cut deeper than any knife could.
My romantic life was a series of disappointments. There was Chidi, who seemed promising at first. A software engineer with a kind smile, he initially appeared different. But months into our relationship, his true colors emerged. "You'd be perfect if you just lost some weight," he'd say, disguising criticism as concern. Each date became a negotiation of my worth.
Then came Marcus, a marketing executive who claimed to be progressive. He'd take me to trendy restaurants, but always positioned me strategically – away from the center, slightly hidden. When we'd take photos, he'd strategically place himself to make me look smaller. "It's just perspective," he'd say, but I knew better.
Work was no better. I'm a marketing professional, sharp and creative, but I'd walk into meetings already defeated. My brilliance was overshadowed by my own self-doubt. I'd wear dark, loose clothing, hoping to blend into the background. My ideas were good – sometimes exceptional – but I'd mumble them, afraid of drawing too much attention.
My world became a series of apologies. Sorry for taking up space. Sorry for existing. Sorry for being me.
Then came the 22nd of November – the day everything started to change.
I met Yewande at a small coffee shop in Victoria Island. She was everything I was not – confident, loud, taking up space unapologetically. Her body was full and beautiful, and she wore it like a crown. When she sat next to me, her presence was like a sudden burst of sunlight.
"You're hiding," she said. Not as a question. As a statement.
At first, I was defensive. But Yewande wasn't interested in my walls. She saw through them, saw me in a way no one had before. She was a body positivity advocate, and her words were gentle but powerful.
As our friendship grew, Yewande became more than just a mentor. She became a mirror that reflected my true self – the self I had buried under years of shame and self-doubt.
She introduced me to her network of body positivity advocates. We'd meet in small groups, sharing experiences that were painfully familiar. Women who had been told they were too much, too big, too loud. Women who had learned to apologize for their existence. But here, in these spaces, we were learning to roar.
Yewande's own journey wasn't simple. She shared stories of her struggles in corporate Lagos, of moments when society had tried to shrink her, to make her feel less than. Her vulnerability created a safe space for me to unpack my own pain.
Our weekly meetings became more than coffee sessions. They were therapy, education, and revolution wrapped in friendship. She gave me books about self-love, introduced me to podcasts about body positivity, and challenged every negative narrative I had internalized.
"Transformation isn't a destination," she'd tell me. "It's a daily practice of choosing yourself."
Slowly, I started to change. Not just in appearance, but in spirit. I began dressing differently – not to hide, but to celebrate. Bright colors replaced my muted palette. Fitted clothes replaced the oversized sweaters that had been my armor.
My professional confidence grew. I started speaking up in meetings, my ideas no longer whispered but proclaimed. I developed marketing campaigns that challenged traditional beauty standards, drawing from my own experiences.
The campaign #MyBodyMyStory became more than a social media trend. It was a movement. Women across Nigeria began sharing their experiences, their struggles, their triumphs.
Family dynamics shifted. My father, once critical, began to see my transformation. My mother's concerned looks turned into looks of pride. My sister Sarah, who had always been the "perfect" one, became my biggest supporter.
Dating transformed from a battlefield of insecurities to a landscape of genuine connection. I attracted partners who saw my entirety – my mind, my spirit, my body as a beautiful, complex landscape.
The most significant change wasn't external. It was internal. I stopped apologizing for existing. I stopped seeing my body as a problem and started seeing it as a home – a powerful, resilient home that had carried me through life's challenges.
To the girl who once tried to make herself invisible – you are enough. More than enough. You are powerful, beautiful, and worthy of every space you occupy.
My voice is no longer a whisper. It's a roar.
And it's a roar that invites other women to join, to shed their invisible chains, to celebrate themselves – unapologetically, fiercely, completely.
For Yewande, the journey of body positivity was deeply personal and political. Growing up in Port Harcourt, she had witnessed firsthand the suffocating standards of beauty that permeated Nigerian society. Her own path was not a straight line, but a series of revelations and rebellions.
As a teenager, Yewande had been the target of relentless body-shaming. Aunties at family gatherings would pinch her sides, make comments about her weight, and offer unsolicited diet advice. "You'd be so beautiful if you just lost a few kilos," they'd say, as if her worth was directly proportional to her dress size.
Her mother, a traditional woman who had internalized years of societal expectations, initially supported these narratives. "A good Nigerian girl should be slim and demure," she would remind Yewande. But something inside her always resisted. Even as a young girl, Yewande felt a fire burning – a conviction that her body was not a problem to be solved, but a story to be celebrated.
Her breakthrough came during her university years at the University of Lagos. While studying communications, she began to explore feminist theory and body positivity movements happening globally. She discovered writers and activists who challenged the narrow definitions of beauty – women who spoke about radical self-love and body autonomy.
The Nigerian media landscape was particularly challenging. Billboards and television advertisements consistently promoted a single, narrow standard of beauty. Slim, light-skinned women were the default representation, creating an impossible standard that marginalized the vast diversity of Nigerian women's bodies.
Yewande's activism began small. Social media became her first platform. She started sharing unfiltered photos of herself, wearing clothes that celebrated her body rather than concealed it. The initial responses were mixed – some supportive, many critical. Trolls would leave harsh comments, attempting to shame her back into silence.
But Yewande refused to be silenced. Each negative comment became fuel for her movement. She connected with other women who were experiencing similar struggles, creating a network of support that extended beyond digital spaces.
Her professional work in marketing gave her unique insights into how body narratives were constructed and perpetuated. She understood that representation wasn't just about visibility, but about dignity. It was about showing women that their bodies were not objects to be judged, but powerful vehicles of experience and expression.
The #MyBodyMyStory campaign was more than a marketing initiative. It was a social intervention. By creating spaces where women could share their experiences without judgment, Yewande was challenging deeply ingrained cultural narratives about beauty, worth, and female body autonomy.
Her work wasn't just about individual transformation, but systemic change. She organized workshops, spoke at conferences, and collaborated with psychologists and sociologists to understand the deep-rooted mechanisms of body shaming in Nigerian society.
The intersection of colonialism, traditional cultural practices, and modern media consumption created a complex landscape of body image issues. Yewande was committed to unpacking these layers, understanding that body positivity was not just about feeling good, but about reclaiming power.
Her friendship with me was part of a larger mission. Each woman she helped was another crack in the system of oppression, another voice added to a growing chorus of self-love and acceptance.
As our movement grew, we began to see tangible changes. More brands started featuring diverse body types in their advertisements. Beauty standards began to shift, slowly but perceptibly. Young girls were starting to see representations that looked like them – full, powerful, unapologetic.
Yewande often reminded me that this was not just a personal journey, but a collective liberation. "When one of us heals," she would say, "we create space for others to heal too."
Our story was not just about bodies. It was about reclaiming narrative, about understanding that worth is not measured in inches or kilograms, but in the depth of one's spirit, the strength of one's conviction, and the capacity to love oneself completely and unconditionally.
At last, they heard my voice!
