This Summer I Attended a Wellness Fasting Retreat to Detox My Body – One Day While Sunbathing, I Met a Stunning Model-Looking Girl on the Sun Lounger Next to Me

This past summer, I went to a wellness clinic on the outskirts of Bath to do a detox. One sunny afternoon, I decided to lie out in the garden and soak up some rays. Nearby, a strikingly beautiful girl, the picture of a model, was stretched out on a sun lounger. We struck up a conversation, chatting about our reasons for fasting.

I need to lose 400 grams, she said. I laughed, thinking she was jokingsurely a slip of the tongue. But no.

Ive felt fat for a year now. My boyfriend said hed leave me if I dont slim down. See? She pinched a bit of skin on her stomach. Im embarrassed to sit down at all

The conversation rattled around my mind for days. I privately started calling her Lizzie 400 Grams. Apparently, in her boyfriends mind, women like me could be chucked off a cliffonly the svelte are allowed in his imagined Utopia. The curvier ones are just, what, wasted space?

Recently, I found myself at a large gathering in a London restaurant. Everyone was in high spirits, making merry over a celebration. I couldnt help but notice one polished woman lounging gracefully in an armchair, her legs elegantly crossed, sheer tights glinting under the light. One shoe dangled from her foot as she sipped water from a wine glass, enjoying the attention she drew from the men in the room.

Then, her husband arrived. Without skipping a beat, he shook hands with every man at the table, then hissed at her through gritted teeth: Cover up! Stop flashing your thighs She jolted, cheeks burning, and immediately asked a waiter for a blanket. Though she was seated by the fireplace, she wrapped herself up and spent the rest of the evening huddled, scarcely speaking.

At one point, I tried reading the biographies of famous English writers and poets, hoping to discover the secrets behind their art. I gave up almost immediately; its hard to reconcile the undeniably human frailties of someones life with their masterful work. I stopped at the biography of Charles Dickens. I adore Great Expectations, but some details about his private life left me shaken. Not only did Dickens have a morbid fascination with death and the morose, but after the birth of their fifth child, his wife Catherine fell gravely ill. The doctors advised her not to have any more children, but Dickens reportedly snapped, Well, what use is she to me then? She wound up having ten.

Flicking through Instagram, I see wall-to-wall Barbie dollsa parade of perfect girls whose days revolve around the gym, sunbeds, wrap treatments, and spa appointments. They sculpt themselves into an ideal, aided at every turn by the beauty industry. Its a full-time, expensive job being beautiful for a living. I do respect dedication in any field, but I cant help feeling England has lost its way. Young women want to be pretty, to be chosen, for boys to notice them. Theyre shown a templatethin, waxed brows, plumped lips, a bottom like a peachand they go chasing after it, inching themselves into a mould.

The boys now struggle to choose, lined up as they are before a sea of identical dolls

One day, my husband and I were at a garden centrehe pottered off to buy spades and watering cans while I wandered aimlessly. Near a display of garden ornamentslanterns, windmills, watering cans, rabbits and foxesI heard two men debating which garden gnome, all decked out in red toadstool hats, was the most attractive.

One man was picking them up, inspecting them from all angles. The other burst out laughing: Come on, mate, just pick one! You were just as fussy last night, choosing a bird to take home from the pub!

It was, surprisingly, hilarious.

Girlsdear Lizzie 400 Grams, Sophie 10 Children, and the lady asked to Cover Uphow have we landed here? When did we start accepting the idea that if we dont fit the template, were faulty goods, not worthy of love? Who told us that a so-called perfect body or face is an essential step toward happiness?

I could present a hundred arguments that outward appearance is no true barometer for love. A friend of mine met her husband in a renal ward. He fell for her when she was in a hospital gown, pale and wan, a collection bag peeking out modestly from beneath her nightie. Look at Frida Kahlohave you seen those eyebrows? The worlds handsomest men competed for her affection.

Years ago, after a wisdom tooth extraction went awry, my mouth was literally ripped open and swollen. I was home, bloodied and weak, cheek the size of a pillow. My husband gently spooned me yogurt, the only thing I could manage, and a white mustache formed on my swollen upper lip. I caught sight of myself in the mirror, gasped Oh God and began to cry, horrified.

He simply said, Youre the most beautiful woman on Earth, you know that? Right now, even now! Will you marry me? Please say yes.

Later, when Id recovered, there was a restaurant, a ring, one knee, applause from the guests and staff, balloons and flowers, and my yes. But what I hold dearest was that first, spontaneous proposal: real, raw, just us. I believed him. Because beauty isnt skin deep, and love is about real things, not flawless facades.

Its our quirks, our imperfections, that make us real. Thats why people love us! Perfection doesnt exist, not really. Or if it does, its different for everyone.

Recently, I decided to get braces; my teeth are undeniably crooked. My husband told me, I adore your smile, and have no idea why youd want to go through all that trouble. Do it only if its what you want. If it was my choice, Id keep your smile just as it is.

After our first son was born, I weighed eighteen stone, but my husband showered me with compliments, making it nearly impossible to feel bad about myself. I lost the weight when I decided I wanted to. Looking back at photos of me with my little boy, filling the sofa, I asked, Why didnt you tell me to slim down? I was huge

You were my gorgeous marshmallow, he said, Lose weight only if you want to. I love you however you are.

Five years ago, when a summer flare-up left me covered in psoriasis patches, we went on holiday. I refused to go to the beach. My husband asked, Whats wrong? And I realisedhe genuinely didnt know. For him, I was still beautiful. It was never about my skin, but about me.

This isnt an advert for my husband, but for what real love looks like. If your man demands you fit his standards of beauty, thats not loveits about him wanting power.

Youre a stunner, a rosy apple! If all he sees is the wormhole, hes after control, not affection.

You might stay, afraid to lose himbut lose what, exactly? A tyrant who sees you as nothing more than a garden gnome in a toadstool hat?

All men want to feel dominant in some way. But true authority comes not from fear, but from admiration and mutual respect. Your loyalty shouldnt be automatic; it should be your choiceto follow someone who is confident, strong, reliable and gentle. Someone who takes your hand and leads you to the ends of the earthand whom you trust to do so.

But for any man, that right must be earned.