You're Not Supposed To Look Like A Filter. You're Supposed To Be Alive.

Welcome back to Shrink Wrapped—the podcast where mental health meets pop culture, childhood trauma gets a rebrand, and your host (hi, that’s me) overthinks so you don’t have to.

Today, we’re talking about something wild: your body. That soft, stretchy, miraculous meat suit that gets you through every single day. The one you critique like a Yelp review but forget to thank like… ever.

We’re diving into the weirdness of embodiment, the cultural chaos that’s made us hate our own skin, and how to slowly—very slowly—start appreciating the vessel that’s been with you through it all. Even that one time in eighth grade. You know the one.

So grab a snack, unclench your jaw, and maybe—just maybe—say something nice to your kneecaps. Let’s get into it.

Your body is basically a high-functioning, self-repairing, 24/7 life support system, and yet, instead of appreciating it, most of us spend way too much time picking apart every so-called "flaw" like we’re unpaid critics of our own existence. We obsess over weird angles, stress about things no one else notices, and let external pressures tell us how we should look instead of appreciating the fact that our bodies literally keep us alive every single day. But here’s the thing—learning to appreciate your body as it is isn’t just some feel-good mantra, it’s a total game-changer. When you stop treating your body like an enemy and start seeing it for the badass biological masterpiece it is, your relationship with yourself (and your overall well-being) starts to shift. Because honestly, life’s too short to waste time hating the very thing that lets you experience it.

The first step to appreciating your body? Stop treating it like a never-ending renovation project on HGTV. Your thighs are not a “before” photo. Your stretch marks are not some crime scene that needs to be “fixed.” You are not a weekend DIY project where your goal is to slap on some metaphorical shiplap and hope no one notices the existential rot underneath.

Seriously—at what point did we decide that our bodies were Pinterest boards instead of living, breathing miracles? Because guess what? While you're spiraling over that one chin hair that shows up like an unwanted guest at brunch, your body is out here regulating your temperature, digesting your third iced coffee, and making sure you don’t just... spontaneously combust. Which, frankly, is a miracle considering the emotional whiplash of just being alive in 2025.

Your body is not the enemy. It’s your ride-or-die. It's been hauling your dramatic ass through every awkward middle school dance, every breakup, every bad decision involving vodka and karaoke. And even now, it's showing up. It wakes up with you. It walks you into your job, your relationships, your Target runs at 9:45 PM. And despite all the garbage you've said about it—out loud or in your head—it’s still showing up.

It’s time to stop thinking your worth is tied to your waistline or how flat your stomach looks when you're not holding your breath like you're preparing for a dive into the Mariana Trench. Your body is not an aesthetic. It’s a home. And sure, sometimes the roof leaks (hi, chronic back pain), but it’s your home, and it deserves more than constant criticism and occasional dry shampoo.

So, give it credit. Thank your knees. Applaud your liver. Hug your belly. Moisturize your damn elbows. Start noticing the tiny things: how your hands hold your favorite mug just right. How your eyes catch the sunlight in the morning. How your laugh feels when it bubbles up from deep inside your chest. That’s not nothing—that’s magic.

You’re not here to be pretty. You’re here to be alive. And that alone is enough reason to appreciate the hell out of your body.

Self-compassion. It sounds like a yoga retreat buzzword or something you’d find stitched on a pillow in a therapist’s office, but at its core? It just means: don’t be a raging a-hole to yourself. Especially on the days when you wake up feeling like a bloated toad in a crop top and every mirror is like, “Hey bestie… wanna cry?”

Self-compassion is radical because we’ve all been trained—consciously or not—to treat ourselves like disappointing interns. “Ugh, you messed that up.” “Why do you look like that?” “Get it together.” Would you talk to someone you love like that? Would you sit your best friend down, look them in the eye, and say, “Hey, you kinda suck today”? NO. You’d be like, “Girl. You are trying your best. Let’s order Thai food and cry about it in matching sweatpants.”

So why is it that when it’s you, the gloves come off and the emotional brass knuckles go on?

Here’s the thing: you’re allowed to be imperfect. You’re supposed to be imperfect. That’s literally the gig. Being human means having stretch marks, weird moods, and the occasional meltdown over a misplaced sock or existential dread spiral in the toothpaste aisle. It means sometimes feeling like a radiant sunbeam wrapped in confidence, and other times like a potato wearing a hoodie.

And both states? Deserve kindness.

Self-compassion doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine or throwing glitter on your bad days. It’s just about treating yourself with the basic decency you give to literally everyone else. When your brain starts spiraling with “I’m not good enough” energy, try countering it with something true and kind. Not some fake mantra like “I love every inch of me” if that feels like a lie—start small. Try: “I’m doing the best I can today.” Or, “My thighs are not a moral failing.” Or even just, “I deserve a damn break.”

And listen, on the days when self-love feels as possible as running a marathon in stilettos, go back to the basics: rest, snacks, hydration, and a playlist that makes you feel like the main character. You don’t need to be thriving every day. Sometimes surviving is the win.

Remember: your worth isn’t tied to productivity, aesthetics, or how close you are to achieving inner peace while in traffic. You’re a whole-ass human being, and you deserve to be treated like one—even by yourself.

So offer yourself the grace you hand out to others like free samples at Costco. Give yourself a hug. Say something nice in the mirror—even if it’s just “Hey, you’ve got great shoulders” or “10/10 cheekbone real estate.” And yes, go get that snack. Because emotional healing is always better with carbs.

Body positivity: the radical, rebellious, almost illegal-sounding idea that you do not, in fact, have to be a filtered, airbrushed, size 2 cyborg to deserve love, respect, or a decent pair of jeans that actually fit. Shocking, right?

Here’s the truth: all bodies are good bodies. Not “good for your size” or “pretty if you just wore Spanx”—just… good. Full stop. Your body doesn’t need a disclaimer or an apology. It exists. It functions. It houses your entire existence. That’s kind of a big deal.

This isn’t about loving every dimple, scar, or roll like you're in a cheesy body wash commercial twirling in a field of daisies. Let’s be real—some days you're vibing, and other days you're crying in your car because your pants feel like a medieval torture device. That’s fine. Body positivity isn’t a 24/7 love fest—it’s about respect. About decoupling your self-worth from your reflection. It’s about looking in the mirror and saying, “Hey, you might not be Instagram’s idea of hot today, but you got me through that hellish meeting, carried groceries, AND danced in the kitchen to Beyoncé. You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

And let’s talk about beauty standards for a sec—those little gremlins are shape-shifters. What’s “in” today is “meh” tomorrow. At one point, people were literally drawing veins on their cleavage to look like corset-strangled Renaissance angels. We’re not playing that game. You are not a trend. You are not low-rise jeans or thigh gaps or a 2014 eyebrow shape. You are a living, breathing, glorious anomaly who doesn’t need to shrink to fit into society’s glitchy little box.

Social media? It’s a digital funhouse mirror. Everyone’s face is smoothed to oblivion, their waist is pinched like a balloon animal, and their lighting setup probably costs more than your rent. Comparing yourself to that is like comparing your morning breath to a perfume ad. It’s not real. It’s not fair. And it’s not worth your time.

So instead of zooming in on your “flaws” like you’re doing forensic analysis on CSI: Insecurity, start clocking what’s actually working. Your laugh that makes other people laugh. Your expressive hands. The way your shoulders carry the weight of your entire messy, beautiful life. The softness. The strength. The sheer badassery of existing in this world as you.

You are not a fixer-upper. You are not a rough draft. You are not a “before” photo waiting for an “after.” You’re the whole damn story.

So go ahead—wear the outfit. Take the selfie. Eat the fries. Compliment your own damn reflection. The world is already full of people trying to shrink themselves to fit in. Be the one who takes up space like they mean it.

Your body? Yeah, that squishy, magical, occasionally creaky meat machine you live in—it was built to move. Not to sit hunched over a laptop, morphing into a human croissant while doomscrolling through other people’s vacation pics. You are not a decorative houseplant, and your soul is not meant to be trapped in a desk chair until further notice. Movement is your birthright—not a punishment for existing with cellulite.

Let’s get one thing straight: exercise does not need to feel like penance for the sin of eating a carb. You do not owe the world a bikini body in exchange for basic bodily autonomy. You don’t need to sweat out your shame in a fluorescent-lit gym that smells like despair and Axe body spray. Find what actually makes your body feel alive—whether it’s dancing like an unhinged backup dancer from a '90s music video, swimming, roller skating, rolling around on a yoga mat while pretending you’re stretching, or walking with Olympic determination toward your favorite snack.

It’s not about hitting some arbitrary goal weight or trying to look like someone who lives in spandex and sponsors protein powder. It’s about joy. Endorphins. Feeling like a person again. When you move your body in ways you actually enjoy, you start to appreciate what it can do, instead of just criticizing how it looks under bad lighting in a Target fitting room.

And listen—if you want your body to keep doing all that badass moving, you need to fuel it like it’s something you actually value, not like it’s a 2004 Dell laptop running on hope and stale popcorn. You cannot expect to function like a goddess of productivity when your daily intake consists of lukewarm coffee, residual anxiety, and one (1) dusty granola bar from the bottom of your purse.

Your body is a high-tech, multi-functional miracle. And while yes, it can survive on caffeine and chaos, that doesn’t mean it should. Give it actual nutrients. Eat real food. I’m talking leafy greens, hearty grains, proteins that don’t come in a shiny wrapper. But also? Eat the damn cookie. Balance isn’t a myth. You can nourish yourself and still have joy in your meals. We’re not doing “clean eating” like it’s a moral badge—this isn’t a food cult, it’s called being alive and enjoying it.

Now let’s talk hydration. If you’re feeling foggy, cranky, and vaguely like a pile of laundry, chances are you’re dehydrated. Water is not optional. It is not something you should only drink when your lips are flaking like an old glue stick. Your body runs on water, not iced lattes and delusion. You need it for literally everything: brain function, digestion, skin that doesn’t scream “lizard queen,” and keeping your organs from going full rebellion. So fill up your water bottle, put a stupid sticker on it, and drink up like the hydrated legend you are.

And finally—sleep. Oh sweet, beautiful, tragically underrated sleep. You need it. You are not a hustle culture cyborg. You are a squishy, sentient being who cannot function on four hours of half-panicked rest and a dream. Bragging about your lack of sleep is not a flex. It’s a cry for help. Your body needs rest to repair, recharge, and process all the weird crap your brain absorbed during the day. No one’s giving out medals for surviving on fumes. You’re not a productivity robot; you’re a human. Treat yourself like one.

So if you’re out here wondering why you feel like a scrambled egg with a Wi-Fi signal—maybe start with the basics: move, eat, hydrate, rest. Not to become perfect. Not to impress anyone. But because your body deserves that level of care. You deserve to feel like a fully operational, joy-filled, gloriously hydrated badass.

Here’s the deal: what you wear? It’s not just fabric and thread—it’s a whole mood board for your soul. The way you dress is a love letter to yourself—or at the very least, a desperate little note that says, “Hey, I tried today, okay??” Clothes are more than just societal fabric armor. They are your walking billboard, your personal brand, your armor, your comfort blanket, and your “I’ve got my life together even though I absolutely don’t” disguise.

And let’s be honest: wearing something that actually fits and feels good is witchcraft. You can go from sad couch burrito to empowered god-tier human in the time it takes to throw on a jacket that makes you feel like you run a mildly chaotic startup and also maybe a girl gang.

On the flip side, you know what doesn’t feel empowering? Clothes that actively hate your body. Pants that dig into your midsection like they’ve got a personal vendetta. Tops that require double-sided tape and prayer. Outfits that were clearly designed for a mannequin named “Misery.” You’re not here to suffer for the aesthetic. You are not a statue in a museum. You are a living, breathing, pizza-eating, joy-chasing human being, and your clothing should respect that.

You want the real fashion rule? Here it is: if it makes you want to rip it off the second you walk through the door, it’s not serving you—you’re serving it, and not in a cute way. Your style should work with your body, not punish it for not looking like a fashion sketch from 2006. And don’t get me started on squeezing into stuff “because it’s trendy.” Who made the trend rules? A bored intern with a ring light and emotional baggage? Let’s not.

Instead of asking, “Does this make me look thin/taller/more socially acceptable?” ask, “Do I feel like a damn superhero in this?” Because that’s the vibe we’re going for. Whether it’s a blazer that makes you feel like you’re about to land a TED Talk, a hoodie that feels like a nap in cotton form, or your “ride-or-die” jeans that never betray you by 4 p.m.—that’s your uniform for life domination.

Your clothes should feel like you. Whether you’re into chaos-core layering, monochrome minimalism, thrifted grandma-chic, or full-blown disco ball energy—OWN IT. Fashion isn’t about pleasing the algorithm. It’s about telling the world, “Hi, yes, I exist, and I look incredible doing it.”

So please, wear what makes you feel like the main character. Hell, wear what makes you feel like the director, producer, and slightly unhinged screenwriter of your own movie. Because when you dress in a way that honors your body instead of waging war on it, you’re not just getting dressed—you’re choosing yourself.

And that, darling, is always in style.

Perfectionism is the sneaky little goblin in your brain that whispers, “You’ll be happy when…”—when you lose 10 pounds, when your skin clears, when your arms look like they were carved by Michelangelo and not mashed potatoes. It’s a liar. A scam artist. A gaslighting ex who convinces you that if you just work a little harder, you’ll finally be good enough.

Spoiler: perfection is a moving goalpost designed by marketing execs and insecurity-fueled algorithms to keep you buying stuff and hating yourself. The whole game is rigged. You’ll never “win” perfection—because no one actually has it. Not the influencers. Not the celebrities. Not even that person at yoga with the glowing skin and perfectly aligned chakras. Everybody’s got something they’re secretly Photoshopping, contouring, covering up, or spiraling about in the dressing room lighting from hell.

Trying to be perfect is like signing up for an unpaid internship in emotional masochism. Every day becomes a scavenger hunt for what’s “wrong” with you. “Too soft.” “Too big.” “Too pale.” “Too loud.” It’s a full-time job, and the only paycheck is burnout, self-loathing, and maybe a disappointing smoothie.

Instead? Embrace the glorious mess that is you. You’re not a stock photo. You’re not a Barbie whose legs snap off if you sit wrong. You are a living, breathing, quirky miracle of movement and memory and microwaved snacks at 1 a.m. You weren’t born to be flawless—you were born to be real. And real is where the good stuff lives.

Your body is not a project. It’s not a performance. It’s not a before-and-after photo waiting to happen. It is your home. It’s your partner in crime through literally every single thing—from heartbreaks to hot girl walks to panic attacks in Target. It doesn’t need to be “fixed”—it needs to be thanked.

Want to know what’s actually hot? Confidence. Joy. People who know who they are and dress accordingly. People who belly laugh without covering their mouth. People who jiggle when they dance and don’t care. That’s magnetic. That’s perfection in its raw, unfiltered, “I bought this outfit because I like it” form.

So the next time your brain tries to sell you the myth that you need to be skinnier, tighter, smoother, or whatever-er to be worthy, shut that noise down like it’s a telemarketer calling during dinner. You’re not here to be a clone of somebody else’s Instagram highlight reel. You’re here to live, to move, to feel good in your skin—even when it’s breaking out or stretched or tired or just...existing.

Your body is doing its damn best, and honestly? That’s more than enough.

So let’s stop chasing perfect like it owes us something and start building a relationship with our bodies that doesn’t involve constant criticism, side-eye, and metaphorical Yelp reviews. You’re not a Pinterest fail. You’re a full-ass masterpiece—with stretch marks, laugh lines, and all.

Now go strut past that mirror like you own the place—because babe, you do.

The people and media you let into your life? That’s your mental ecosystem. Your emotional Airbnb. And if it’s filled with toxic crap, it’s time to evict some stuff. If your social feed looks like a never-ending montage of surgically sculpted abs, glass-skin influencers eating one leaf, and “just woke up like this” selfies that took two ring lights and three Facetune passes—baby, you’re not following content, you’re following a lie.

Let’s be real: the people and media you surround yourself with are lowkey body image influencers. Whether you realize it or not, they’re shaping how you see yourself. If your group chat is full of friends who casually body shame, call themselves “fat” for eating a sandwich, or send you “before and after” pics with big judgment energy… then congrats, you’ve got yourself some emotional termites. Time to call pest control.

And your social media? That should be a source of joy, not a daily scroll of “reasons to feel like a potato.” If every time you go online, you leave feeling like you need to fix yourself, shrink yourself, or spend $400 on some sketchy detox tea promoted by a woman who hasn't eaten bread since 2015—that’s not inspiration. That’s psychological warfare.

It’s time to Marie Kondo your digital and social life. Ask yourself: Does this content spark crippling insecurity? No? Great. It stays. Everything else? UNFOLLOW. Block. Mute. Burn with fire. You wouldn’t keep a friend around who made you feel like trash every time you saw them—so why let a stranger in a crop top and unrealistic lighting live rent-free in your head?

Your vibe playlist (yes, that’s what we’re calling your support system now) should be full of people and creators who get it. People who uplift you, hype you up, and remind you that your body isn’t broken—it’s just not a Photoshop fantasy. Follow creators who show real bodies. Real rolls. Real thighs that touch. People who dance, laugh, jiggle, and live their lives loudly—without sucking in or apologizing for their existence.

And let’s talk ads for a second. If a brand is trying to convince you that your worth is one weird product away—RUN. You don’t need a tummy tea. You need less pressure to be perfect. Those ads are like that ex who texts at 2 a.m. after ghosting you for weeks—they do not have your best interests at heart. You are not a “fixer-upper.” You are a luxury model with mileage and stories.

So protect your peace. Curate your world like it’s your Pinterest dream room: full of softness, support, loud joy, and people who don’t treat your body like a problem to solve. Follow the pages that make you smile, laugh-snort, or feel like maybe you’re not alone in this chaotic human experience. Pages that say “you’re enough” louder than any filter ever could.

You don’t need more “perfect.” You need more real. You need people and content that remind you you’re already killing it—even if you’re wearing sweatpants, haven’t shaved in a week, and just ate a cookie in the fetal position. Especially then.

Your feed should feel like a warm hug, not a competition. So hit that unfollow button like it owes you money, and start building a space where you can exist unapologetically, stretch marks and all.

Your body is the unsung hero of your entire existence. Like, actual MVP status. And what do we do in return? Criticize it for not looking like it lives on a juice cleanse and anxiety alone. Rude.

Let’s be clear: your body deserves a damn trophy. Actually, several. Give it a participation medal, a standing ovation, and maybe a cupcake. Because whether it’s pushed out a tiny human like a boss, hauled you through a breakup without collapsing, dragged you to work while your soul screamed “no,” or just made it through another Monday, it’s been showing up for you like the realest ride-or-die in your life. No questions asked. No invoice sent.

And yet? We give it zero credit. We hyper-focus on that one roll, that one zit, or the fact that we don’t look like someone who filters their selfies into oblivion. Meanwhile, your body’s just out here keeping your heart beating, lungs pumping, and snacks digesting like it’s no big deal. It’s basically a full-time job with no PTO or appreciation posts. You’re lucky it hasn’t unionized.

So next time you’re spiraling because your jeans are tight or your arms jiggle when you wave—pause. And instead of launching into your usual “Ugh, I need to fix myself” monologue, try this: “Holy crap, my body is a warrior and I owe it a damn fruit basket.”

Hit a personal best at the gym? Hell yes. Your muscles and bones did that. Finally got out of bed during a depressive slump? Applause, please. Your body carried you through that invisible battle like a damn champion. Made it through a week where everything went wrong and still managed to feed yourself and answer emails without crying (too much)? ICONIC.

Your body is a freaking superhero. Not the caped kind that flies around and causes city-wide destruction, but the quiet, gritty, real-life kind that heals itself in the background while you stress-eat cereal and rewatch old sitcoms.

And you know what’s wild? It doesn’t ask for much in return. Just maybe...some water. The occasional stretch. Possibly a vegetable. And every now and then, for you to look in the mirror and not immediately launch into an emotional Yelp review.

So here’s your new goal: treat your body like it’s the VIP it truly is. Talk to it with some respect. Thank it like it’s your long-suffering assistant who just saved your life again. Celebrate the milestones—big or small. Because every single “meh, I made it through” moment is actually a damn triumph.

You don’t need to wait until you hit some magical number on a scale or fit into those jeans from 2017 to love and appreciate yourself. Your body is already doing the most. Give it a little applause. Throw a parade. Or, at the very least, stop sh*t-talking it every time you pass a mirror.

Because newsflash: you’re still here. You’re still moving. And your body? It’s still showing up for you, every damn day.

And that, babe, is worth celebrating.

Your body is a freaking masterpiece. Not a fixer-upper. Not a rough draft. Not a “before” photo. A full-blown, one-of-a-kind, walking miracle that deserves more than your constant trash talk and that face you make in the mirror like it just told you your ex is thriving.

Like—hello? This body? This wildly complex, self-healing, constantly-operating, feels-everything, processes-emotions-and-coffee-and-stress-all-at-once body? It deserves a little more than your side-eye because it doesn’t have abs carved from marble or whatever the trending beauty standard is this week. (Let’s be honest, by next Tuesday, it'll change again. Eyebrows in, eyebrows out. Who can keep up?)

Your body is not a problem to be solved. It’s not broken because it doesn’t fit into a filter. Filters are literally lies with saturation. You’re out here comparing your actual, lived-in, miraculous body to someone’s FaceTuned version of themselves—and then wondering why you feel like crap. Knock. It. Off.

Every single day, your body is working its ass off just to keep you alive and (mostly) functioning. Your heart is beating. Your lungs are inflating. Your immune system is fending off invisible microscopic chaos like a little bouncer at Club Health. Your brain is firing off thoughts—even if some of those thoughts are unhinged, they’re happening! That’s biology, baby!

And what do we give it in return? We starve it, shame it, pinch it in terrible lighting, and act like it’s personally insulting us because our thighs touch when we walk. Newsflash: that’s what thighs are supposed to do. They're not enemies, they're limbs. Calm down.

So here’s an idea—maybe don’t spend your finite life force picking apart things no one else notices unless you point them out mid-self-deprecating joke. What if, instead, you started acknowledging the epic sh*t your body does every day? It gets you out of bed. It lets you cry, laugh, hold hands, eat tacos, scream-sing in the car, and hug your favorite people. That’s some real magic right there.

Gratitude changes the game. When you stop obsessing over what you think needs to be “fixed” and start realizing all the quiet, behind-the-scenes miracles happening inside you, you stop seeing your body as a project and start seeing it as a damn legend. You only get one of these things. No exchanges. No upgrades. This is the ride you're in for life—so maybe stop treating it like a rental and start treating it like a damn luxury vehicle.

So, next time you’re tempted to groan at your reflection, pause. Take a breath. Say something kind. You don’t have to go full “I am a goddess of light and eternal beauty” if that feels fake—start with, “Hey, thanks for getting me through today.” Baby steps. Big love.

Your body is a badass. A masterpiece. And it’s been with you through everything. So give it the respect it earned. And maybe also a cookie. For morale.

Alright, fam—that’s the end of our body appreciation sermon for today. If you take one thing from this episode, let it be this: your body is not the enemy. It’s not a trend. It’s not a side project. It’s the home you’ve lived in since day one, and it’s been showing up for you every single step, stumble, and triumph along the way.

So maybe… cut it some slack. Thank it. Nourish it. Dance with it. Forgive it. And for the love of stretch marks and serotonin, stop waiting until it’s “perfect” to appreciate it—because spoiler: perfect isn’t real, but you are.

Go hydrate. Go stretch. Go wear something that makes you feel like a sexy couch potato or a powerful sorcerer—whatever works. Just remember: you don’t owe anyone a body that fits their idea of worth. You already are worthy, exactly as you are.

And hey—if you’re struggling, be gentle with yourself. This kind of self-love isn’t a switch—it’s a practice. One snack, one compliment, one comfy outfit at a time.

Thanks for hanging out. Your body says thanks, too.

If this episode gave you a little boost, share it with someone who needs a reminder that their body is already doing the most. And don’t forget to rate, review, and hit that follow button—it helps more than a green juice and a good cry combined.

And hey—next week, we’re doing our next DSM dive into Bipolar Disorder. It's gonna be spicy.

Until next time—stay hydrated, stay unfiltered, and stay a little unhinged. Shrink Wrapped, out.